summary: two damaged people find a kindred spirit in dusty pages and dried ink.
a/n: OC is named but no description of looks or body are used. I love Bob Floyd and I felt like writing a little something and this came out of that. Sorry if the format is weird, i quite literally ran out of lines.
word count: 17.5 k (i got a little carried away.. sorry)
warnings: some angst, mentions of death, alcohol consumption, some slightly dark thoughts but nothing crazy
Greta James didnât believe in happily ever after.
Fairy tale endings, sheâd decided long ago, were just the final insult in a long line of delusions â sweetened poison for people too afraid to face the truth. The world didnât offer tidy resolutions or magical kisses. It offered wreckage. Ruins. A long, unraveling silence after the last scream.
She read stories as a child, everyone had, but after reading the way the so many of those story ended, Greta had come to a conclusion: only cowards got happily ever afters. The ones who never bothered to stay behind. The ones who didnât look too closely. The ones who never asked what happened next.
Because next was grief. And guilt. And God, if He was still watching, didnât have the decency to blink.
So no, she didnât believe in fated love stories or second chances or people finding each other against all odds.
But someone, once, had told her to write her number in a book.
âIf theyâre worth meeting, theyâll find it,â theyâd said.
Sheâd laughed in their face and done it anyway.
Bob Floyd wasnât sure what he was looking for when he turned off the main drag and found himself on a quieter street â all cracked pavement and sagging telephone wires, the kind of place that felt like it hadnât been touched since 1974.
The base was unusually slow that day, a rare lull that left his apartment feeling too still, too silent â like a room waiting for someone whoâd already left. The thought of the Hard Deck, with its sticky floors and jukebox-on-repeat, made him queasy. He didnât want noise pretending to be company. Not today.
So he wandered, boots scuffing gravel, hands tucked deep in the pockets of his worn jeans, until he found it: a secondhand bookstore wedged between a peeling laundromat and a half-dead electronics repair shop.
It didnât even have a name â just the ghost of one above the door, sun-bleached and illegible.
Bob hesitated at the threshold, heart ticking out a quiet rhythm in his ribs. Then he stepped inside.
The smell hit him first â old paper, yellowing glue, and burnt coffee. There was a cafĂŠ counter in one corner, but the kid behind it was asleep over a crossword, pen slack in his hand. No music. No greetings. Just the hush of forgotten things waiting to be touched again.
Bob liked places where you could disappear.
He moved slowly through the aisles, fingertips brushing cracked spines and dusted-over covers. The philosophy and literature section was a narrow alcove in the back, cluttered and disorganized, titles shelved sideways and out of order.
He was flipping absently through a weathered copy of Meditations when his fingers landed on something heavier.
Its spine was split, the cover frayed at the edges, the dust jacket had long since been removed. Pages fanned open like a scream caught mid-breath. It looked like it had survived something. Or maybe caused it.
Inside the front cover, above a faded dedication, someone had written a phone number â no name, no message, just a sequence of digits in tight, steady handwriting: 402-555-2623
He stared at it for a long time. The sensible part of him â the part trained by years of protocol and precaution â said to put it back. It wasnât meant for him. It was old. Forgotten.
But the quieter part â the lonelier one, the one that missed things he couldnât name â wouldnât let go. Maybe it was fate. Maybe it was just curiosity. Maybe it was the ache for something unsaid.
Either way, he bought the book for four dollars and walked out of the shop with it tucked under his arm like a secret.
That night, long after the last of the sun had bled from the sky, Bob sat at his kitchen table with the book open beside him and the number copied neatly into his phone.
He stared at the screen. Typed a message. Deleted it. Typed another. Deleted that, too.
He wasnât this kind of man â not reckless, not impulsive, not the sort who reached out to strangers on a whim. But something about the number, the scrawl of it, the silence around it, pulled at him like a splinter.
Finally, he inhaled and typed:
I found your number inside a book today. Hope it's not weird to text you. If it is, feel free to tell me to fuck off.
Then he hit send. He immediately pressed the phone face-down on the table, like it might bite him.
Greta James was halfway through a glass of bad red wine when her phone buzzed against the warped wood of her coffee table. She ignored it at first, curled up on her battered leather couch with Judge â her one-eyed, snoring tank of a rescue bulldog â deadweight against her hip.
A rerun flickered on the TV, some procedural she didnât have to think about. White noise. Predictable endings.
The phone buzzed again. Persistent little bastard.
She reached for it with a sigh, thumb dragging over the pristine film of her screen. Unknown number. No preview text. Area code 406.
She opened a browser tab, searching âarea code 406â.
Her gut clenched. It was probably spam. Potentially something worse.
She almost deleted it without opening it.
But curiosity â that old bastard â still hadnât let go of her, no matter how hard she tried to kill it.
Unknown Number: I found your number inside a book today. Hope it's not weird to text you. If it is, feel free to tell me to fuck off.
Every instinct screamed. Creep. Scam. Trap.
But then the words caught â found your number inside a book â and memory came roaring back: her, drunk on defiance and bottom-shelf whiskey, scrawling her number into the flyleaf of a book nobody else would ever read.
Telling herself it didnât matter. Telling herself it was a joke. Telling herself â in the dark, when no one was listening â that if someone found it, really found it, maybe theyâd be someone worth meeting.
She hadnât thought about it in over a year. Maybe more. It didnât even feel like something she had done. Just a reckless moment in a younger life.
Still. Against every ounce of caution, she typed:
Then tossed the phone onto the couch like it might burn her fingers.
Her heart was hammering. God, she hated this feeling â this sharp, stupid, alive feeling.
It made her feel thirteen again. It made her feel hopeful. And hope, she knew, was the sharpest blade of all.
The reply didnât come right away.
Greta sat curled in her usual corner of the couch, wine glass balanced between her fingers, Judgeâs bulk a familiar pressure at her thigh. She tried not to glance at her phone too often, tried not to care. She told herself she didnât.
It buzzed once. Just once. She jumped anyway.
Unknown Number: House of Leaves. Postmodern Literature section. Used bookstore near... I think it was C and 9th? In San Diego.
C and 9th was less than five miles from her apartment. Sheâd walked past that crumbling strip of shops more times than she could count. The bookstore barely even looked open half the time. A coincidence, she told herself. Just because he found the book there didnât mean he was from here. People passed through. People drifted.
Still, something cold pressed beneath her ribs â not fear exactly, just the old reflex of someone whoâd survived enough surprises to know most werenât good.
She stared at the message a moment longer, then typed back with deliberate care:
Greta: If you're lying, you're very specific about it.
Unknown Number: Iâm not much of a liar. Bad at it, actually.
She snorted softly, more breath than laugh.
Greta: Thatâs what a good liar would say.
She let the phone slip from her hand, landing in the soft hollow between couch cushions. A faint smile tugged at the corner of her mouth, traitorous and involuntary. Judge gave a grunt of approval â or possibly just gas â and settled deeper against her side.
The next messages arrived not with urgency, but like leaves drifting down from somewhere high and unspoken. Neither of them pressed. Neither of them asked for more than the other seemed ready to give.
Sometimes hours passed between responses. Sometimes a day. But they always came.
It didnât come consistently. Not at first. It came in flickers â like headlights through rain, arriving quietly when the world had gone still. Always after dark. Always just a little bit lonely.
Bob sat on the back steps of his apartment, beer sweating in his hand, the coastal air cool against his neck. Somewhere down the street, a dog barked once and went quiet. He thumbed out a message one-handed:
Unknown Number: You ever finish the book?
Across town, Greta was closing a case file she no longer had the energy to care about. Her eyes burned from too many hours staring at words that stopped meaning anything halfway through. When her phone buzzed, she grabbed it like a lifeline. Judge perked his ears, hopeful for a treat. He got nothing.
Greta: Define "finish." I survived it, if that's what you mean. Half the footnotes gave me vertigo.
Unknown Number: Iâm halfway through. Pretty sure itâs trying to kill me.
Greta: If you make it to page 300, you should get a medal. Or a priest.
She smiled to herself. Just a flicker. Then it was gone.
The next time, it was nearly midnight. Bob was in his garage, sanding rust off an old fender, not really thinking about the car. His phone sat on the workbench beside him, smudged and dusty. He paused, wiped his hands on his jeans, and typed:
Unknown Number: Are we gonna keep calling each other âhey youâ or...?
Greta, at home in her kitchen with a mug of stale reheated coffee and a headache blooming behind her eyes, stared at the question for a long moment before answering. No last name. No context. Just a single word with edges.
Greta: Bob. Thatâs the best you could come up with?
Unknown Number: Itâs short for Robert. Sorry to disappoint you, Nebraska.
She froze. Nebraska. He thinks Iâm still there. Good.
That misunderstanding felt like armor â thick enough to keep him out, thin enough to let his voice slip through.
Greta: Fine. Bob. But Iâm saving you as âBookstore Idiot.â
Bookstore Idiot: Fair. Youâre âNebraskaâ now.
A laugh escaped her before she could stop it â sharp and sudden and strange in her own mouth. Judge lifted his head at the sound, confused.
They never talked about much. But they talked often. A few words, a question, a wisecrack here or there. Not enough to mean anything. Just enough to feel like something.
Bookstore Idiot: What do you do? Please donât say influencer.
Greta snorted, picking cold lo mein from a paper carton with two fingers.
Greta: Lawyer. Criminal defense. I get yelled at by old white guys who believe in the death penalty.
Greta: Donât flatter me, Montana.
Bob paused, reading that one twice.
Not Bob. Not bookstore idiot. Montana. It shouldnât have made him smile the way it did.
Bob: Got it. Back to our regularly scheduled banter. Iâll refrain from flirtations. Wouldnât want to give Nebraska the wrong idea.
There was a long pause. Long enough he wondered if heâd stepped too far, even with the walk-back.
Nebraska: What do you do, exactly? Please donât say motivational speaker.
Bob: Navy. WSO. I sit behind pilots and make sure they donât kill us both.
Nebraska: So youâre the brains of the operation. Government property with a guilt complex.
Bob: Thatâs one way to put it.
She didnât know his age. He didnât know her real city. Neither asked for photos, or last names, or signs of life beyond the screen. And yetâŚ
Bookstore Idiot: Do you leave your number in all your books?
The message came on a Saturday night, while Greta was scrubbing dried sauce off a saucepan in her oldest pair of sweatpants. A Cranberries record crackled on the turntable. To the Faithful Departed She dried her hands on a dish towel and leaned against the counter.
Greta: Just the ones that felt haunted. Donât read into it.
Bookstore Idiot: Too late.
The messages came more often after that. Still brief. Still cautious. But steady, now â like rain on a roof you didnât realize you were listening for.
At stoplights, Greta glanced at her phone. In the locker room, Bob checked his screen with damp hands before peeling off his flight suit.
They never said they were waiting. But they were.
Bookstore Idiot: Got any pets, or are you just a solo creature?
Greta: One-eyed bulldog named Judge. He bites.
Bookstore Idiot: Excellent name. Accurate branding.
Greta: He is a very discerning soul. Donât expect a warm welcome.
Bookstore Idiot: Iâd be disappointed if I got one.
They never talked about meeting.
Maybe they thought they were a thousand miles apart. Maybe it was easier to believe that. Or maybe some small, self-preserving piece of them knew: whatever this was â this thing made of misfired timing and borrowed language â might not survive being looked at too directly.
So they didnât ask. Didnât plan. Didnât push.
They just⌠stayed. Two strangers, five miles apart, pretending there was an ocean between them. Talking like ghosts through glass. Sending out lines into the dark.
