juni

But his world was full of cons, thieves, liars, criminals and bad, bad people. Your little lies, and cunning little plan was nothing compared to what he did. 

Bucky Barnes. Who didn’t know him? He was everything. A terrible man to some. A benevolent anti-hero to others. He gave back to the people, he protected his territory and all those living within it. He was ruthless to his enemies. But most of all, Bucky Barnes was untouchable. 

Well. Untouchable to most. 

To you, as you sat on his lap, he wasn’t. In fact, to play your part well and make it as believable as you could, you couldn’t stop touching him all over. His neck, down the bit of skin on his chest that was left exposed by his undone top buttons, up and down his arms where you could feel the muscles beneath the fabric of his black shirt, down his torso and stopping right at the buckle of his ridiculously expensive belt. 

Bucky, as you had planned, mistook you for just another one of the many girls at his club who was desperate for the boss’ attention. And all it took was a coy look, and a shy smile earlier that evening and Bucky folded. 

Typical. Men, no matter how powerful, were always so easy. You kept your smirk to yourself, partially hiding your face into the crook of his neck as you breathed in his scent. Bucky’s metal hand drew mindless shapes all over your exposed thigh while he answered a work related phone call. Your hands roamed all over him too, but you held on to every word he spoke. You’d need it after all, for your article. 

So far you had gathered that he was sort of stressed out over some shipment. You didn’t know what it was yet, or where it was coming from. And the unanswered questions were killing you. 

When he finally ended the phone call, you couldn’t help but ask, “What’s stressing you out so much?” You kept your voice steady, making sure to sound barely interested at all. Which was hard because nothing professional had ever required this much acting before. But also, his touch was distracting. You’d be lying if you said you didn’t have goosebumps all over your body each time his metal hand caressed your warm skin. 

Bucky sighed. You finally looked up at him. He was a gorgeous man. Terrible he might be, but Bucky Barnes was as beautiful as an angel. The pictures they posted of him online, or on the news, didn't do him justice. He was so… perfect. 

Even his beauty was distracting. But you forced yourself to pay attention the moment he began talking. 

“Just… work.” He groaned, his hands pulling you closer, placing you right on top of his crotch. “You know how it is sometimes.” He looked at you with those cool, gentle, but deep blue eyes. “Don’t you, pretty girl? Hmm?”  He tilted his head to the side, looking at you curiously. A simple movement. It shouldn’t have made your heart skip a beat like it did. 

“Mhmm.” You traced a finger down his cheek as a distraction. “Something about some shipment I overheard. What’s that about?” You ran your fingertip along his lower lip mindlessly. 

Bucky smirked. “Some people are being difficult, doll. They’re refusing to give me what I paid for well in advance.” His hands grabbed you by the thighs, pressing you further into him. “Can’t have that now, can we?” 

You smiled, unconsciously leaning into him a little more. “No.” You answered, leaning further in and brushing the tip of your nose with his. “But like, what shipment are we talking about? Weapons and stuff? Where is it coming from?” 

You tried your hardest to sound dumb and uninterested, but you weren’t convincing enough apparently.

Because Bucky wrapped his metal arm around your waist, making sure there was no escape, and chuckled. 

Your body froze as he spoke, his lips dangerously close to yours, “You know, you’re not as subtle as you’re desperately trying to be.” He whispered. “Did you think I didn’t figure who you were the moment I saw you in my club, little miss reporter?” Bucky laughed. 

Shit. 

You gasped when the shock wore off. You tried to get off his lap but he didn’t let you. 

“Ah. Don’t you dare run.” He warned, staring deep into your eyes as your struggle slowly died down. “Now that you have me exactly where you wanted me, you have nothing to ask?” 

Your heart was racing. But then again, if he wanted you dead you’d be dead already. 

Fine. No running. 

“Why did you play along?” You asked, mentally trying to find the quickest way out. If needed. 

He smirked again. “You looked so adorable trying to blend in here.” He leaned in and whispered into your ear, “Like an eager little puppy, trying to get my attention.” He pulled away to watch your reaction. He liked how you squirmed in embarrassment. Right on top of his crotch too. “Keep moving like that, and you might just get what you came for.” 

“What?” Another soft gasp escaped your mouth. “I didn’t–” 

“Really?” He cut you off. “You don’t want anything? Is that why you wore a matching set under this very see-through dress to come and see me? Hmm?” He looked so smug. Pure male arrogance. 

It should’ve pissed you off. But it didn’t. It suited him so well, all that arrogance as he sat there manspreading on the couch in his dimly lit office, with you barely clothed on his lap. 

You squirmed again, trying to get out of his ridiculously warm and comfortable embrace. “I’ll go.” You said. “I won’t bother you anymore.” 

Bucky chuckled. “Oh no we can’t have that. It took so much work to get here. Tricked my guards, made friends with the girls who work here, you worked so fucking hard to get my attention. Now you wanna leave? Absolutely not.” 

“Well–,” You began arguing, then you stopped upon realising that this wasn’t a regular man. He was actually a very dangerous criminal. He could have you killed, and buried with no trace left behind if he wanted to. “Please.” 

He must’ve picked up on it. Judging by the way your body tensed up. “I won’t hurt you.” He said, letting his warm hand drop to your exposed thigh. He caressed your skin. “Don’t be scared.” Then he looked down and smirked. “And if you would stop grinding on me maybe we could talk about that little article you’re writing.” 

Damn it. 

You tried to pull away again, but Bucky caught you just in time. “Come on, doll.” He was having too much fun. You could tell. “Be a good girl and sit still. I won’t hurt you.” 

You remained still. Just as he asked. 

“Now,” He sighed, “Can we talk? Hmm? Wanna tell me what you’re working on?” His fingers didn’t stop caressing your skin. And his touch felt… oddly calming in a way that only familiar touches feel. Seeing you weren’t answering, he added, “Come on, baby. Talk to me.” 

And that low, deep voice of his made you tremble. 

“I… I need that article.” You sighed, “I want to be taken more seriously. At work. I mean, I want my articles to be taken more seriously.” You blinked, trying your hardest to make sense. “And you, well, nobody dares to write in depth about you or what you truly do, so…” You took a deep breath. “I figured if I do, then maybe it would be– that maybe I would be noticed.” You kept your head lowered, unable to understand how you managed to get that real and vulnerable around him. 

He was a stranger. 

