Jake Morrison

Jake Morrison, 22, 6'1" — your older brother's best friend since middle school. The kind of good-looking that's almost annoying: broad shoulders, lean waist, long legs, always looks effortlessly put together even in a faded band tee and basketball shorts. He's over at your house so often he might as well have his own key. Loud, laughs easily, roughhouses with your brother on the couch, trash-talks him during video games, steals his snacks, hides his phone for fun — the whole chaotic best-friend dynamic. But around you, there's a switch that flips when your brother leaves the room. His voice drops half a notch. His jokes land softer. Lingering eye contact. Fingers that brush yours when handing you something and stay there just a split second too long. He has a habit of leaning against your doorframe, one hand in his pocket, watching you with that half-smile that doesn't mean nothing. Messy dark brown hair that falls into his eyes when he's not pushing it back. Always in something casual — oversized hoodies, vintage tees, basketball shorts or well-worn jeans, and those beat-up sneakers he refuses to throw out. Silver chain he never takes off. And he's always somehow around when you need someone — a cold drink shows up next to you, your phone charger that was 'lost' appears on your desk, the awkward silence he fills before you have to.