And neither of them wanted to stop.
By the second week, the wariness hadnât vanished, not entirely. But it had softened â tempered by repetition, eroded by the slow rhythm of familiarity. What had begun as novelty had slipped, unnoticed, into habit.
Still, there were rules. Quiet ones, unspoken and sacred: no pictures, no phone calls, no mention of meeting, no breaking the spell. Months passed like this, each following the unwritten code in hopes of allowing this thing to continue for just a bit longer undisturbed.
Late at night â when the ocean air pressed cool fingers through the screens of Bobâs windows and Gretaâs apartment finally exhaled the heat it hoarded during the day â their messages floated back and forth like notes slipped under a locked door. Words distilled by silence. Tethered only by sarcasm and something that mightâve been hope, if either of them had the stomach for it.
Bob had trouble sleeping that night. The dream hadnât been violent, but it left a shadow in his chest â something without a name or a shape, only weight. He sat up in bed with the sheets twisted around his legs and the faint hiss of far-off traffic humming through the dark.
He didnât think. Just reached for his phone and typed:
Bob: Weirdest thing youâve ever found in a book?
Gretaâs bathroom light was off. She was stretched in a cold bathtub, the water long since lukewarm, the air prickling against her skin. The TV was still on in the next room, casting blue light through the hallway like an artificial dawn. Some forgotten detective show. Someone being accused of murder.
She hadnât planned on answering. But her phone buzzed on the edge of the sink, and her hand moved before her brain caught up.
Greta didnât have to think long. The memory arrived fully intact, as if it had been waiting in her bones for someone to ask.
She shifted in the cold tub, water lapping against porcelain, her phone balanced on the curve of her thigh.
Greta: An envelope. Taped shut. Tucked inside a medical ethics textbook. I opened it. Of course I did.
Bookstore Idiot: What was in it?
Greta: A letter. And a photo.
She stared at the next words for a long moment before sending them.
Greta: It was a suicide note. Dated 1993. Signed with just the initial âD.â The photo was of a baby. No names. Just a year scribbled on the back.
There was a pause. No buzz back right away. Good, she thought. Let that sit. Bobâs response came slower this time.
Bookstore Idiot: Jesus. What did you do with it?
Greta: Put it back where I found it. Didnât feel like mine to keep.
Bob sat with that for a minute. Ran a hand down his face.
That was the thing about her â Greta didnât dramatize anything. She just dropped it in your lap and let you decide what to do with it. Unflinching. Honest. Brutal in a way that felt almost holy.
His thumbs hovered, then typed:
Bob: Of course you did. Youâd carry something like that around for years, but youâd still say itâs not yours.
Bob: Very on brand, Nebraska.
Nebraska: Your brand is pity shopping at used bookstores. No judgment.
Bob: Excuse you, thatâs nostalgia therapy. I did, however, once buy a book just because someone underlined every mention of the word mother.
Greta tilted her head, considering that. The water rippled.
Nebraska: Fuck. Thatâs bleak.
Bob: Yeah. I think itâs what sold me on it.
There was a pause. Just long enough to feel it.
Greta dried her hands on a towel and climbed out of the tub, wrapping herself in her oldest robe. The cotton was threadbare, the color faded from too many washes. She didnât bother turning off the TV.
Back on the couch, Judge shifted in his sleep as she settled beside him. Her wine glass was empty, but she cradled it anyway â something to hold. Something to do with her hands.
Greta: I think people leave pieces of themselves in books on purpose. Like they want to be found, but only by someone willing to look too closely.
Bob stared at the message, his throat dry.
Bookstore Idiot: Maybe itâs a test. Or a trap.
Greta: Same thing, really.
It was strange how easily they slipped into these deeper waters. No warning. No build-up. Just⌠a crack in the surface and suddenly the light changed.
Greta didnât believe in soulmates. She barely believed in second chances. But something about the way he responded â quiet, unafraid, not pressing â made her feel a little less sharp-edged. Like she could speak plainly and not be punished for it.
Bob wasnât looking for answers. He wasnât angling for revelations. He just⌠kept showing up.
Bookstore Idiot: I once found a grocery list tucked inside The Bell Jar. Bread, vodka, lightbulbs, duct tape.
Greta: So basically Sylvia Plathâs starter pack.
Bookstore Idiot: Exactly.
She smiled. A small thing, half-genuine. The kind of smile that pulled at parts of her face she didnât use much anymore.
Bob shifted onto his side, phone warm in his hand.
Bookstore Idiot: What were you doing before this? I meanâWhen I texted.
She considered lying. Considered saying she didnât remember. She found herself spilling the truth.
Greta: Watching a show Iâd already seen. Drinking wine. Trying not to feel like a ghost in my own apartment.
A long pause followed. She didnât delete it. Didnât second guess it. She let it land like a dropped stone.
Bobâs reply, when it came, was gentle. Too gentle.
Bookstore Idiot: Ghosts donât leave their numbers in books.
Greta: Maybe not. But they hang around in the margins.
After that last message, neither of them sent another.
Bob set his phone on the table, screen down, like it was something sacred â or dangerous. Maybe both. The apartment around him was still, just the hum of the refrigerator and the faint whoosh of traffic outside. The hour had folded in on itself, bleeding toward morning.
He turned toward the book. House of Leaves.
It had been sitting there for days, untouched since the last time he flipped through it, unsure why heâd brought it home. The spine was already splitting, the cover soft-edged with wear. Heâd made it about a quarter of the way in the beginning, but heâd forgotten it in the living room, stunting his headway.Â
He opened it. Not to the front â not to the number â but somewhere in the middle, letting the pages fall where they wanted.
And there it was. A thin, slanted note in the margin beside a particularly brutal paragraph:
âMonsters donât live in closets. They live in picture frames.â
Bob blinked. His fingers hovered there, brushing the edge of the page. The handwriting was the same. Tight, sharp, elegant. Confident. It wasnât scribbled or sloppy â it was deliberate. Every letter had weight.
He turned another page. And another.
âWeâre all just walking trauma with skin suits.â
âThis partâs a lie, but a beautiful one.â
âThis feels like standing in my childhood bedroom after the funeral.â
Some comments were visceral. Some made him laugh out loud.
But some⌠some stopped him cold.
âIâve never felt more seen or more sick.â
âI hate that this makes me cry. I hate that Iâm still capable of it.â
âThis is the part where I stopped believing in God.â
He sat back, the book resting open on his knee, the margin notes unfolding like secrets she hadnât meant to leave behind. Or maybe she had. Maybe sheâd wanted someone to find them. This was a thriller that she had found familiarity in.
He didn't think it, not clearly â the words didnât form a shape yet â but something in his chest twisted with slow recognition. A kind of gravity.
Heâd spent years trying to find something that felt real, something that wasnât just pretty or easy or polite. And now here she was â a voice in the dark, all edges and honesty, too smart and too sad and too real to fit into the world the way it asked her to.
Greta, whoever the hell she really was, had carved pieces of herself into the margins of a book that nearly broke him â and he couldnât stop reading.
He wouldnât stop. Not now.
Bob stayed up until nearly four. He read until the words blurred, not the book itself â he barely followed the story â but the margins. Her margins. He was chasing her through the wreckage of someone elseâs narrative, trying to piece together what kind of mind left these breadcrumbs behind.
At some point, he realized he was holding the book differently. Gently, like it might bleed if he bent it wrong.
When he finally closed it, it felt like heâd just put something living back in a box.
He thought about texting her. Just something simple. Something like: Iâve been reading your thoughts all night.
But it felt too exposed. Too much. So instead he typed: you annotate like itâs confession.
Deleted it. Then typed again:
Didnât realize Iâd picked up a book haunted by a lawyerâs existential crisis.
Sent. He set the phone down and waited.
Gretaâs phone buzzed against the kitchen counter just as she finished pouring water into Judgeâs bowl. She wasnât expecting anything â not at this hour, not after what sheâd sent.
When she read the message, her stomach tensed. She leaned against the fridge and reread it.
She had forgotten the notes. Or no â she hadnât forgotten, not really. She just hadnât expected him to read them. Not this soon. Not this closely.
She stared at the screen for a long time, weighing responses like evidence. Incriminating, all of it.
Nebraska: Youâre welcome. I charge $350/hour for annotated mental breakdowns. A moment passed before she sent another. Nebraska: Donât psychoanalyze me, Montana. It wonât go well for either of us.
She hovered over her phone again. Then, with a sigh:
Didnât expect anyone to actually read those. Didnât think anyone would care enough to try.
Bob smiled. Not a grin â something smaller, closer to reverence. He was lying on his back on the floor now, one leg propped against the couch, the book splayed open beside him like a diary that had decided to trust him.
He thumbed out a reply, quiet in tone:
Bob: Well, someone did. Someone does.
Greta stared at the message. Felt it land.
Her first instinct was to gut it with humor. Say something like thatâs suspiciously tender for a man who uses periods in his texts, or careful, youâre almost sounding sincere.
But she didnât. Instead, she put the phone down. Poured herself a glass of vodka, something stronger to guide her through the deep conversation that they were inevitably barreling towards. Sat in the dark, Judgeâs head heavy in her lap.
She didnât reply right away. Bob didnât expect her to. But still, the silence gnawed.
Not in a needy way â not like he needed her to perform something for him â but in that quiet, aching way you miss a song even while itâs still playing. Like you can feel the moment slipping out of your hands as it happens.
He picked the book back up and flipped to one of the pages he'd marked earlier with a note that had hit him like a sucker punch:
âThis part reminds me of what it felt like to be fifteen and realize your father was just a man. And not a very good one.â
He didnât know what it meant. Not fully, but it stuck to him.
He thumbed his phone again, hesitated, then sent:
Bob: Thereâs a note in the book. Page 112. About your dad, I think. You okay?
Then she stood up, took her glass into the bathroom, and turned the faucet back on. Letting the water drown out the noise in her head. Let it thunder into the tub while the message pulsed, unanswered, on her phone screen.
She wasnât angry that he read it. Not exactly.
But she felt seen. Too seen. And that was a vulnerability she didnât know how to carry without armor.
Nebraska: That note wasnât meant for you. But I guess you already knew that.
Nebraska: Still. You asked if Iâm okay. I am, most days. I function. I donât scream into pillows or throw things at the wall. But I canât remember the last time I slept through the night. So do with that what you will.
She didnât expect him to reply. She kind of hoped he wouldnât.
The water had stopped running. Judge snored at the foot of the couch. Greta stayed still, curled in her corner, the phone balanced on her thigh. The light from the screen made her look half-carved â shadows under her eyes, glass untouched on the table.
The silence stretched. Then her thumbs moved.
Nebraska: My parents are dead. Soâs my little brother. Car crash. Christmas Eve. I was sixteen.
No softening. No exposition. No it was a long time ago. Just fact, flat and heavy as slate. She hit send before she could second-guess it.
Nebraska: My older brother lived. Barely. I was in a coma for three months. Shattered pelvis. Traumatic brain injury. Lost a chunk of my hearing for a while. Woke up to a different world.
She waited. Not for pity â God, not that â but for something. Recoil. Silence. Something cold and distant like most people gave her when she didnât wrap the truth in cotton.
But Bob wasnât most people. Most people would drop their scatter like salt but the dots blinked for a long time.
Bob: Jesus, Nebraska. Thatâs a hell of a thing to live through.
Bob: Thanks for telling me.