Or, maybe not. You’d been researching him for months now. Maybe your brain got so used to him that opening up was no big deal. Perhaps it was also because you realised he wasn’t gonna hurt you. Either way you surprised yourself by being truly honest. 

Bucky was quiet. Maybe thinking. After a long pause he asked, “Are you lying?” 

You looked up immediately, finding yourself staring into glacier eyes. “No. Why would I lie?” 

His metal slowly travelled up your body, from your thigh, up your torso, until he slowly wrapped his fingers around your throat. It was supposed to be a menacing move, threatening. But it wasn’t. It was just as grounding, mind-melting, and intense as his stare. 

“If I find out you’re lying, or you’re some kind of spy sent to me in a pretty little package… baby, I’m not gonna be so nice. You hear me?” 

You nodded, suddenly under a trance. “I’m not lying. Look, I get it. I shouldn’t have done this. I’ll go, I promise. You’ll never hear from me or see me ever again.” 

Bucky faked a pout. Almost like he was mocking you. “Now, when did I say I wanted you gone? Huh?” His pout slowly turned into that feline smirk he always had in most of his pictures in the tabloids or in the newspapers. “I think I know why you’re here. And it has almost nothing to do with your article.” 

Huh. That caught your attention. “What do you mean?” 

“I think you’re here for answers.” He stated, like he was having the most casual conversation with someone. “But not for your writing. I think you’re here for yourself. Because you’re curious. Because you secretly like my world.” 

“I… I do not.” You were quick to say. Sounding almost offended. 

Bucky raised an eyebrow at you, again in that mocking manner. “Oh? So all those months of stalking me was for what? You want me to believe it was for some random article?” He scoffed. “You could’ve written whatever you wanted, people would’ve believed it like they do everything else in the news. But why the thorough research, huh? Why the scheming and pretending? Why take such a huge risk?” 

His metal hand unwrapped itself from around your throat, and he slid it so easily in between your bodies, cupping you down there, letting his fingers press against your throbbing clit. You gasped in surprise, but you didn’t move an inch to get away. 

Bucky’s smirk grew. “You see.” He moved his fingers gently, teasing you through your thin lingerie. “This is what you wanted, wasn’t it? You wanted me.” 

Your heartbeats quickened when he easily slid your underwear to the side and touched you properly with slow teasing strokes. Cold metal fingers against your heated skin. “That’s not…” You held back a moan, “True.” 

Bucky was having too much fun watching you gasp, and trying your hardest to not moan, or to not grind against his fingers. He didn’t remember the last time he had such genuine desire to make a girl lose control. Usually the women he slept with did everything they could to please him. It was almost never the other way around. 

But you… oh. This was going to be a fun night, he thought. 

“Are you going to write about this?” He asked, gently sliding a finger inside you. He loved how you trembled. “Hmm?” He leaned closer, lips brushing against the corner of your mouth as he slid another finger in, slowly fucking you with them. “Are you going to write about how good my fingers feel inside you?” 

Your hands instinctively found their way around his neck, you held onto him as he touched you like he had all the time in the world to play with your body and earn your reactions. And you simply let him. 

“Look at you.” He taunted, noticing the little movements you did with your hips in desperation. “You really did your best to try and blend in, huh? You even got this little see-through number on.” He chuckled. “But the expensive lingerie under it gives you away, baby. Girls in this part of the city don’t wear nice things like this.” 

That comment made you mad for some reason. You found yourself frowning at him and asking, “How the– fuck, oh my god,” You cried out when he slid his fingers deeper, “How the hell do you know if it’s expensive lingerie or not?” 

He gave you a smug, boyish grin. “I’ve taken enough off to know.” 

You gasped, both in pleasure and disbelief. “You’re disgusting.” You managed to whisper. 

He laughed. “And look at you, loving it.” 

You opened your mouth to sass back, but he shut you up by abruptly sliding his fingers out of you and shoving them into your open mouth. You barely registered as it happened. Your brain only caught up when he began talking again. 

“Do you feel disgusting now?” He asked, his voice as triumphant as always. “Have I spoiled you? Hmm? Did my touch make you dirty?” He kept his eyes on yours, knowing damn well your pussy was begging for his touch. 

Hell, you would’ve begged him if he didn’t have his fingers into your mouth. 

“You don’t belong in my world.” He stated, moving his fingers gently along your tongue. “You’re too… clean. Too tidy and nice.” He said it like it was an insult. “But you want it, don’t you? To belong? Here?” 

You kept that soft suction on his fingers as you nodded. 

He smiled. A genuine, proud smile. “Yeah? You want daddy to make you one of his girls?” 

You nodded again, this time whimpering as he pulled his fingers back and out of your mouth. Leaving you empty and throbbing and fucking desperate. 

“Now, be daddy’s good girl and take all that off.” 

You moved immediately, delirious with anticipation and pleasure. And within the next few seconds, you were off the couch, off his lap, and stripping. You didn’t bother to put on a show either. Bucky preferred that. The whole performative stripping was getting boring. 

Once done, he guided you back over on his lap. “Good girl.” He murmured, looking up at you with those blue gorgeous eyes. His hands continued exploring your body, now bare. And he was shameless. Touching everything, everywhere. His hands, warm and cold all over your body. 

“You’re beautiful, you know that?” He whispered along your collar bones, kissing and licking your skin. “And you smell so fucking good.” You inched closer to him, rubbing your crotch against his clothed but erected cock, making yourself gasp and moan. 

Bucky just chuckled at your impatience. 

“I should be kicking you out.” He said. “I should have a couple of my guys keep an eye on you and make sure you never bother me again. But I can’t.” He tightened his grip on your waist just a little and pulled you closer to him, nuzzling your neck again. “How can I when you look so fucking good and fit so perfectly on my lap?” 

You couldn’t help but whisper, “Please…” 

“Please what?” He smirked against your skin. “What do you want, baby?” He wrapped his arms around you, grounding you on his clothed cock in the process, “My fingers again?” He reached up to grab the back of your neck, tilting your head back so he could kiss and whisper against your skin, “Or my cock?” 

Would it be wrong to admit that you wanted him? Desperately. Shamelessly. You wanted him, all of him. You wanted his warm, muscular body pressed up against you while he fucked the brains out of you. 

“Your cock, please.” You begged, gasping for breath already as he playfully bit your throat. You didn’t remember the last time a man had you this hot and bothered. 