Nothing flowery. No âIâm sorry for your lossâ or âthat mustâve been so hard.â Just⌠a presence. A recognition.
It hit her like a lungful of air she hadnât realized sheâd been without.
Nebraska: Donât know why I told you. Maybe because you read the notes.
Bob: Maybe because I didnât look away.
That stopped her, she stared at the screen. Her fingers hovered over a dozen possible replies. All of them too much. None of them right.
Nebraska: What about you? You carrying anything dark and awful, or am I doing all the emotional heavy lifting here?
Bob sat with it a moment, thumbs still, the night folded close around him like an old quilt he couldnât quite shake off.
Bob: My dad died five years ago. Heart attack. Sudden. One of those gone-before-I-could-say-anything things. Havenât been back to Montana since the funeral.
He stared at the blinking cursor.
Bob: I love my family. All of them. Big loud house. Siblings who still call me Bobby. Mom who prays for me daily. But without him, it doesnât feel like home.
Bob: He was quiet. Like me. Not shy â just⌠reserved. Selective. Never needed the middle of the room. Heâd sit in the corner and listen. Watch. Clock everything. Didnât waste words.
Bob: He was the only person who made the silence feel like company.
Bob hit send. Immediately regretted it. Sat still and stared at the message like it might burst into flame if he blinked wrong. Then the phone buzzed.
Nebraska: Yeah. I know that silence. I miss it too.
She didnât ask questions. Didnât offer platitudes. Just gave him a place to put the weight.
Nebraska: You donât talk about him much, do you?
Bob: Not really. Most people talk over it. Or get weirdly uncomfortable.
Nebraska: I wonât. Iâm not most people.
And God, didnât he know that by now.
Nebraska: Youâre welcome, Bookstore Idiot.
Bob: That nickname is gonna follow me to my grave, isnât it.
Nebraska: If I have anything to say about it, yeah.
Bob: You always this gentle after emotionally wrecking someone, or am I special?
Nebraska: Donât flatter yourself, Montana.
Bob: Right, sorry. I forgot I'm not supposed to flirt with you, Iâll make sure it doesnât happen again.
Nebraska: Please do. Iâm fragile and drinking.
They lingered there, once again circling the wreckage with humor â not because they needed to laugh, but because it was safer than crying. Still, something had shifted. Deeper. Quieter.
They werenât strangers anymore, they were witnesses.
They lingered after that. Neither pulling away. Text after text. Little things. Specific things. The kinds of things you donât tell people unless you know theyâll hold it right.
Greta told him about Valentine â the flat, brutal nothingness of the Nebraska horizon. How her dad had been a pastor. How she never quite forgave herself for surviving when the rest didnât.
Bob told her about the ranch â wheat fields and siblings and a mother who made the best blackberry pie this side of God. How everything after his dad felt like a noise he couldnât tune out.
There were long silences. Comfortable ones.
Every message wasnât a bombshell â some were stupid, mundane, normal â but the weight of what had been said hummed underneath everything now.
Something had shifted. Irrevocably.
So they stayed. Two strangers, five miles apart, pretending they were oceans away. Talking through glass. And somehow... neither of them really wanted to stop.
The next morning, the sky over San Diego was silver-washed and slow. The kind of coastal overcast that never quite broke, just hung there â muted and soft like a sigh.
Gretaâs phone buzzed at 7:42 a.m.
Bookstore Idiot: Morning.Bookstore Idiot: Weird texting you in the daylight. I feel like Iâm breaking curfew.
She smirked, one leg kicked up on her coffee table, Judge already snoring in a warm circle at her feet. A legal pad full of notes sat abandoned in her lap, pen still uncapped.
Greta: Careful. Sunlight might ruin the mystique.
Bookstore Idiot: You say that like I donât already imagine you as a chain-smoking vampire with a law degree.
Greta: Only smoke when Iâm losing. So⌠almost never.
Bookstore Idiot: Obviously.
Bookstore Idiot: Wanna play 20 Questions?
She blinked. Looked out the window. A thin marine layer still curled around the tops of buildings. It felt... surprisingly intimate. Texting with the sun up. Like seeing someone without their makeup for the first time and not pointing it out.
Bookstore Idiot: Emotionally? Debatable.Bookstore Idiot: Come on. Itâs structured. You love structure.
Greta: Fine. But I get to go first.
Bookstore Idiot: Naturally.
Greta: 1. Have you ever been in love?
There was a pause. Not long â but long enough to register.
Bookstore Idiot: Once. I think.Bookstore Idiot: Felt like drowning in honey. Couldnât tell if it was sweet or killing me.
She sat with that. Let it sink into her chest.
Bookstore Idiot: You can go again.
Greta: 2. Ever wanted to disappear?
Bookstore Idiot: Daily.Bookstore Idiot: Mostly in meetings.
Bookstore Idiot: Iâm deflecting, Nebraska. Itâs a trauma response.
Bookstore Idiot: Okay. Yes. A few years ago, I almost took orders that wouldâve sent me out past Diego Garcia. Middle of nowhere, radio silence. Didnât go. Kind of wish I had.
Bookstore Idiot: 3. If you werenât a lawyer, what would you be?
Greta: Bartender in a bad dive.
Greta: One of those places where the walls sweat and everyone lies for a living. Iâd be excellent at remembering everyoneâs drink and none of their names.
Bookstore Idiot: I believe that.
Greta: 4. Do you believe in fate?
Bookstore Idiot: Nah.Bookstore Idiot: I believe in coincidence. And timing. And people who leave their numbers in cursed books.
Bookstore Idiot: 5. Worst thing youâve ever done?
Her reply came slower this time.
No explanation. No clarification. Just that.
Bob didnât try to fix it. Didnât fill the space with platitudes. Just let it be.
Bookstore Idiot: 6. Whatâs your worst fear?
Greta: Falling in love again.Greta: And trusting the wrong person with the wreckage.
His chest ached. He stared at the ceiling. Texted back:
Bookstore Idiot: 7. What did you think I looked like when we started talking?
Greta: Balding trucker. Probably with gout. Possibly a knife collection.Greta: You?
Bookstore Idiot: Woman in expensive shoes who says things like âgentlemenâ and always wins.Bookstore Idiot: Still not convinced Iâm wrong.
Greta laughed. Out loud. An actual laugh that startled Judge from his nap. She shook her head, then typed:
Greta: 8. Why havenât we met yet?
Bob didnât answer immediately. It came slowly and felt more intentional than it should have.
Bookstore Idiot: Because the longer we donât, the easier it is to pretend this is safe.Bookstore Idiot: And because I think if I ever saw you, Iâd forget how to speak.
Greta: 9. You ever cry in movies?
Bookstore Idiot: Absolutely not.
Bookstore Idiot:âŚExcept once. Field of Dreams. I was twelve. My dad said, âwanna have a catch?â like the guy in the movie and I justâ yeah.
Bookstore Idiot: Anyway. Never again.
She didnât answer right away. When she did, it was simple:
Greta: Thatâs a valid exception.
Greta: You get a pass.
Bob smiled, soft. Almost forgot it was morning.
Bookstore Idiot: 10. Whatâs something harmless I wouldnât know about you from our messages?
Greta: Thatâs dangerous.
Bookstore Idiot: Thatâs the game.
She stared at the blinking cursor, feeling her chest tighten.
Greta: Gretaâs not my real name.
Silence, a long one. Then, three dots. Then nothing. Then againâ
Bookstore Idiot: Wait. What?
Bookstore Idiot: Like⌠not your name at all?
Bookstore Idiot: Are you serious?
Bookstore Idiot: What else arenât you telling me? Is Judge real? Is Nebraska real? Are you real?
She winced. Not because it wasnât fair â but because it was too fair. The next text took longer. She could practically feel him pacing.
Bookstore Idiot: Jesus, Greta.
Her reply came quick, clipped:
Greta: Greta is my name. Just⌠not all of it.
Greta: Itâs what everyone calls me.
Greta: Has been for years.
Greta: Greta is to me what Bob is to you.
There was a beat. Then another. Bob felt the breath leave him in a slow, shamed exhale.
He stared at the screen. Closed his eyes. Ran a hand through his hair.
He felt stupid. Felt⌠hurt, for a second. But now it just felt foolish. He of all people shouldâve understood â names were permission. Names were boundaries.
Bookstore Idiot: Okay.
Bookstore Idiot: Thatâs okay.
Bookstore Idiot: âŚSo what is it then?
Bookstore Idiot: Yeah. Let me guess.
Bookstore Idiot: Geraldine.
Greta: Try again, grandpa.
Bookstore Idiot: Gretchen?
Bookstore Idiot: Margaret?
He stared at the name for a long second, like it was a secret sheâd whispered into his collar.
Bookstore Idiot: Margaret.
Bookstore Idiot: Margaret Bookstore.
Greta smirked at the stupid joke before thumbing out a reply.
Bookstore Idiot: Waitâ Thatâs not your last name?
Greta: Nope.
Greta: Still holding some cards.
Bookstore Idiot: So what is it?
Greta: You get first and middle. Thatâs all.
Greta: Margaret Rebekah.
Bookstore Idiot: Whoa.
Bookstore Idiot: Margaret Rebekah. Thatâs a lot of name.
Greta: You think Bob has room to talk?
Bookstore Idiot: Point taken.
She let a beat pass, then added:
Greta: Nobody calls me Margaret. Not ever.
Greta: Margaret was always for school forms, legal documents, and trouble.
Bookstore Idiot: I like knowing it.
Bookstore Idiot: It feels... private.
The space between texts grew softer after that. Laced with something that tasted like reverence.
Bookstore Idiot: 11. Do you believe people can change?
She stared at the question a long time.
Greta: No.
Greta: But I think they can choose differently.
Greta: And I think that matters more.
Bob read that one three times. Let it carve its initials into him.
Greta: 12. Whatâs your worst habit?
Bookstore Idiot: Biting the inside of my cheek until it bleeds.
Bookstore Idiot: That and saying yes to things I should walk away from.
Greta: Ooh. Yeah that would be a good one to quit.
Bookstore Idiot: 13. What scares you more â being known or being forgotten?
That one hit like a sucker punch. Gretaâs breath stalled just a little.
Greta: Being known.
Greta: Being seen and still left behind.
Greta: Thatâs the real horror.
Bobâs reply came slower this time.
Bookstore Idiot: For what itâs worth â I donât think I could forget you if I tried.
She didnât respond right away. She couldnât. Instead:
Greta: 14. Whatâs the kindest thing anyoneâs ever done for you?
Bob leaned his head back against the couch. Stared at the ceiling.
Bookstore Idiot: When my dad died, my little sister crawled into my bed the night of the funeral. She was six. Didnât say anything. Just curled against me like I was still strong. I donât think she knows she saved my life that night.
Bookstore Idiot: 15. What do you actually look like?
She snorted, sinking deeper into the couch.
Greta: You just used your question for a picture request?
Bookstore Idiot: No! I just want to know if the truck-stop ghoul thing was accurate.
She gave the basic run down of her hair color, her eyes, delving a little deeper than the color.
Greta: Kinda big, kinda sad. Iâve been told I have a âdonât fuck with meâ face, but mostly I think I just look tired. Broken nose that almost healed right. People assume Iâm mean. Iâm not. I just donât smile unless I mean it.
Bookstore Idiot: Thatâs oddly specific.
Bookstore Idiot: You left out âjaw like a bladeâ and âeyes that could cut glass.â
Greta: Flattery will get you nowhere, Montana.
Bookstore Idiot: Damn it woman, let me flirt with you every once in a while.
She smirked. Could almost picture him flushed and flustered behind the screen, red ears and all.
Greta: Youâre allowed to flirt. Just donât get sentimental.
Greta:Â Iâm allergic.
Greta: Turnaboutâs fair play. What do you look like, Montana?
Bookstore Idiot: Ah shit.
She smirked at her screen, already picturing him fumbling over it.
Bookstore Idiot: Brown hair. Kinda curly, kinda floppy. Doesnât do what I tell it. Glasses, most days. Blue eyesâlike, plain blue. Nothing poetic. I burn easy. Look like I grew up under a cloudy sky. Iâve been told I have âresting nice guy face,â whatever the hell that means.
Greta: It means you look like someone whoâd return a dropped grocery list and apologize for reading it.
Bookstore Idiot: âŚI would do that.
A pause. Then he addedâ
Bookstore Idiot: Iâm not a big guy. Not short, but not someone who walks into a room and takes it over. I tend to hang back. Watch things. Got broad shoulders, though. Ranch kid perks.
She read it twice, her expression unreadable.
There was something⌠human about that. No ego. No smoke. Just a man who knew his body like youâd know a work truck: practical, used, maybe a little beat up but still running clean.
Greta: You leave out the part where youâre Navy. Probably built like an American sin.
Bookstore Idiot: You said no flirting.
Greta: That wasnât flirting. That was categorization.
Bookstore Idiot: God help whoever tries to date you.
Greta: God help you, Bookstore Idiot.
Greta: Next question?
Bookstore Idiot Idiot: 16. How do you want to die?
Greta: That escalated quickly.
Bookstore Idiot: Told you I wasnât good at small talk.
Greta tilted her head, thoughtful.
Greta: Quietly. After a good meal. Full glass of wine beside me. Music playing. No hospitals. No wires. Just⌠a little peace.
Bookstore Idiot: 17. Have you ever broken someoneâs heart?
Greta: Not in the way they think. Iâve just never let anyone all the way in. Some people want the version of you they can fix. And when you wonât let them, they break themselves trying.
Bob sat with that. Thought of past almosts. Half-formed things.
Bookstore Idiot: 18. Do you want to get married?
Greta: I used to. Then I realized most people want a wedding, not a marriage. I want something quieter. Truer. I want to build something that doesnât need a ceremony to be real.
Bookstore Idiot: You just keep saying things Iâve never had the words for.
She swallowed that. Let it sit. Then:
Greta: 19. Whatâs something youâve never told anyone?
Bob didnât answer right away.
Bookstore Idiot: Sometimes I wonder if Iâd be a better person if he hadnât died. Like maybe he kept me centered. And without him I drift.
She didnât text anything back. Instead, she set the phone down for a moment. Ran her hands through her hair. Breathed.
Greta: 20. If I asked to meet you, would you say yes?
Bobâs phone lay silent inside his locker, a small, quiet enemy. Every time his mind drifted to the screen, the beep or buzz went unanswered, swallowed by the relentless rhythm of the day.
Morning roll call was sharp and brisk â Maverick calling the squad to attention. Bobâs thoughts flickered to the last message from Greta. He thumbed his pocket, itching to type a reply, but the briefingâs gravity pulled him under, and the absence of the metal in his pocket left a staunch reminder of what he was supposed to be focusing on.
Mavâs voice cut through the noise: âEyes up, team. Weâre not here to daydream.â
Bob forced his gaze forward, catching Mavâs steady, no-nonsense stare. He knew discipline â and he expected it. Bob bit back a smirk, rubbing the side of his neck.
Later, in the hangar, Hangman stood next to Rooster, glancing over a pre-flight checklist with practiced ease, shouting over the enginesâ growl, âYou seen Bob? Dudeâs been ghosting us more than usual.â
Fanboy chimed in, âHeâs glued to that damn phone, man. A few months back he left it in my truck and didnât even care.â
Bob forced a grin, but his fingers itched again.
âHey, Bob, you good?â Payback asked quietly, stepping beside him. The two shared a look only years of service could forge â understanding and quiet concern.
âYeah,â Bob said, voice clipped.
âYouâre not fooling anyone,â Payback said softly.
Midday, the squad broke for lunch. Bob tried to slip away to the corner of the mess hall, phone finally in hand. He was ready to write back when Javy â Coyote â caught him.
âYou okay, Bob? Youâve been all over the place today,â Javy said, his tone casual but sharp.
âJust a lot on my mind,â Bob admitted, locking eyes with Javy, who nodded knowingly.
Back in the locker room, Bob finally had a free moment â a quiet lull. His thumb hovered over the keyboard, heart pounding. Just as he was about to send a message, the intercom crackled.
âFloyd, get ready for the next hop,â Haloâs voice ordered.
He slid the phone away with a sigh.
Meanwhile, five miles away, Greta was spiraling.
Her apartment felt colder, the walls closer. Judgeâs steady breathing was a small comfort, but it wasnât enough.
She poured herself another glass of coffee and stared at the blinking cursor on her phone, the unanswered message mocking her.
She shook her head, frustration mounting.
Iâm a lawyer. I deal with facts and evidence. Not... this.
Desperate for distraction, she grabbed her laptop and keys.
Iâm going to the office. Maybe if Iâm somewhere that smells like old books and paper and doesnât have these four walls closing in, Iâll stop driving myself crazy.
Gretaâs office was quiet, the low hum of her computer and distant typing filling the space. She tried to focus on a brief, but her mind kept drifting to Bobâs silence.
Her phone sat beside her â dark and cold.
Back at the base, Bobâs hop ended late afternoon. He was exhausted, muscles aching, mind raw.
He shoved his phone back into his pocket.
Natasha caught his eye from across the room. âSo whatâs on your phone, Bob?â she teased gently.
Bob looked away, his cheeks pinking slightly. âNothing.â
The night stretched long and silent, two lives tethered by a thread of words and half-sentences, each waiting, wondering, and afraid.
The squad wasnât subtle.
âCâmon, Floyd,â Hangman grinned, clapping him on the shoulder. âYouâre burninâ daylightâand your phoneâs been quiet longer than a moth at midnight.â
Rooster laughed from the back, âYou look like hell, man. You need a beer. Or three.â
Bob groaned but didnât argue. After a day spent chasing choppers and dodging duties, the Hard Deck was exactly the kind of loud, chaotic mess heâd sworn he was avoidingâbut the guys had made their choice.
Inside, the stale air smelled of spilled beer and worn leather. The jukebox thumped a rhythm that rattled in Bobâs chest. For the first time all day, he pulled his phone from his pocket.
His thumbs trembled over the screen as he stared at Gretaâs name glowing in the messages.
Bob: Sorry for the radio silence. Hop got me all tangled up today â phones locked in lockers, every spare second swallowed by drills and waiting. Iâm not great at doing thisâtexting, I meanâwhen thereâs chaos. It feels like Iâm not really there, yâknow? But I want to talk. I want to hear everything youâve been thinking while Iâve been MIA.
He hesitated, then hit send.
The response came quickly, almost like sheâd been holding her breath.
Nebraska: I was starting to think you were a ghost or a scam.
Bob smiled, the first real one of the day. He took a slow sip of his cherry soda, the noise of the bar fading around him.
Sometimes, connection was just waiting for the right moment to be grabbed.
Bobâs fingers hovered over the keyboard, then finally typed,
Bob: Yeah. I want to meet. But⌠how would that even work? Youâre in Nebraska, right?
His phone buzzed almost immediately.
Nebraska: Bob.Nebraska: Iâm in San Diego.Nebraska: Iâm assuming you are, too â based on where you found the book.
He blinked at the screen, the words sinking in slow. Then it hit himâthe sharp, unexpected twist of reality.
The realization cracked the edges of his world. He glanced around the Hard Deck, the raucous noise suddenly muffled and distant.
His eyes lit up, a grin spreading wide. Without a word, he nearly sprang up from his stool, turning to the squad with a look somewhere between excitement and disbelief.
Hangman raised a brow. âHey, Floyd, you okay?â
Bob barely registered it. He was already grabbing his jacket, fingers flying back to the phone.
Bob: Wait, so⌠youâre here? Like, actually here?
Greta: Yep. Probably five miles, give or take. Youâve been right under my nose this whole time, Montana.
Bobâs smile deepened, heart pounding. He glanced at his friends, who looked on, puzzled but used to his moments.
âHoly shit,â he muttered, eyes wide. âSheâs here.â
Without another word, he hopped away from the table, nearly knocking over his bottle.
âWaitâwhere you going?â Hangman called out, but Bob was already headed towards the door. The squad exchanged baffled looks.
Rooster shrugged. âSince when does Floyd bolt out of a bar like a kid on Christmas morning?â
Fanboy leaned in. âWhatâs got him so wired? Whoâs âsheâ?â
Payback laughed. âYou think itâs a girl? Floyd? No way.â
âHe just said âsheâs hereâ you dumbass, obviously itâs a girl. You think one of his sisters is in town?â Rooster asked with a raised brow.Â
Natasha shook her head, smirking. âHeâs been glued to his phone all day. Somethingâs up, and weâre not in the loop.â
Coyote smirked. âGuess we found Floydâs little secret.â
They watched Bob nearly sprint out the door, phone in hand, the glowing screen his only clue.
Bobâs phone lit up again with another message from Greta, fingers flying over the screen as the words tumbled out in rapid-fire texts.
Nebraska: So. When? Where? I know a quiet cafĂŠ just off 1st and Market. No loud music, no crowds. Just coffee, actual chairs, and six-dollar paninis that I would kill someone over.
Bob: Perfect. Iâm free tomorrow afternoon.Bob: Wait, do you have any coffee preferences? Iâm more of a black coffee guy, but I can survive a latte if it means less snobbery.
Nebraska: Black. No judgment here.Nebraska: And Iâll bring Judgeâheâs a tough audience but fair.
Sleep didn't come easy for either of them.
Bob lay on his back in bed, staring at the ceiling fan rotating slow above him. His room smelled like jet fuel and clean laundry, quiet but still humming with leftover adrenaline from the bar and the texts.
He rolled over, rechecked his phone. Still there. Still real. San Diego. Five miles, maybe less.
He blew out a breath and tucked the phone under his pillow like it was something sacred.
Greta wasnât fairing much better. Sheâd curled herself sideways across the couch, half a blanket tangled around her knees, Judge snoring gently at her feet.
Sheâd tried to read, tried to distract herself with the noise of courtroom transcripts and emails, but nothing stuck.
Bob. Montana. He was here.
She looked at the message again â Tomorrow. 3PM. CafĂŠ on 1st and Market. Simple. Specific. Real.
The kind of thing you could build a new world on.
She tucked her phone under her cheek and whispered, âDonât be a creep, Bob.â
Bob stood in front of the mirror, shirtless, towel slung around his hips. He looked at himself harder than he usually did. It wasnât nervesânot exactly. Just weight.
He didnât want to be Lieutenant Floyd today. He didnât want the uniform or the posture or the built-in authority. He just wanted to be Bob. The version of him sheâd come to know in lowercase texts and late-night confessions.
He pulled on a pair of worn jeans still dusted with Montana dirt, a soft black t-shirt with the logo of his hometown diner faded across the back. His boots were scuffed at the toe, but he cleaned them off anyway.
By the time he grabbed his keys, he could feel his pulse in his hands.
Greta didnât try to glamorize. She didnât want to pretend. That was the thing with Bobâhe made her want to show up exactly as she was.