He chuckled, letting his hand rest at your butt, bringing your body closer to his. “Well then you have to work for it, doll.” He said, amused. “I love a woman who goes for what she wants.” He confessed. “You worked so hard to get here, didn’t you? Well go on then, work some more. Take my cock out and put it in you.” He said, then leaned back to watch you. 

He was so fucking mean. It only turned you on even more. 

Now what? He’s just gonna sit there and watch. How borderline humiliating. Damn him. 

But you were needy enough that you didn’t have time for shame. 

Bucky carefully watched each one of your moves. The desperation in your eyes, how your eager, trembling hands rapidly undid his pants to free his throbbing cock. He smirked, radiating pure male confidence when he caught the way you whimpered under your breath at the sight of him. 

You lifted your eyes up, staring into his as you wrapped your hand around him, slowly stroking his veiny cock, making him groan under his breath. “I said put it inside you, doll.” 

You whimpered helplessly as you did, lifting your body off of his lap and aligning the tip of his cock to your hole and then slowly, slowly sinking down on him. You moaned, watching his cock disappear inside of you. Filling you up. 

“Come here,” He growled once he was nice and deep inside your warm, wet hole. Grabbing you by the throat, Bucky pulled you closer and kissed you hungrily. Growling into your mouth about how good it felt to be inside you, “Good job. Look how pretty you look, filled with my cock. Do you realise how pretty you look?” 

You said nothing back. You just focused on breathing and feeling. 

“Come on,” Bucky struggled to hold back. He wanted nothing more than to just fuck. But he needed to tease you a little more. “Don’t you wanna remember this? For when you write your article, huh? Give me your phone.” 

That part confused you. “What?” You cried out. 

Bucky chuckled. “Where’s your phone, huh?” He looked around, and it was discarded and long forgotten in a corner of the couch. He reached for it and immediately opened your camera. “I want you to remember every detail. It might help with your writing.” He angled the camera down, neither of your faces visible but your bodies… oh it was a sight. 

Your body pressed up against his. Him fully clothed but you were completely naked, with his cock buried deep inside you. You whimpered and hid your face into his neck as Bucky clicked multiple pics. 

“Aww, what? Now you’re shy?” He taunted. “What about when you had plans to seduce me and get info out of me earlier, huh? You didn’t seem so shy when you basically threw yourself at me.” 

You melted, immediately grinding your hips against his, desperate for some friction. For any kind of movement. Just needy. 

“Please…” 

He tossed your phone aside carelessly. His hands grabbed you by the hips as he carefully helped you lift your lower body up and then slowly, lowering you down his cock again. 

“That feels good, doesn’t it, doll?” He sounded different. Rougher. 

You nodded, looking down to see where your bodies connected and the sight of it, of his cock stretching you out was just sinful. 

“You feel perfect, you know that?” Bucky grabbed and held your hips in place, gently thrusting his hips up, making you moan as he filled you up, “Just a perfect girl for me, aren’t you?” 

Bucky leaned in to kiss your open mouth. His kiss was punishing, while he moved your body gently, rocking you back and forth on his cock to get you to get used to the girth of him. His cock throbbed against your walls, causing the tiniest bit of friction which drove you insane and turned you into a teary, mumbling mess. 

“Please, please, please…” You pleaded. 

“Aww baby, what is it? Is it too much? Hmm?” He teased, placing his thumb against your clit and rubbing it slowly while still moving your hips back and forth. “But isn’t this what you wanted? When you dragged me all the way here earlier, whispering dirty secrets in my ear… wasn’t this what you had in mind?” 

You looked into his eyes with your teary ones. 

Bucky smirked, “Poor baby, so hungry for cock. Isn’t she?” He let go of your hips, no longer helping you to move. “You were willing to fuck me and get what you wanted out of me for the sake of your little article, weren’t you? Go on then, take what you want. And make it good for me.” 

You lifted your lower body slightly, before sliding back down on his cock. Now that he wasn’t helping you, it was way harder than earlier. You struggled to make him fit for a moment. 

You whimpered and he groaned once he fit snug inside of you again. The tip of his cock reaching sensitive places you never knew existed. And suddenly, you never wanted to be empty ever again. You wanted to stay there forever on his lap. 

“That’s good, baby.” Bucky murmured, caressing your thigh. “Fuck.” He swore. “With a cunt that good you could get whatever you want out of me.” He chuckled to himself, “I’ll fucking write your article myself.” 

You looked right at him as you began riding his cock as best as you could before you finally found the right pace and rhythm. His words gave you the confidence you needed to move faster, impaling yourself down on his cock each time, whimpering shamelessly as you felt him filling you up completely with each thrust. 

“That’s it. Take it, take all of me in that tight, perfect little cunt…” He whispered as he leaned in, biting down and tugging at your bottom lip while you sped up, his cock stretched you out each time he filled you up.

His hand circled around your waist, his muscular arms caging you in and he pulled your warm body closer to his. You were nothing but a moaning mess at this point. 

“This is all you wanted, wasn’t it?” He asked breathlessly, teasing you while you rode him. “All those months of endless calls and emails, research, and this is all you wanted. I know that look in your eyes, that pleading look, those fuck-me eyes. This is how you wanna be treated, huh? Like a dirty little whore all for me to use?” 

Even his taunts were hot. 

You bounced on his cock moaning and whining, feeling him stretch you out as you stared into his ocean blue eyes. Guess you hadn’t been that subtle after all. 

Bucky held you at your waist and rhythmically thrust his hips up each time to match your movements. Brows furrowing and panting while you rode his cock, throwing his head back and growling in pleasure. 

“You feel so fucking good, baby…” He tried to contain his grunts, “Oh fuck, I’m gonna need this all the time now. And you’ll give it to me, won’t you? You’ll be daddy’s good girl and every time I ask you to bring this cunt over so I can fuck it, or taste it, or both, you’ll do it won’t you, baby?” 

“Yes,” You whined, nodding helplessly. “Yes, I will.” 

He chuckled, kissing down your neck and whispering against your skin about how perfect you felt around him. He panted against your skin, kissing you all over, “All mine now, you hear me? All fucking mine.” 

“Yes…”

You didn’t slow down when you felt your orgasm wash over you, and Bucky kept thrusting his hips up into you even as your eyes rolled back and you moaned out loud as you came.

“Oh fuck!” You cried out, your walls squeezing and clenching around him as you came undone, all that pressure exploding in a hot, satisfying way. 

Bucky came right after you, pulling out just in time, his cum spilling all over your thighs as he kept his arms around you and pressed your trembling body closer to his. 

“I think we should have more meetings like this. To discuss your article, of course.” 

You shrug.

You'd known Bradley for years. You both went to the same university, where you took medicine, becoming a doctor. You fell in love with him at school, but never tried anything, always thinking it was never the right time. But anytime you thought maybe you should move on, Bradley did something, just enough, to keep you hanging on.

Jake's eyes narrow over the ocean. He knows Bradley knows about your feelings. They've never talked about it, but how could Rooster not know.

Jake's been watching Rooster string you along for the better part of a year, and it makes him sick. How could Bradshaw just, waste away his time like that? The perfect woman, smart, funny, kind, beautiful. A fucking doctor for crying out loud - who better to be with a Navy man? Someone who understands that there's risks in life, someone that understands how precious time is.

"You should make him jealous," Jake finds himself saying, surprising both you and him.

"What?"

"You know," Jake continues, not sure where the words are coming from. "Make him jealous, make him make a move."

"Oh yeah? And how exactly would I do that? I've been on dates and he never cared, he's seen me kiss guys, and he just... he doesn't care, Jake. He doesn't want me."

Jake frowns. "I told you. He's an idiot."

"They offered me a job in Parkland Memorial Hospital in the emergency room."

Alarm bells ring in Jake's head. You can't be talking about... leaving? Leaving. Leaving!?

"I'm thinking about it - thinking space might do some good, I can finally, finally just... get over it."

"You can't just leave," Jake says, hand gripping the railing so hard one of his knuckles crack.

"I can't keep this cycle up, Jake." You look at him, his tense jaw, how his eyes stay focused at one point in the distance. There's no denying how beautiful Hangman is. Your eyes flit over to Rooster, who's pulling the girl closer. You look away before you have to see them kiss. "I'm tired."

"I'll help you," he says, and he's once again unsure where the words are coming from. But if making Rooster make a move is the only way Jake gets to keep you in his life, then he'll do it. He can't lose you. He won't. "And if it doesn't work in a month, I'm sure that job'll be there for you, or a better one."

You don't answer, and Jake takes that as a maybe.

Anything, anything would be better than you packing your bags.

The next day, you're sitting in your office on base, finishing sending in inventory for the medical supplies you need.

Not too much happens on base, anything really bad ends up sent to the hospital with you in the back of the ambulance providing care. It's not that exciting - which is good, exciting work for a doctor usually means someone is seriously injured.

But here you are, asking for more gauze and tape, and that's okay too.

A knock on the door followed by, "Hey doc," breaks you out of your trance, and Jake comes strolling in, small smile on his lips as he glides over, leaning on your desk beside you. "How are you feeling today?"

"Right as rain, Jake."

"Mmm," he mumbles, looking at the papers on your desk, before running his gaze over your face. He's noticed that your lips have been holding a soft pout for weeks, like you've given up on a dream. It makes his blood boil. He wants to fix it. He leans back a bit, arms crossed on one foot crossed over the other, and he keeps his eyes on you. "You think more about that job offer?"

You sigh, "No, not really. It's ... hard. I want to make the decision that's best for me and not base it off of Bradley." Your shoulders slouch, "but I - I just have no idea what to do. All my friends are here, I love my job."

"So stay," Jake says, "Don't run from where you are over Chicken."

For the first time, ever, you don't tell Jake not to call Bradley that. You just smile, finally looking up at Jake. He takes the moment head on, and leans towards you. One hand on your desk, the other on the back of your chair, legs spreading wide in a way that makes your breath hitch - but if Jake notices he doesn't comment on it.

"There are lots of things here that can make things better, you know."

You're so close to him.

You've never been this close to him.

No one ever understood the friendship you two have. Nat thought it was odd, the way that Jake seemed to gravitate towards you, always finding you a sea of people, like he was magnetically drawn to you. But he never made a move, never talked about you in ways he's talked about other women, never expected you to fall at his feet. And rarely ever laid down the moves he so easily threw at beautiful people. Nat noticed recently that Jake's been on a dry spell - and doing absolutely nothing to change it. Even when women threw themselves at him, he just smiled politely, and got you another drink.

Unfortunately, you saw this as platonic - how? No one knows. Everyone else can see it for what it is. Payback and Fanboy have a bet going about who confesses first, you to Bradley or Jake to you. Fanboy bet on you confessing, Payback on Jake. Coyote wants Jake to get the girl. Bob silently hopes you find a nice, stable man outside of the military because he adores you and doesn't think either Hangman or Bradley deserve you. While Natasha and Halo just want you to be happy.

"Jake, I..."

The door opens, and both of you snap your attention to the person, Bradley, obviously, walking in.

He hesitates, eyeing the closeness between you guys suspiciously.

"Sorry, am I interrupting something?"

You say no the same time Jake says yes. And you both look at each other, smiling like you're sharing an inside joke.

"Did you need something, Rooster?" Jake asks, and you hit his chest playfully.

"Come in, Bradley. Everything okay?" You ask, pushing up from the desk and gliding around Jake's arm, which makes the chair roll back and he has to catch himself, praying you didn't see that.

"Yeah..." he starts, "I just have this... uh," Brad looks at Jake. "Can I maybe talk to you privately?"

"Of course," you nod, "Jake?"

"I'm going," he rolls his eyes. "Lunch?"

"Yeah, I'll see you then."

"I'll bring you something."

Jake smiles, winking at Bradley, who is still looking at you with confusion written over his expression.

When Jake leaves, Bradley's eyes trace over you - looking for something.

"What's wrong?" you ask, looking him over for injuries.

"It's nothing just... I have a really bad sunburn on my back is all, wanted something for it," he explains, and you move to the cabinets to get some cream for him.

"I should still look at it," you say, "take your shirt off."

As he does, he talks, "what was Jake in here for?"

"You can't ask me that. Turn around," you spin your fingers, and he obeys.

"Right, yeah," he mutters, "didn't really seem like a clinical thing though."

"Bradley, stop." You look over the burn, it's red sure, but doesn't really seem that bad. With gloves on, you rub some of the ointment over it. It should make you blush maybe, but this is your clinic, and your job, and you don't take the moment as anything more than what it is. Being a doctor. "Just put this on again before bed, and in the morning if you need it. If it doesn't go away, come back. But it looks fine."