She pulled on a pair of sunwashed overalls streaked with dried paint, a forest green tank top hugging close beneath. Her dark brown boots had a chunky heel and made a satisfying click when she walked. Her makeup was minimalâmascara, a swipe of deep-berry lipstickâand she pulled her hair back with a tortoiseshell clip.
Judge stood at the door, tail wagging once, solemn and ready like a soldier. She fastened his harness and leash, ran her fingers over his head once, and started the two-mile walk to the cafĂŠ.
Her pulse beat in her throat the whole way.
Bob got there a few minutes early. The place was small, tucked on the corner of a sleepy street framed by jacaranda trees, their purple petals littering the sidewalk like soft confetti.
And thatâs when he saw himâone eye, broad chest, tan and white and lumpy in the way only bulldogs are. The leash stretched from his harness to the hand of a woman seated just outside.
She was turned away at first. Her shoulders narrow. Claw clip holding her hair up. One booted leg crossed over the other, the sole of her heel scuffed. Her fingers tapped gently on the handle of her mug, as if she was counting seconds.
When she turned, it knocked the air clean out of his lungs.
She was Greta. The voice, the words, the humor, the bite, the dark current always undercutting the softest of admissionsâshe was all of it, alive and three-dimensional in front of him. And more beautiful than his imagination had dared.
He stopped dead in his tracks.
Greta looked up. Saw him. Her eyes met his like theyâd been doing it for months. Judge gave a lazy snuffle, uninterested in the reunion happening above him.
Gretaâs expression didnât change muchâbut something behind her eyes did. Like a door quietly unlocking.
She stood slowly. Didnât say anything at first.
They just looked at each other, thousands of words suspended between them, neither ready to break the spell yet.
Finally, Greta tilted her head just slightly and said, âSo. Youâre taller than I imagined.â
Bob huffed a laugh, one hand rubbing the back of his neck. âYouâre⌠real.â
âI get that a lot,â she murmured, mouth twitching into the beginning of a smile.
Bob took the final few steps forward and said, âHi.â
Greta nodded once. âHi.â
They sat across from each other at the little cafĂŠ table, two steaming mugs between them, Judge snoring already beneath Gretaâs chair like he had zero interest in playing chaperone.
The first few minutes were a little stiff.
Bob kept fiddling with the sugar packet even though he didnât take sugar in his coffee, and Greta kept smoothing her palm along her thigh like it might make the nerves settle.
Theyâd spent months talking. Sharing little pieces. Confessions and wisecracks and strange 1:47 AM honesty. And now here they wereâreal.
âDoes it feel weird?â Bob asked after a beat, voice softer than usual. âLikeâŚweâre actors in a reenactment of our own texts?â
Greta smirked behind her mug. âYeah. I keep waiting for the camera crew to pop out and tell me this was all a very elaborate TikTok prank.â
He smiled. Tilted his head a little. âBut itâs good-weird, right?â
âBetter than expected,â she said, and realized a beat too late that sheâd meant it.
His face lit upâhis whole face, not just his mouth. The kind of smile that started in the corners of his eyes and worked its way down like sunrise.
And damn, Greta thought. Heâs even hotter when he smiles.
Bob had described himself as ânothing special.â Just average. Not that tall, broad shoulders, wears glasses when he remembers. That was it.
But he was not average. Not by any goddamn stretch of the imagination.
He had to be six feet easy, built like a man who could haul a full-grown steer without breaking a sweat. His worn black t-shirt clung just enough to show his frameâlean but muscular, and his arms? Jesus. His arms.
Because his arms were veiny. And strong. And covered in faint freckles like someone had dusted him with cinnamon. And when he reached to tuck that one loose curl behind his ear, her brain short-circuited.
Get a grip, Margaret, she scolded herself. But her brain was already playing a dangerous reel of mental images that would make a priest sweat.
She took a large, unnecessary gulp of her coffee to drown the thought.
Bob noticed, of course. âToo hot?â he asked, concerned.
No, Iâm just overheating because your biceps look like they could snap a man in half, her brain screamed.
âLittle bit,â she replied casually, clearing her throat.
Bob pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose and looked at her over the rims. âYouâre quieter in person.â
She blinked. âYouâre not.â
He laughedâquiet, delighted. âGuess I donât need a keyboard to flirt after all.â
That made her smile. Small, but real. âDonât get cocky, Montana.â
His grin widened. âToo late.â
The awkwardness faded fast after thatâmelted like ice under the warm weight of familiarity. They werenât strangers. Not really. The texts had been a lifeline, a rhythm, a secret language only the two of them spoke. Now they were just learning how to speak it out loud.
They talked. About everything. About nothing. Bob told her about growing up in Montana with more siblings than common sense, about the dog he had as a kid who hated everyone but him. Greta told him about law school in Boston, how cold it got, how she always wore two pairs of socks even indoors.
They slipped into the kind of banter that had built this thing in the first placeâsarcastic, sharp, but always soft at the center.
And when Bob laughed at one of her offhand commentsââJudge likes you. He only likes men with emotional trauma.ââshe swore she saw something flicker behind his eyes.
Recognition. Understanding. Connection.
Bob had always been the quiet one.
The observer. The one who watched the room before speaking. Who chose his words carefully, when he chose them at all.
But something about Greta unlatched his ribcage and let all the unspoken stuff tumble out.
Maybe it was the way she looked at himâdead-on, unwavering, like sheâd already read the footnotes to everything he was trying not to say.
Maybe it was the way she satâanchored. Like her body had decided a long time ago she didnât need to prove anything to anyone. Her boot tapped softly against the metal of the chair leg, and every now and then, she tilted her head like she was challenging him without saying a word.
And God help him, she was beautiful.
Not pretty. Not sweet. Not nice.
Beautiful the way a storm front isâstriking and heavy and honest. Her hair caught in little wisps around her face, and that damn claw clip made her look both accidental and precise at the same time. The overalls shouldnât have made him feel like this, but here he was, needing a second to remember how breathing worked. And when she smiled? Real smile? The one that didnât come easy but meant something when it did?
He was done. Doomed. Wrecked. Absolutely floored.
And the worst part? She was still talking to him.
Like he was someone worth knowing. Laughing at his jokes like they werenât the awkward throwaways of a guy who was suddenly and violently in love with a woman who had a bulldog named Judge and eyes like an unfinished story.
âAre you always like this?â she asked, sipping her coffee.
Bob blinked. âLike what?â
âTalkative. Animated.â Her eyebrow arched. âA little twitchy.â
He chuckledâactually chuckled, and it surprised even him. âOnly when Iâm trying not to ruin a good thing.â
Greta blinked once. That wasnât the answer sheâd expected. Her lips parted, but she didnât reply right away.
Bob leaned forward, elbows on the table, fingers laced together. âI usually let other people fill the air. I watch. I listen. But with youâŚâ
His voice softened. âWith you, I donât want to miss a single minute by being quiet.â
Bob squirmed a little under it. âToo much?â
âNo,â she said finally, voice low. âJust⌠unexpected.â
He nodded, pretending that didnât make his stomach twist in twelve directions. He reached down to absently pat the dog, who gave a grunt of vague approval and rolled to his side like a seal.
Greta looked him over again, slower this time.
The black shirt hugging his chest. The freckled arms. The glasses slightly askew. That earnest, earnest face. And stillâhe hadnât looked away from her once.
Bob was nervous. For her.
Her, with her baggage and her bluntness and her broken-thing-in-a-nice-dress energy. Her, with the black coffee and mascara and zero intentions of being someoneâs dream girl.
But this man was looking at her like she was holy.
âMontana,â she said finally, voice dry but laced with something warmer, âif you keep looking at me like that, Iâm gonna have to excuse myself and scream into the void.â
Bob grinned, eyes flicking to her lips, just for a second. âYou brought it on yourself, Nebraska.â
âWhat, by showing up?â
âNo,â he said. âBeing exactly who I hoped youâd be.â
She stared at him again. Then blinked. Then took a long sip of coffee to stall the fact that she was, quite literally, about to short-circuit.
They stayed longer than they meant to. Of course they did.
Two coffees turned into a shared muffin neither would admit to wanting. Judge snored like a warthog beneath the table. Greta had to gently nudge him off her foot more than once, but she didnât mind. She didnât mind any of it.
Especially not the way Bob was looking at her now.
That quiet, observant farmboy from Montanaâthe one sheâd imagined shy, maybe stiff, probably a little prudish in personâhad suddenly developed a talent for flirting so potent she half-suspected divine intervention.
âYouâre not what I expected,â she said, leaning back in her chair, watching the way his fingers toyed with the cardboard sleeve of his cup.
He quirked a brow. âWhat were you expecting?â
She squinted at him. âDefinitely balder. Probably gout, maybe scurvy. Some guy named Keith, texting me from a truck stop recliner with mustard stains on his shirt.â
Bob feigned offense, pressing a hand to his chest. âYou thought I was a Keith?â
âYou kinda gave off Keith energy.â
He shook his head, laughing. âThatâs low, even for you.â
She tilted her chin. âIs it?â
âMaybe a little.â He grinned againâdangerously. âFor the record, I thought you were gonna be some icy corporate lawyer with a corner office and a thousand-yard stare.â
âNot entirely off,â she muttered into her cup.
âBut definitely wrong about the hair clip.â
She paused. âWhat, is it not intimidating enough?â
âNo,â he said, tilting his head slightly, his voice lower, smoother. âItâs⌠distracting.â
A beat. Then: âYouâre flirting with me.â
âIâm trying to,â Bob said, completely deadpan, âbut you keep talking about gout.â
She laughedâreally laughedâand it cracked something in both of them. The last of the awkwardness melted clean off, like it had never really mattered in the first place.
âSo,â he said after a moment, catching her eye again, âyou gonna tell me your last name or do I keep calling you Nebraska like weâre in a very emotionally fraught western?â
Greta rolled her eyes. âMargaret Rebekah James. Thatâs the whole thing my dad required us all to have at least one biblical name, hence Rebekah.â
Bob tried it in his head. Margaret Rebekah James. It didnât sound wrong. Just⌠older, like something sacred etched into stone. Something strong.
âAnd you said you had other nicknames, not Greta?â
âYeah, my mom used to call me Molly. My grandma calls me Peggy, like Iâm a founding mother.â
He grinned. âSo, Gretaâs your rebel phase.â
She raised a brow. âMy burnout phase.â A slight scoff came out in an almost laugh, âEveryone else called me Greta, not really sure how I collected four names butâŚâ she trailed off.Â
He pretended to make a note. âGood to know. Greta⌠James?â
Bob smiled to himself. âGreta James. Sounds like a woman in a novel Iâd read in one sitting and then grieve when it ended.â Greta blinked. That one hit a little deeper than she expected.
âAnd you?â she asked. âWhatâs the full Bob?â
âRobert Joseph Floyd,â he replied without hesitation.
She snorted. âJesus. You sound like a country singer and a pope had a baby.â
âWell, Floyd. Whatâs it like finally meeting a burnout lawyer with trust issues and a dog named after a judicial title?â
Bob leaned forward slightly, eyes steady and soft in a way that made her heart twist.
âItâs like finding a sentence I didnât know Iâd been waiting to read.â
She swallowed. Hard. âMontana,â she warned, voice a little breathless, âyou canât just say shit like that.â
He smirked. âThen stop making me want to.â
Greta tried to bite back the smile, but it escaped anyway.
Flirting. Jesus Christ. This was flirting, and she wasnât bad at it, apparently.
They didnât mean to stay so long.