Bradley nods, but doesn't move. Doesn't put his shirt back on.

"You didn't say goodbye last night."

"Huh?" you ask, "I didn't see you all night, I didn't think I had to."

"Oh, you don't, I guess, but..." he looks down, "you usually come say bye."

"Me and Jake head out early," you explain, shrugging, indignation rising in your chest. Who was he to complain? He was wrapped up in someone else anyway... were you meant to tap him on the shoulder and wait for their lips to break apart just so you could say goodbye to someone you hadn't even spoken to that night?

"Together?"

"Yeah, he wanted to make sure I got home, I had a bit more than normal." You move to your desk, filling out a sheet to add to Bradley's file. It doesn't really need a sunburn update, but you do it anyway, for something to do with your hands under Bradley's intense stare.

"Right, okay..."

"Is that okay?"

"Of course it is, I'm just... checking in on you, that's all." Bradley finally puts his shirt back on. "Do you, are you going to the gala next week?"

"Yes," you say, instantly, too instantly.

"Me too," he says, "I was thinking we could go together."

"Oh?" your hand stills, your heart races. Is... is he asking you out? Did Bradley Bradshaw fake the pain to come to your office? Is this really happening? All these years of pining, and yearning, are they ending? You almost say yes, but then he speaks again.

"We used to go to stuff like this as friends all the time, and I thought... It would be fun to do it again, is all, better than standing around alone. My date bailed when she saw me take home this girl last night - she was so pissed off, you should hear the voicemail she left."

Your heart shatters.

It's so loud and painful you're almost sure he can hear it.

"I already have a date."

You say it before you can think about it. It comes out in a snap and you can't take it back.

"Oh," is all he says.

"Yeah," you say, trying to find the excuse out of this, you land on, "Jake asked me to go with him."

"Hangman? You can't be serious." You can practically hear Bradley roll his eyes as you tuck the paper into his file.

"Why not?"

"He's... he's Hangman!" Bradley has never raised his voice to you before, and he doesn't yell, but the tone he uses is something you've never heard directed at you as he says, "you're going to be Hangman's date!?"

"What's so bizarre about that?" you ask, turning to face him finally.

"He's not good enough for you and you know that."

You both stare at each other, arms crossed, angry faces mirroring each other. This is as close as you've come to a fight, ever. Usually you would back down, but you're... offended, on Jake's behalf. Jake has always been a perfect gentleman to you, and a great friend. He's been an amazing friend to you, actually.

"Jake is wonderful. Now if you don't need anymore medical attention, I have work to do."

You answer leaves no room to argue. Bradley leaves - without saying goodbye, one might point out, and closing the door harder than he needs to, enough to make your shoulders flinch. His attitude left a bad taste in your mouth, and you don't like it at all.

Rooster comes back to the group hot headed and ready to blow.

The air is tense, made more tense every time Jake cracked a joke, or answered a question, or did anything.

When Mav leaves them for a moment to talk to Cyclone about something, Nat finally asks what the problem is.

"Ask Bagman," Rooster mutters, rolling his eyes.

Jake scowls, "Hey, what the hell did I do?"

"You're taking her to the gala?" Rooster crosses his arms, and pouts like a schoolboy. No one has to ask who he's talking about.

An easy grin lands on Jake's face, and it only irritates Rooster more. Jake, being the guy he is, goes along with it. He never actually asked you - but absolutely would love to have you on his arm for the night. So he's all too happy to play along. He's all too happy to be your date.

"And what's the problem?" is all Jake asks.

"You're my fucking problem!"

"Well," Jake shrugs, "you snooze, you lose, brother."

Rooster is quick to anger. And pushes Jake before the others can grab him. Jake just laughs, walking a few steps back and out of Rooster's reach.

"Don't get mad at me for wanting her," Jake says, and it's earnest, he means it, they all know he does. "You just don't want anyone else to have her in case you change your mind, and honestly, Chicken? That's so messed up."

"You don't know anything." Rooster pushes Fanboy off, but he stays close by, in case Rooster lunges again.

"I know that she is special, and I know that she deserves the world. And I know that you could never give that to her, so I will." Jake glares at Rooster. "And I'll do it better than you ever could, and I'll do it fucking gladly. Because being in her orbit, well that's a goddamn honour, and I will not be squandering it like you did."

Nat and Bob share a look that says... damn - maybe Jake is the one. Everyone is quiet. Rooster is breathing heavily, jaw ticking in anger, but Jake is cool as can be, not worried in the slightest. Coyote puts a hand on Jake's shoulder, and the two share a smile.

When Mav returns he senses the tension, but he doesn't say anything about it, just gets back to business.

And both Rooster and Hangman both have you on the mind.

At lunch, Jake shows up with two meals in hand.

You're at your desk again, looking over paperwork when he strolls in, just happy to see you.

"You're in luck, Doc," he says, "they're serving your favourite today."

A bright smile crosses your face when he sets the food down. Jake hesitates, only briefly, and decides it's okay to lay a soft kiss on your hairline as he hands you your meal.

"Thanks, Jake," you sigh, "I like... I like when you come here for lunch."

His heart flips. His cheeks feel warm and he knows the tips of his ears are turning pink at your admission.

"I like coming here," he says softly, pulling up a stool to sit beside you.

"It must be nice to get away from the chaos for a bit."

He shrugs, "I don't mind the chaos, I just like spending time with you."

"Big softie," you smile.

"Don't let the others know."

A knock on the door makes him tense, but he relaxes when Nat comes into the room. He thought maybe Rooster was coming to talk you out of going with Jake to the gala.

"Hey Doc," she says, "Hey, Bagman."

"Nix," Jake says, "she's not doing walk-ins, she's taking her lunch."

You hit him on the arm, laughing. "He doesn't speak for me, you okay?"

"Oh yeah, I'm fine, I actually just came by to invite you out later. Me, Halo and some of the other girls are going for drinks later and thought you might like to come."

"Oh," you say, "that sounds great!"

"Perfect, I was hoping you'd say that." Nat looks at Hangman, who isn't being annoying, miraculously, and he's just unwrapping your food before his own, like it's the most normal thing in the world. She can't help but note how much different he is when it comes to you, and it's... endearing, in a way. "We'll swing by your place to pick you up."

"Just text me the time," you say, "I can't wait, I need a girls night."