The sun had started to dip low, dragging gold across the windows of the cafĂŠ, tinting the world in syrupy light. The barista had flicked the lights on insideâsoft amber bulbs that cast warm halos around every tableâbut hadnât asked them to leave. Not yet.
Greta stretched her legs under the table, brushing against Bobâs shin. Neither of them moved.
âSo,â she said, tossing the last of her lukewarm coffee into her mouth, âwhat happens now? Do we do the awkward âwell, this was niceâ thing and go our separate ways?â
Bob tilted his head, considering her. âDo you want to?â
Greta squinted at him. âAre you offering an alternative?â
He looked down at his empty cup, then back at her. âI was thinking dinner.â
Greta blinked. âYou wanna⌠extend this?â
âSure,â Bob said, casual in tone but definitely not in the way his thumb rubbed circles against his thigh under the table. âUnless youâve got plans with someone taller, more charming, and less Montana.â
Greta tilted her head. âYouâre, whatâsix foot?â
He nodded his head slowly, âJust about.â
âThen youâve already cleared the height bar.â
Bob grinned. âThat sounds suspiciously like a yes.â
She rolled her eyes, smiling despite herself. âIt is. Iâm starving.â
They stood, gathering themselvesâJudge loping sleepily to his feetâand Bob held the door for her without a word. The sidewalk was bathed in the kind of evening gold that made everything feel cinematic. Greta glanced up at him as they walked, her hair swinging just a little with each step.
âSo,â Bob said after a beat. âIs this⌠like⌠a date?â
Greta stiffened instinctively. Her gut twisted. She expected the usual panic, retreat, abort reflexâbut instead, the question hit her differently. Gentle. Curious. Not demanding anything of her.
And worse: she didnât want to say no.
She glanced sideways, watching the way his hand casually bumped his thigh as he walked, how his boots scuffed the concrete. âYou want it to be?â
Bobâs voice was quieter when he answered. âKind of, yeah.â
Greta blinked, surprised by her own response. âThen yeah,â she said. âItâs a date.â
He stopped just short of tripping over the sidewalk. âYou okay there, Floyd?â
âIâuhâyeah. Just wasnât expecting you to say that so fast.â
She smirked. âWhat, you nervous?â
He looked at her, cheeks pink, adjusting his glasses. âLittle bit.â Greta pretended not to melt.
They ended up at a quiet place tucked just off the beachâa diner with string lights on the patio and tables made from salvaged wood. The kind of place that wasnât trendy enough for tourists but perfect for locals. Greta hooked Judgeâs leash under the table leg, and Bob pulled her chair out like some kind of actual gentleman.
Dinner was easy. Somehow, easier than coffee. They talked. They talked.
About everything from worst-case courtroom moments to Bobâs weird fear of ceiling fans. Greta recounted the time she was mistaken for a court reporter and ended up being called âMiss Typistâ by a judge for an entire week. Bob told her about the time he nearly missed a hop because he got locked in the gym sauna trying to sneak in a post-flight sweat.
And the flirting? God. It was flourishing. Bob, for all his quiet reserve, was laying it on thick.
At one point, Greta was mid-bite when he leaned forward slightly, eyes on her mouth. âYou do this thing,â he said, voice low.
She swallowed, warily amused. âWhat kind of thing?â
He gestured. âWhen youâre about to say something brutal. Your mouth twitches, just at the corners. Like you already know itâs gonna hurt, but youâre gonna say it anyway.â
She stared at him for a second. âJesus, Montana. You been studying me?â
His ears flushed. âJust paying attention.â
âDangerous habit,â she murmured, taking a sip of water to cover her traitorous blush.
Later, after Bob made a dumb pun about her drink orderââYouâre really going for the strong stuff, huh?ââGreta rolled her eyes and tossed a piece of her fry at him.
âIs this your idea of wooing?â she asked.
âDepends. Is it working?â
She tilted her head. âShockingly, yes.â
Bob flushed scarlet. He opened his mouth to say somethingâthen promptly stuttered, choked on a word, and covered his face with both hands.
Greta barked a laugh. âYou okay there, Romeo?â
âJustâgive me a second,â Bob mumbled through his hands. âI wasnât built for this much positive reinforcement. My systemâs rebooting.â
She grinned. God, she liked him.
It was dark by the time they stepped outside the diner. The air had cooled, that specific coastal chill that settled low in the lungs and made streetlamps feel somehow warmer. Judge trotted contentedly at Gretaâs side, leash slack in her hand, tongue lolling.
âWell,â she said, almost shyly, âIâm parked about⌠two miles that way.â
Bob blinked. âYou walked here?â
Greta shrugged, feigning nonchalance. âI like walking.â
âIâve got thick skin.â
Bob just stared at her for a long moment, his expression somewhere between disbelief and pure, exasperated affection.
Thenâsoftly, but with steel underneath: âAbsolutely not.â
Greta raised a brow. âExcuse me?â
âYouâre not walking two miles home in the dark.â
âIâm a big girl, Montana. I canââ
He stepped slightly closer, enough to tower just a bit in the dim glow of the streetlight. His voice dropped a register, the edge of his accent slipping loose like it had been shaken from him.
âYou can argue all you damn well want, but it doesnât change the fact that youâre gettinâ your butt in that truck, sweetheart.â
It dropped into her belly like a lit match in dry grass. Hot. Immediate. She hated that she liked it so much. Hated more that it made her want to listen to him.
Still, she muttered a token protest as he opened the passenger door for Judge, who bounded up like heâd been chauffeured his whole life. She climbed in after, her boot heels clunking against the step.
Bob shut the door behind her and rounded the hood.
The truck smelled like leather and cedar and something faintly sweetâpine soap, maybeâand Greta tried not to fidget with the hem of her overalls. Bob slid in beside her, turned the key, and the engine hummed to life. A soft song filtered through the speakers.
He drove with one hand on the wheel, the other resting lightly on the gear shift. The windows were cracked just enough to let in the cool air, and streetlights blurred past like low, glowing ghosts. The whole cab of the truck felt suspended in something fragile. Holy.
Gretaâs heart was racing. Not wildly. Not with panic. With something slower. Deeper. A blooming. A return.
After a few blocks, emboldened by the quiet, she reached overâfingers brushing the gearshift, then sliding over the back of his hand.
Bob didnât flinch. He flipped his palm, open and warm, and she threaded her fingers through his. His hand was calloused and steady and safe.
They didnât look at each other. Didnât need to.
The radio hummed on. The hush between them was sacred.
By the time they were nearing her street, some quiet song was playing, soft and breathy.Â
âYou really didnât have to drive me,â she murmured, but her fingers stayed laced in his.
âI know,â Bob said, glancing at her for the first time in ten minutes. His voice was low. Warm. âI wanted to.â
Greta looked at himâand goddamn, he looked beautiful in the dashboard light. Like the kind of man you trusted without needing to know why. Like the kind of man who made you want to believe in things again.
Bob put the truck in park and glanced at her again, like heâd been stealing looks at every red light, like he couldnât quite believe she was still here, sitting beside him, real and radiant and entirely too much for one man to handle.
Greta didnât move right away. Neither did Judge, curled up asleep behind her. âThanks for the ride,â she said, voice low, almost hoarse. She was still holding his hand.
Bob gave a soft nod. âIâll walk you to the door.â
âYou really donâtââ He was already out of the truck.
She followed with a quiet laugh, her boots clunking softly against the pavement as they crossed the small stretch to her front stoop. The porchlight above flickered once, then steadied. The air was cool and still. The kind of night that begged you to stay in it a little longer.
Greta turned, keyring loose in her hand.
Bob stood just a little too close. Close enough that she could see the deep green flecks in his eyes, the faint sunburn at the tops of his cheeks, the way he watched her like she might disappear if he blinked.
She swallowed. âHey, Montana?â
His lips quirked. âYeah?â
His breath caughtâsharp, surprisedâand his face bloomed scarlet. He nodded, then cleared his throat. âY-yeah. Yes.â
The kiss was soft. A question asked and answered in the space between heartbeats. His hands hovered, not grabbing, not rushingâjust there, like he didnât want to do anything that might break the spell. Greta tilted her chin, deepened it just a little, one hand curled in the collar of his tee, the other still holding Judgeâs leash.
Bob made a quiet noise in the back of his throatâa small, reverent thingâand Greta felt it in every nerve ending she thought had been long dead.
The world went quiet. The kind of kiss you didnât come back from unchanged.
When she finally pulled back, her breath stuttered in her throat. She blinked up at him, dazed, pupils wide.
âJesus,â she whispered, half-laughing.
Bobâs smile was shy but wrecked. She stepped backward, fingers fumbling for the door handle.
âGoodnight, Margaret,â he said, voice rich and full and devastating.
Her knees buckled. No one called her that, not like that. Not in that voice, with that look on his face.
Warmth spread through her like smoke, low and slow and crawling.
She turned her head just enough to mutter, âGoodnight, Robert,â before hurrying inside, Judge at her heels.
She didnât exhale until the door clicked shut behind her. Didnât stop smiling until she fell into bed, fully clothed, her mouth still tingling from the way heâd kissed her like a prayer and said her name like a promise.
Nebraska: Just got upstairs. Judge is already passed out. Traitor.
Bob: Glad you made it in safe. Thanks for tonight.
Nebraska: Donât thank me. Youâre the one who kissed me stupid.
Bob: Was it stupid? I was trying for charming. Mightâve been feral. Hard to say.
Nebraska: It was feral. In a good way. Like, ruin-me-a-little kind of feral. You ruined me a little.
Bob: I think youâve already ruined me completely.
Nebraska: Jesus, Floyd. You canât just SAY things like that.
Bob: Why not? Theyâre true.
Nebraska: Because Iâm going to reread them like twenty times and smile like an idiot.
Bob: Thatâs the goal.
Bob: I keep trying to write something cool back but all I can think about is how you looked when you walked out of that cafĂŠ. Like a painting. Like Iâd found something I didnât even know Iâd been looking for.
Nebraska: I thought I was imagining how good you looked. Tall. Glasses. Curls. Veins. Christ. You said, âIâm average,â like a liar.
Bob: Okay, that was a little strategic. I didnât want to scare you off.
Nebraska: Bob. You made me feel like a Victorian man seeing ankle.
Bob: Greta. I wanted to kiss you again the second I pulled away.
Bob: I still do.
Nebraska: Me too. Might be reckless but I donât care. I want to see you again. Soon.
Bob: Tomorrow?
Bob: Or is that too much? Too soon? I justâ you make it easy to want more.
Nebraska: Tomorrowâs perfect. I donât sleep much anyway.
Nebraska: That kiss was a threat and a promise. I liked it.
Bob: Margaret. Youâre gonna destroy me.
The next morning Bob walked into the hangar fifteen minutes early.
He always did â punctuality was practically a love language to him â but this morning? He was humming. Not loud enough for anyone to call him on it, but just enough that when he passed Phoenix, she looked up from her checklist with suspicion.
âYouâre humming,â she said flatly, narrowing her eyes.
Bob blinked at her, startled. âI am?â
âYou never hum. You barely speak unless someone prods you like a catfish with a stick. So yeah, youâre humming, and itâs freaking me out.â
He shrugged, but couldnât quite hide the way his mouth twitched upward. âJust⌠good mood, I guess.â
Natasha squinted at him like she was trying to see through his skull.
By 0700, Rooster and Hangman had arrived, and the hangar was awake with its usual noise: tools clattering, engines humming, the crackle of radios and the occasional curse from someone who dropped a wrench on their foot.