"Anytime."

Natasha leaves, hurrying to find Bob because she needs to debrief both the fight, and Jake sitting at your table setting up your plate immediately. It was almost domestic, and she needs to talk about it.

"You know what happened earlier?" Jake asked, and you shook your head. "Rooster pushed me after finding out I'm going to be your date next week."

"He pushed you? Oh, I'm so sorry Jake, I should've asked first but it just came out," you flush, looking him over like he'd told you that he was pushed down a flight of stairs.

"No, it's okay," he smiles, "would you like to go with me? It'd be an honour to take you."

"You don't have to," you rush, "I swear, I can just tell him I was lying. I don't know why I did that."

"Stop apologizing. I'm asking you because I would like to go with you. It would be fun."

"As friends?"

Jake looks at his plate, then you. "I mean yeah, we are friends. But it would still be a date. I pick you up, I get your drinks, we dance. Just because we're friends doesn't mean you're not getting the full treatment."

Something clicks in your head.

You're not entirely sure what.

But there are butterflies in your stomach, and it just feels... easy. Like how you wanted it to feel when Bradley asked you. With Jake it's, nicer. It feels better. It feels right. You don't know what it means, but you like it. You like being around Jake.

"I'd love to."

"Good," he smiles, "now eat, before one of those knuckleheads needs something else."

Jake gets a call at one in the morning.

He wants to ignore it, but he worries that it's his mother. He worries even more when he sees your picture across the screen.

"What's wrong?" he answers, heart pumping when he hears little sobs from your end of the line.

"I'm scared," you whisper. "I got too drunk, Jake, please."

"Please what? Where are you? I thought you were with Nat?"

Jake's already getting out of bed, moving to get into the pants he discarded earlier.

"Rooster and Fanboy showed up, crashing girls night. And it was fine," you hiccup, "but then Nat wanted to leave and Brad begged and whined for me to stay, so I did. And then he disappears, like, almost immediately. And Fanboy left with a girl and..." you whimper, "and I'm drunk and I can't find Rooster. Will you, would you please come get me? I'm sorry to ask but..."

His reply comes out immediately, "I'll be there in 10, stay where the bartenders can see you." And Jake's ears ring at the name Rooster. You rarely call any of them by their call signs. But he doesn't think he's ever even heard you say Rooster. It feels like the first crack in the dream. It feels kind of like hope.

Jake speeds to get to you.

You didn't listen, maybe you couldn't have because you're stumbling, Rooster has an arm around you outside the bar, he's holding you up and doing a piss poor job because Jake can see how unsteady you look from his truck.

He puts it in park right by the door, stopped in a no parking zone and ignores the annoyed look from the bouncer, immediately coming to your side.

"You okay, sweetheart?" he asks, brushing your hair off your face and looking you over, making sure you've got your bag and assessing whether to take you home or to the hospital. Dramatic, maybe, but with you it's important. He's actively ignoring Rooster's stupid face. He keeps the focus on you, and away from Bradshaw, because he doesn't trust what would come out of his mouth.

"Jake," is all you say, practically falling into his arms and out of Rooster's.

He holds you tightly, fully supporting you and not letting you fucking wobble around.

"What are you even doing here? I've got it. I was just about to get her into a cab."

"No, I will get her home safely, since you left her in the fucking dust, Chicken." Jake eyes the girl rolling her eyes and waiting for Rooster, and his anger hits a boiling point. "What? Were you just gunna roll her into the cab and fucking hope she makes it to her front door okay?"

"Jesus, Hangman, sorry if I don't want to ruin my night just because someone else got too drunk."

"Ruin your - !? You're pathetic, Rooster." Jake catches you as your knees wobble out from under you, and he picks you up, hands braced under your knees and behind your back, holding you close as you snuggle into his chest, humming happily.

Rooster's jaw ticks at the way you seem ... comfortable, in Jake's arms. Bradley was convinced what you and Jake were doing was just ... fun, flirting. This seems... more real than he was expecting. When Jake starts walking away without another word, Rooster feels extra indignant.

"She'll never love you the way she loves me, you know!" Rooster yells.

But it falls on deaf ears.

Because Jake loves you so unconditionally that it doesn't matter. He will be what you need. Even if it dismantles him in the process.

Jake gets you settled in the passenger seat, makes sure your seatbelt is done up before getting into the driver's seat. Rooster and the girl are gone before he pulls out of the lot, but he can't think about that now, he just drives steady and slow, not wanting to make you feel any worse.

It's so irritating, watching Bradshaw act like such a loser. And he only seems to do it to you, which is just extra irritating. He can't stand it.

The drive to your apartment isn't far, he parks and makes his way to your side, fishing the keys out of your purse before hanging it off his arm, strong forearms cradling you to carry you bridal style to your door. He makes it seem easy, the way he unlocks the door and brings you into your place. He locks the door behind him, and brings you into the bathroom, setting you on the toilet, making sure you're steady before continuing his work. He puts your purse on the counter, pockets your phone, and grabs a couple make up wipes to take the makeup off. He's as gentle as can be, even when you're grumbling and groaning, about fireball and lemon drops.

"Can I have this?" you ask, fingers pinching the shirt he's wearing. "Looks mighty comfy."

"You want the shirt off my back, huh?" he chuckles, but takes it off. "Anything for you."

You hum happily, peeling your shirt off without warning, and Jake trains his eyes to the ceiling. They feel like they're made of concrete the way he has to keep them up and off you.

"All clear, Lieutenant," you say, cheesy grin on your face, but his breath hitches, and he coughs to cover it up.

"Let's get you to bed," he says, helping you up again, and letting you walk on your own.

"Thanks for coming to get me," you whisper, sliding into bed. "I got really nervous and I just... I thought you'd be a safe person to call."

"I'm glad you did," he says, tucking the blanket up to your chin. Mostly for comfort, but also because knowing you're laying in nothing but his shirt right now was an image he didn't know he'd ever be able to get out of his head. "I just want you safe and happy."

You hum in response, easing into the pillow, eyes closing and breaths already getting slower. He starts moving to leave, and you eye him again, pout on your lips. He looks like an angel, shirt off, hair messy from sleep, soft smile on his face.

"Jake?" you whisper, "will you please stay in here with me?"

"Oh uh, yeah, okay," he says, shuffling over and crawling into bed with you. He keeps his jeans on, because taking them off while you're in the bed and drunk just doesn't feel ... right.