But Bob? Bob was smiling at his notes. Grinning into his coffee. Checking his phone at every break like it might sprout legs and run away.
Fanboy noticed it first. âHey, has Floyd always smiled at inanimate objects?â
âOnly when heâs concussed,â Coyote replied.
âI think heâs seeing someone,â Halo chimed in, biting into a protein bar. âI mean, look at him. Heâs got post-date face. Like he held hands or something. See also: drug trip.â
âIâm sorry,â said Payback, âheld hands? What is this, a Jane Austen novel?â
âI think itâs a woman,â Natasha added, spinning a wrench around her fingers. âDefinitely a woman.â
âSheâs real lucky,â Rooster muttered, only half-joking. âWhatever's got Bob looking like that? Thatâs the kinda serotonin hit Iâd pay rent for.â
Jake leaned in. âDo we know her name?â
âWe donât know anything,â Nat snapped. âWhich is why weâre launching an investigation.â
âOh no,â Coyote muttered. âNot again.â
Nat pulled out a notebook. âIâm calling it Project Whoâs Making Bob Smile Like That.â
Meanwhile, across the city, Greta was already in her office, sleeves rolled up with legal briefs stacked like sandbags around her keyboard.
Her coworker, Elena, walked by her door with a paper cup of coffee and froze mid-step. âOkay. Who are you and what have you done with Greta James?â
Greta didnât look up. âWhat?â
Greta paused, brows furrowed. âNo, Iâm not.â
âThat was a scowl-smile.â
âMaybe not in Nebraska, but here in the real world, that was a full-on âscileâ.â
Greta blinked at her, deadpan. âGet out of my office.â
Elena laughed and walked away, and Greta sat back in her chair.
Her eyes flicked to her phone, then to the framed photo on her desk â a family snapshot from her childhood that she kept turned face-down most days. Today, it was upright. She hadnât realized.
She sighed. Then smiled. Just a little and went back to reading case law.
But every few paragraphs, her thoughts drifted. Not to the case. Not to her next argument.
To Bob. To the way heâd blushed last night when she called him by his full name. To the kiss. To his stupid curls and soft voice and veiny fucking arms. To the fact that they were seeing each other again tonight. And it made the whole day feel easier to carry.
Jake turned his head towards the others and whispered to the squad, âOkay, he just checked his phone and smiled. Again. Thatâs five times today. Five.â
Rooster leaned back in his chair. âThis is getting serious.â
âHeâs hiding her,â Fanboy said. âDo we think itâs a civilian?â
Jake slurps the last of his iced coffee and leans dramatically over the picnic table like itâs a war table. âAlright. Operation: Who the Hell is Bobâs Girl. Letâs hear the theories.â
Coyote pops a chip into his mouth. âSheâs gotta be sweet. Real soft energy. Golden retriever girlfriend vibes.â
âTotally,â Fanboy agrees, tapping a pen against his thigh. âIâm thinking bubbly, sunny voice, one of those girls who sends good morning texts with heart emojis and little coffee cup gifs.â
Natasha glances up from her sandwich. âKindergarten teacher energy. The kind who makes her own granola.â
Jake: âYoga on Tuesdays. Pilates on Thursdays. Her name is definitely like Lindsey or something. Something with a ây.ââ
âOr Bella,â Payback says. âAll pastel sundresses and âLive Laugh Loveâ dĂŠcor.â
âShe wears cardigans â even in summer,â Rooster adds, serious as a sermon. âBakes for fun. Has a Pinterest board titled âWife Life.ââ
âLindsey has a small white dog named Tulip,â Jake continues confidently, âand she puts bows on its ears and calls it her baby.â
âDrinks chamomile tea. Probably has a lavender diffuser in every room,â Natasha deadpans.
âBob met her at a coffee shop,â Fanboy suggests. âShe offered to pay for someoneâs latte and he fell in love.â
âAnd she makes him lunch in bento boxes,â Coyote nods. âLittle handwritten notes with doodles.â
ââHave a great flight, babe!ââ Jake mimics in a high-pitched voice, pretending to blow a kiss.
Rooster sighs. âGod, Bobâs definitely dating a Lindsey.â
The whole squad nods solemnly.
In Greta's office, there's not a Lindsey in sight.
Greta James stands barefoot on the black-and-white penny tile floor of her office, a vision in paradox. Her skirt is high-waisted, tailored, black as ink, hugging every curve like a secret. Her boots sit by her deskâtall, dark, heeled like weapons. Her vest is blood-colored burgundy, fit to perfection and buttoned to the throat. Her lipstick is crisp. Her eyelinerâlethal.
Her hair is half-wound in a the same tortoiseshell clip as the night before, the rest cascading down her back. Thereâs a single cigarette in a vintage gold ashtray on her deskâunlit, just there, like a dare. Her espresso cup is drained. A candle flickers nearbyâsomething expensive and layered, like sandalwood and tobacco and memory. The softest tendrils of smoke trail upward in lazy spirals.
The speakers in her office are blasting Saint-SaĂŤnsâ Danse Macabre like sheâs plotting a murderânot defending one. Her secretary has long since stopped asking questions.
The air smells like victory, conviction, and perfume that costs more than some peopleâs rent.
This is not a diffuser-and-daisy situation. This is Greta fucking James. She is silk gloves over brass knuckles. A lit match in a room full of gasoline. And right now? Sheâs smiling. Just barely. Just enough to crack the marble exterior.
Her phone buzzes. A single message lights up the screen.
Bob: How many witnesses did you eviscerate before lunch today?
She types back with one hand, languid.
Nebraska: Only one, he cried. The judge had to call a recess. I feel powerful. What about you, Cowboy? Are we still good for dinner?
Then she sets the phone down, stretches onceâlazy and felineâand pulls her boots back on like armor.
She walks out of the office with the slow precision of someone whoâs never rushed for anyone in her life.
Bobâs phone buzzes. He glances at it and smiles before he can help it. Itâs small. Private. But real.
âSee that?â Jake nudges Phoenix, whispering loud enough for everyone to hear him. âThatâs definitely a Lindsey smile.â
âGod,â Rooster groans. âShe probably sends him little poems or GIFs. Voice memos. Songs that remind her of him.â
Coyote laughs. âI bet she calls him Bobby. Or Bo.â
Fanboyâs nodding sagely. âAnd sheâs always like, âDrink water, sweetie!ââ
But Bobâwho could hear them clear as dayâisnât thinking about any of that.
Heâs thinking about Greta.
Greta, who wears victory red like blood in water. Greta, whose idea of flirting is snarky banter and staring a man into repentance. Greta, who quotes law like doctrine and scripture like poetry written in poor taste, and listens to big band music with her espresso. Greta, who smells like leather and fire and flowers at midnight. Greta, who was probably some sort of demon youâd make a crossroads deal with in exchange for your soulâand thank her for it.
Bob texts her back with a faint grin tugging at the corner of his mouth.
Theyâre imagining a Lindsey. But Bob? Bob is already a little bit in love with an enigma wrapped in stormclouds. And every time she calls him Cowboy, he forgets what air feels like.
They were done for the dayâwiped out, sore, and sun-drenchedâbut Bob had practically broken the sound barrier getting to the showers. His phone, normally secured in the safety of his locker like government-grade intel, had been left behind in the chaos, face-up on the bench like a trap waiting to be sprung. That alone was suspicious; Bob Floyd didnât do careless..
The rest of the squad strolled in at their usual pace, dragging their feet and joking like it was the first day of summer camp instead of the end of a ten-hour flight op. Hangman passed Bobâs phone mid-sentence, caught the light of the screen, and stopped cold.
He blinked. Then blinked again. âHoly shit,â he gasped, grabbing Phoenixâs arm with the urgency of someone whoâd seen a crime. âPhoenix. Look at this.â
He held the phone out like it was radioactive.
Nebraska: Good. My place first? Maybe you can help me out of these work clothes.
Nat screeched. Full-throated, hands-to-mouth shriek like they were in a slasher film.
âOh my God. Oh my God.â She was already cackling, calling the others over. âYou guysâget over here right now. Bobâs got a sexy text. A full-blown seduction text.â
The phone made its rounds like contraband. Everyone gathered around like a bunch of teen girls spying on their best friendâs secret crush. Rooster leaned in, squinting. ââNebraskaâ? Thatâs it? No last name? No picture? What is this, a codename?â
âCould be a sugar baby,â Payback offered. âOr an undercover agent.â
âOr a hooker,â Rooster said again, nodding gravely. âCould definitely be a hooker.â
Nat grabbed the phone back, fingers already flying. âIâm texting her. Iâm doing it.â
âWaitâwhat? How do you know his password?â Hangman reached for the phone. âNo! Waitâyes, but let me help.â She smacked his hand away.
Nat (typing): WHO ARE YOU? WHAT ARE YOUR INTENTIONS WITH OUR BOB?
Coyote doubled over laughing. âOur Bob? Like heâs a Victorian debutante?â
âWe donât know this woman!â Nat hissed, hitting send. âShe could be dangerous!â Right then, the shower cut off. A hush fell over the room.
Bob reemerged, barefoot, curls dripping, towel slung low in a way that was frankly indecent. He blinked at the crowd frozen mid-crime scene.
âWhatâs going on?â he asked, already suspicious.
Everyone turned at once. Rooster pointed accusingly. âWho. Is. Nebraska.â
Bob froze, just for a second. Thenâbless himâhe tried.
âItâs aâuhâstate,â he said innocently, rubbing his face with one hand while stepping into his pants. âIn the Midwest. Known forâuhâcorn.â
Nat held up his phone like Exhibit A. âYou left this out. Thatâs your first mistake. You never leave this out.â
âYou were in heat,â Hangman corrected. âLook at you. Youâre glistening.â
Bob pulled his shirt over his head and reached for his boots, acting unbotheredâacting, being the key word.
âWeâre just saying,â Phoenix went on, âif someoneâs asking you to help them out of their clothes, we deserve a heads-up. Or a background check.â
âDid you spray cologne?â Rooster demanded.
Bob paused, halfway through tying his boot. âNo.â
âYou reek of sandalwood, my guy, and...santal?â Fanboy said. âYouâre practically smoldering.â
âShut up,â Bob muttered, already packing his bag.
The phone buzzed again in Natâs hand. Everyone lunged toward her.
Nebraska: Tell them they sound fun. But youâre mine tonight.
Bob, face redder than a missile warning light, yanked the phone back and shoved it into his back pocket with the kind of tenderness that screamed my whole heart lives here now. He grabbed his hat, threw a distracted wave over his shoulder, and made a beeline for the door like it was a war zone.
âROBERT FLOYD,â Rooster thundered after him. âARE YOU IN LOVE WITH A WOMAN WHO CALLS YOU HERS?!â
Bob didnât answer. Just disappeared down the hallway, shoulders a little too straight, a smile pulling at his lips.
Phoenix stared after him. âThat man is gone.â
âHe used cologne,â Nat whispered again, as if that explained everything. And maybe it did.
A few miles away, Greta eased her car into its usual spot, her heart already beating a little faster than the engine cooling beneath her. Bob had just textedâfive minutes outâand with all the subtlety of a man ready to worship, heâd promised to help her out of her work clothes.
She smiled to herself, the kind of smile that didnât reach her lips so much as settle low in her stomach.
From the passenger side, she grabbed Judgeâs harness, the leather worn smooth from habit. He huffed, one eye squinting as she fastened him in, regal as ever despite the pirate aesthetic. She stepped out into the warm evening, heels clicking against the pavement, then reached into the backseat for the solid weight of her old dogâfifty pounds of scarred, cranky mutt wrapped in cyclopsian loyalty and quiet judgment.
With Judge cradled in one arm and her work bag slung over her shoulder, she made her way toward the building, leash in hand. Just as she rounded the corner, headlights sliced through the dusk.
A red pickup rolled into the spot by the front door as she set the dog on the ground.
She slowed her steps. Watched as boot-clad feet hit the ground, as a tall, familiar frame unfolded from behind the wheel. He rounded the truck, eyes scanningâand the moment he saw her, his face lit up. Not the polite glow of friendliness, but the full, unguarded blaze of recognition.
He smiled at her. Then smiled again, just for Judge.
By the time he reached them, he was nearly breathless with affection.
That damn drawl. Like honey over gravel. Like sin in scripture.
Was he trying to get her to jump him on the sidewalk?
âWell, howdy, Cowboy,â she murmured, and let her eyes drag across him. The slow kind of look that maps terrain and stakes claims.
His jeans clung low and fitted, soft denim framing a waist sheâd wrapped her legs around more than once in imagination. His shirt was rolled at the sleeves, stretched faintly at the shoulders, and hung loose over his chest in a way that felt like permission. And those armsâveined and capable, made to be touched. Traced. Bitten. His curls, still damp from the shower, curled over his ears, and the hatâGod help herâthe hat just made it worse.
He wasnât wearing his glasses. Heâd lost the soft academic charm and replaced it with something deeper, something hungrier. It didnât lessen her desire. It sharpened it.
Without a word, Bob reached out and slid the strap of her bag off her shoulder, looping it over his own like he was built for the burden. And maybe he was.
But Greta caught the strap before it left her hand completely and gave it a sharp tugâpulling him toward her, knocking him slightly off balance.
He stumbled forward, breath catching, and she smiled up at him.
âIâm gonna kiss you now, okay?â
She looked into those blue eyesâocean in winter, sky before a stormâand wondered how long it would take to memorize them. How many years. How many lifetimes.
Bobâs voice came rough and reverent. âThank God,â he breathed. âBeen thinkinâ about kissinâ you all day.â
It was not a polite kiss. Not a hello or a welcome home. It was an answer to a question neither of them had asked aloud. His lips met hers like a memory returning to the body, like something ancient and instinctual clicking into place. Her free hand pressed to his chest, fingers curling in the fabric like she needed something to anchor her.
The kiss deepened. One hand cupped her jaw, thumb stroking along the bone like it was something delicate, worth knowing. The other wrapped around her waist and pulledâuntil there was no distance left between them, no margin of error. It felt like his body was trying to mend hers. Like if he could just press her hard enough, he could fuse her bones to his and carry the ache for both of them.
When she finally pulled away, it was only because her lungs demanded it. She drew in a breath, barely had time to exhale, and he was already kissing her againâlike heâd gone a day without water and she was the only thing that quenched.
She smiled into the second kiss. Not a smirk, not a defense mechanism, not the careful, calculated grin she offered the rest of the world. This one was different. It was real. It was wide and warm and a little bit giddy, and Bob felt it like a strike to the ribs.
He pulled back, blinking down at her like she was a sunrise he wasnât expecting.
Greta reached up and gently rested her hand against his cheek, the tips of her fingers brushing his curls. âWeâre dating now,â she said plainly, like stating a fact. Like reading a law already passed. âIâve just decided. Hope youâre okay with that.â
Bobâs smile bloomed slow, stunned and shining, the kind that started in his mouth but lived behind his eyes.
âYeah,â he said, voice soft with awe. âYeah, sweetheart. I think Iâm more than okay with that.â
Upstairs, the door had barely clicked shut before Bobâs hands were on herâslow, reverent, steady. Not rushed. Not hungry. Just thorough. Just as promised.
He helped her out of her work clothes piece by piece, his fingers dragging across fabric and skin like he was translating a language he never wanted to forget. His hands didnât wanderâthey traveled, like they were mapping her terrain, memorizing her turns and scars and borderlines. Her jacket slid off. Then the blouse. The waistband of her skirt loosened beneath careful fingers. He kissed her once on the shoulder, once on her sternum, then pulled back just enough to whisper:
âYouâre somethinâ sacred, Margaret.â
She stilled for a second. Then gave him a look like heâd just handed her a loaded weapon and said âuse it.â He kissed her again for good measure. For defense.
Greta pulled on a pair of jeans that had lived in her bottom drawer for yearsâworn to softness, hugging low on her hipsâand a faded red tank top that had seen better decades but suited her perfectly now. She left her feet bare for a moment as she twisted her hair into a half-up knot, messy and fast, pinned with muscle memory and a sense of time. A pair of old black Chelsea boots completed the picture: effortless, low-key, radiant in that only-Greta way.
Bob watched her from the bed, eyes trailing her like she was moving in a different gravity.
Another kissâlong, grounding, her thumb brushing his cheekbone like a priest anointing a penitentâand then they were out the door.
The burger place was one of those local legends. No sign, no website, just a cash-only window and weathered picnic tables under a string of soft lights. It had been there longer than the zip code. The grill hissed behind a curtain of smoke, and the air smelled like grease and good decisions.
Greta leaned across the table, propping her chin on one hand, a cold bottle of Coke in the other. Bob, hat brim propped high just above his brow, gestured animatedly with a fry as he explained something that had him practically glowing. Something about the dynamics of wing formation and drag coefficient at low altitude, but he made it sound beautiful.
ââŚand if you time it just rightâif everything clicksâyou donât feel the drop. Itâs like gliding. Like a held breath finally exhaling.â
Greta was smiling at him, not like she was humoring him, but like she was watching the moon rise. âThatâs the prettiest thing Iâve ever heard someone say about falling.â
Bob ducked his head, cheeks pink, but he didnât stop talking. âThen I must not have told you the things I think about you.â He reached across the table, hand brushing hers â fingers curling together in that way that says mine without a single word spoken.Â
Their knees touched under the table. Her foot bumped his. It was casual. Quiet. Intimate in the kind of way that required no ceremonyâjust proximity.
Halfway down the block, a black SUV jerked to the curb like it had hit an invisible wall. Nat held her phone up in the air like a tracking device. âHeâs here. Heâs right here.â
Everyone piled toward the windows like they were trying to see inside a bank vault.
âThere,â Reuben pointed. âThat guy. The one at the red table.â
âThatâs not Bob,â Jake said skeptically. âBut also⌠maybe?â
âNo, no way. Heâs not wearing glasses,â Mickey noted. âThe postureâs different. He looks relaxed.â
Rooster squinted. âIs he smiling? Like, smiling smiling, not just a little shy smile?â
âMore than that,â Javy said slowly. âHeâs talking. Like, a lot.â
Callie crossed her arms. âWhen does Bob ever talk that much?â
âNo, no, thatâs not Bob,â Jake declared. âThat guy is gesturing. That guy is animated. That guy has confidence.â
âThat guy has dimples,â Nat said faintly. âDoes Bob have dimples?â
âOkay,â Bradley started, âbut be real, thatâs the only guy sitting there. All the other tables are either all women, or men too old or too young to feasibly be Bob.â
Everyone fell into stunned silence as they watched the man turn his head slightly, tipping his head back in a laugh. As his head turned the group was able to see clearly, Bob, or a version of him it seemed they had yet to meet.Â
Jake scoffed, âWell shit. I guess that is Bobby.âÂ
The car fell into stunned silence as they watched the woman across the table laugh at something Bob-Not-Bob had said âhead thrown back, full-bodied, radiant.
âOkay,â Bradley muttered, âwho the hell is that?â
The woman was stunning. Not in the unattainable, magazine-gloss kind of way. No, this was rockstar-wife at home who has fended off the very thought of affairs. There was something sharp about her, something preciseâlike she didnât tolerate bullshit and hadnât for years. Her smile was killer. Her hands were expressive. She touched the maybe-Bob across the table with absolute familiarityâfingers dragging across the back of his hand, knuckles brushing his wrist like she belonged there.
âYou think thatâs Nebraska?â Fanboy whispered.
Natâs eyes widened. âHoly shit.â
âThatâs Nebraska,â Javy said reverently. âIt has to be.â
âBut sheâs soâpretty!â Jake said, baffled. âLike, sheâs got⌠cheekbones. And confidence. And that whole messy hair/hoop earrings/I hurt men for sport thing.â
âShe looks like she wins fist fights and arguments,â Callie said. âIâm scared of her. I respect her. I want her to teach me how to do taxes.â
âShe touched his wrist,â Rooster said, still not over it. âWho touches Bobâs wrist?â
They all watched as the two stood, throwing their trash away together. She bumped his hip with hers. He leaned into it instinctively. She reached for his hand and threaded their fingers together like it was second nature. And maybe-Bob looked at her like she held every star in his sky.
âNo one can ever tell Bob we saw this,â Nat whispered. âWe go to our graves with this knowledge.â
âAgreed,â Jake nodded solemnly. âHeâd kill us. Or worseâshe would.â
âSheâd kill us, hands down. And I feel like Bob would stand to the side offering encouragement.â Callie said.
âSheâd kill us brutally,â Javy added. âAnd in a way they probably wouldnât find the bodies.â
â...but also,â Rooster murmured, âI kind of get it now.â
And they all nodded in unison.
Because whoever she wasâNebraska, goddess, assassin, dreamgirl in bootsâshe had Bob smiling like that, talking like that, looking like that.
And honestly? That was more shocking than anything else.
The lights in her apartment were low, golden and soft, pooling across the tile like liquid comfort. The dishes from their late-night snackâleftover fries, half of a milkshake, two half-empty coke cansâwere still sitting on the counter, untouched.
Greta had music playing from her phone speaker. Something old and crackling, some syrupy soul song about love that lives in bones and between fingers.
Bob had just been trying to helpâclearing a plate, rinsing something off. But she caught his wrist, curled her fingers around it, and tugged him gently toward the center of the kitchen.
He blinked down at her. âWhat are weâ?â
âWeâre dancing,â she said, like it was obvious.
He looked uncertain for half a second. Then she pressed one hand flat against his chest and kissed him onceâslow and warm and easy. A grounding kiss, like she was lighting a candle and not striking a match.
So he put his hands on her hips. She slid hers up around his neck. And they swayed, slowly, like the night had no more demands of them.
Bob didnât speak much. He didnât need to. He held her like gravity didnât work right without her near. His hand traced idle circles at the small of her back, and her nose brushed along the edge of his jaw as she tucked herself close.
âYou donât have to go,â she whispered. âYou can, if you want. I wonât be mad.â
She kissed the corner of his mouth. Then his pulse point. Then the little spot under his ear that made him stutter.
âYou can sneak out in the morning,â she murmured. âI wonât say a word.â
His hands flexed against her ribs like he was trying to commit the shape of her to memory.
âI donât want to sneak out.â
âGood,â she whispered.
And just like that, the decision was made. Not with a declaration, but with the way he kissed her againâopen, tender, wanting. With the way he toed off his boots at the door, socks dragging along the tile. With the way he touched her, slow and unhurried, like staying was the only choice that made sense.
The lights had dimmed further. The music still played quietly. Her shoes were at the door. His shirt was on the back of a chair. They lay curled together under the throw blanket on her couch, her hand on his chest, his nose buried in her hair.
âYou still okay with dating me?â she whispered against his throat.
His only response was a hum and the brush of his lips to her hairline.
He wasnât going anywhere.
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