You don't seem to mind, you just snuggle into Jake's chest, hand splayed across his abs and it makes his stomach somersault under your touch. You fall asleep instantly. Jake hesitates, but rests his chin again your hair, letting himself pretend, just for tonight, that he has you.

The night of the gala, Jake feels sick.

You look ... beautiful.

No one has ever looked as beautiful as you since... well he thinks ever. And he knows that tonight is the night - in one way or another. Maybe Rooster will confess, or maybe you'll take the job offer. Either way, Jake is probably going to lose you tonight.

But it doesn't stop him from holding out his elbow to you, smiling softly at you and leading you into the party.

Rooster can't keep eyes off of you.

His date, the redhead from the bar all those nights ago, clings to his side like she belongs there.

And you see that, but it doesn't twist you up inside.

Like, maybe she does belong there. And maybe you belong here.

Jake's been a perfect gentleman the entire evening. He holds a palm over your lower back as you laugh and chat with Nat, he grabs you a new drink as you give Bob a big hug and compliment how well he cleans up. He pulls you closer when Coyote asks you to save him a dance, making you and Javy laugh.

And then he leads you to the dance floor.

He spins you gently, just as he knows you like, he holds you close and keeps his eyes on your face as he sways you to the music.

At some point between Jake spinning you softly and dipping you at the end of the song, you realize that you're not concerned about where Rooster is. Another slow song starts and Jake brings you back up, holding a hand securely around your waist, the other holding your hand and he just dances, eyes on you the whole time, smile soft, and warm. And you realize... you're not putting on a show, you're just dancing, and you're happy, and you want Jake to pull you close again.

And he does pull you; so close his nose brushes yours and his breath, whiskey coated and a hint of spearmint gum, fans over your lips. You can’t help but feel drawn in, you want to be drawn in - you want Jake. Not as a consolation prize, not as anything other than the man he is.

“Can I cut in?” Rooster asks, startling the pair of you. “Can we… can we dance?”

"Uh..." you start, ready to say no, but Jake she kisses your hairline, and it feels like goodbye, not permission.

"Don't spin her too fast," Jake says, eyes avoiding you, "she hates that."

And he slinks away without another word, grabbing a drink and finding Coyote in the crowd - not looking back at you once, because he can't bear to see it. Coyote gives him a sympathetic squeeze on the shoulder - but he's got nothing to say.

Rooster holds you the same way Jake did; but it's not as warm. It doesn't feel as... right.

"You look beautiful," he says finally, and it's no less awkward. The compliment not making you blush the way Jake's do. Not anymore.

"Thanks, Rooster."

"I don't... I don't know when you started calling me Rooster but I thought, I thought I was always Bradley to you."

"Your friends all call you Rooster."

"You're not just my friend though," he whispers, "you know that, right?"

"But I..." you start, then stop, eyes flicking to the door and you watch helplessly as Jake walks through it. Your eyes find Rooster's again and your heart plummets. Isn't this what you wanted? Isn't he what you wanted?

So why is your body desperate to go follow Jake?

"I have to go," you rush, dropping Rooster's hand, but he doesn't drop his from your waist. "Jake went outside, I want to find him. He's my date, I want..." This is the moment, the moment you choose. "I want to go find Jake."

"Is this... do you love him?" Rooster asked.

"I don't know," you answer, honestly, "but I know that he's who I want to spend the rest of my night with."

"I always kinda thought that... I always thought it would be me and you ending up together, you know? Just... I didn't realize that I love you until now."

It was all you wanted to hear.

But...

"I have to go," you whisper.

...all you can think of is Jake.

Rooster's eyes fall to the floor, his stomach sinks even lower than that. "You really do look beautiful."

"Thanks uh, Bradley," you start shuffling your dress up so you don't step on it while you're walking, "see you at work!"

When you find Jake outside, he's leaning against the wall, hand braced above his head like something is causing him pain. You clear your throat and scare him, trying not to laugh as he clutches his chest, not finding it nearly as funny as you.

He looks you over quickly, lipstick still intact, no Chicken trailing behind you.

“How uh, how did that go?”

“Rooster told me he loves me.”

Jake smiles sadly. “That is… awesome. Yeah, it is, it’s great.”

“Jake…”

“Don't say my name like that,” he sighs, “you might have to call me Hangman now, actually, you know what - you have to call me Bagman.”

“Jake...” you chuckle.

“Oh my god,” Jake mutters, heart flipping in his chest, throat tight with regret. He’s just lost what little of you he had and you insist on torturing him by saying his name so fuckin' pretty. Like you're the only one who knows how to say it at all.

“I told him no.”

This makes Jake's eyes snap to yours, and his brow furrow. “What?”

“I told him no, I told him I came here with you and,” you smile, Jake malfunctions. So you close to gap, running a hand up Jake's neatly pressed dress whites, “and I’ll be leaving with you.”

“Me?” he whispers, unsure.

“You,” you smile softly, and the corner of his lip turns into a smirk, anyone else would think it's cocky, but you know he’s nervous, you know him, better than anyone. “If you want me to.”

“Baby,” Jake whispers, hands finding your hips over the soft fabric, and they grip you tight enough to hold you steady. “I want you so badly I was willing to let another man have you just to keep you on the island.”

Your hand slides up more until your fingers are softly against the side of his face, and he looks down at you like there is nowhere else he’d rather be.

That's the difference. Rooster only wanted you because he thought he lost you, thought you would be steady and waiting forever and suddenly you weren't. But Jake... he was willing to lose you if that's what would make you happy. Jake wants you because he loves you, because he’s afraid of wasting one second with you. Like the thought of not having enough time makes him ill.

“If I kiss you now,” Jake whispers, “It's real. I want you. I want everything. All of it, slow mornings, birthdays, holidays, parents asking when they're getting grandkids, all of it.”

“It's real,” you promise. “Kiss me?”

“Yes ma'am.”

When he kisses you, it's exactly right. Like the end of a romcom where the girl is swept off her feet by the real hero of the story.

He kisses you so softly, every move intentional and reverent. He doesn't rush. Just moves his lips against yours like he's exactly where he wants to be. His hands stay steady on your waist, while your thumb rubs softly against his cheek. His tongue rolls lazily into your mouth and you moan, and you can almost feel the smirk on his mouth as he nips your bottom lip, pulling away to rest his forehead on yours.

His eyes are glassy, relieved, filled with adoration as he looks at you.

"Do you want to go dance some more, baby?"

The pet name rolls off his tongue like it belongs there, and you shake your head no.

"I want you to take me home," you say, placing another chaste kiss on his mouth. He smiles, letting go with one hand and letting the other slide around to your lower back, leading you back to his truck without a second thought. There would be a lifetime of chances to dance, but that's not what you need right now.

Right now, you just need him.

"Jake, please," you moan, hands thread through his hair as he devours you like a man starved. "Just want you."

He pulls away for a second, fingers still moving inside you, and he kisses the inside of your thigh. "Stop rushin' baby girl, we got all night. And I'm still hungry."

"Baby, baby please."

He grunts, pained to decide between drawing another orgasm out of you with his mouth or giving into your pretty, pretty begging.

He was never one to deny you.

Jake crawls up your body, trailing kisses across your stomach, chest, neck as he does, before settling comfortably in between your legs. As he kisses you, you taste yourself, and you moan against slippery lips, hands wrapped around his broad shoulders like a lifeline.

"I'll be going back for more later," Jake says, making you laugh against him, tucking your face into his shoulder.

"Perv."

"If that's what it makes me, so be it."

His hand moves between you, grabbing himself to line himself up with your centre, and he drops his head against your shoulder at the feeling. So wet, and tight, and warm - he knows he won't last. It's been too long and you're, well, his dream.

"Please," you mutter, biting into his shoulder, begging for all of him, and he sighs, pushing into you.

You both gasp, the feeling of him stretching you so perfectly, no pain, no discomfort, just two people that were made for eachother.

The movements start slow, pulling back only a few inches to push back him, he wants to stay inside you, to feel you around him the rest of his life.

And then he slowly picks up the pace, listening to your moans to find the right spots inside you, the right tempo that makes you close your eyes and arch your back. He's learning every sound you make, committing it all to memory.

Jake’s hips stutter against yours, it takes everything in him to keep his composure, to stop himself from filling you with cum the second he’s inside you.

“Baby this is… you’re a dream - baby, fuck, you’re so fucking perfect, i can’t … you feel so, so good baby.”

“Jake,” you mewl, “Jake it feels so good - makin’ me feel so good”

“Yeah, baby? You like it?”

“Love it - love you.”

Jake hips stutter again, and he stills. Large palms brushing over your forehead, moving damp hair away from your face, and his smile is soft, reverent.

“I love you too,” he whispers, slotting his lips against yours in a sensual, languid kiss, and his hips move again, slow, deliberate, controlled. "I love you so much." He angles himself deeper, hiking one of your legs over his waist and around his back, letting him sink fully into you, both of you moaning in tandem. "I'm sorry baby, it's - it's too fuckin' good, I'm not gunna be able to hold out."

"That's okay," you moan, "it's okay, let go. I want you to feel good."

"I feel so fucking good, baby."

"We have all night," you wink, "we'll go again."

He doesn't need anymore coaxing, he stills inside you, spilling deep, groaning against the curve of your neck, the vibrations sending a chill down your spine. He doesn't move, stays locked deep inside you, fanning kisses along your neck.

Eventually, he pulls out, and he hisses with over sensitivity. In his wildest dreams, this is always where he ends up, wrapped up in you. Not even just the sex, but the closeness of having you near, of being able to kiss you as he pleases, of not having to worry about needing his hands on you.

As you lay tangled in the sheets, your hit with a moment of clarity. Of everything you must have been putting Jake through the last week, and it feels akin to how you felt. His steady breaths a comfort you didn't know you needed, and you nuzzle closer into his side, with him happily making room to draw you in closer.

"I'm sorry," you say, guilt gnawing at your heart.

"What for?"

"For..." you sigh, "For asking you to help me with Rooster, I... I wish I fell for you in a better way, I wish it wasn't sullied by the drama."

"It's not sullied," he says, rolling over to face you, hand sliding under you to hold your cheek, thumb brushing over the curve of it. He smiles. "I don't feel like a second choice, I feel so, stupidly, insanely happy. I do not care how we got here, I'm just happy we're here."

"Are you sure that you won't, resent me?"

"I would do anything for you," he says after a moment, "I don't care that you used to love Bradshaw, I don't. I love you, I loved you unconditionally, and patiently, and it all worked out. Love is messy, baby." He kisses your nose. "Love you," he kisses your forehead, "love you," he kisses your cheek, "love you."

And he kisses you fully, slowly, pouring every ounce of love he has to give into you. And you sigh, content, comfortable, madly in love with Jake fucking Seresin of all people, with his cocky attitude and boyish grin that makes you feel alive. He fills your cup. He leaves room for you on busy days. And he never, ever strings you along for anything, ever. To him, you are the only feasible answer. To him, you are everything.

And to you, he is what home feels like. He is where warmth stems from. He's not just exciting, and handsome (so fucking beautiful really) but he's sturdy.

You pull away first. "I love you, Jake."

He just smiles, and brings you in for another kiss.

And another.

And another.

And then he groans as he rolls back on top of you, ready to promise you forever.

But you're both happy to start with tonight.

The rest of your lives can come one day at a time. And you'll face them all together.

bonus: epilogue

Rooster nurses his drink while his date talks his ear off about, what exactly? He doesn't even know.

His eyes drag back over to you, as they have all night, as has everybody’s, and he can't help the sigh that leaves him. You're a vision in white, the most beautiful bride anyone has ever seen.

And he's not the groom.

Hangman is.

Rooster looks at his date and feels a mix of resentment and guilt. She’s perfectly lovely, in a dress that exactly fits the theme and colour scheme, and she’s been kind to all of his friends. But she's not you.

He looks at you again, and watches Jake pick you up and twirl you slowly, holding you close to his body. Rooster's stomach drops the same way it had at the gala all those years ago.

Then Jake kisses you. Rooster clenches his jaw and looks away quickly. His date follows his previous line of sight and she sighs, finishing her drink and excusing herself.

Rooster doubts she’ll return to the table.

He doesn't care.

Just takes another sip of his drink, watching miserably and wondering how this even happened.

How Jake stole you away.

How Rooster didn't notice until it was too late.

But on the dance floor, Rooster hasn’t entered Jake’s mind once. His thoughts were completely consumed with you, trying to memorize exactly how you look, right now, at your wedding, to him. This is the best day anyone has ever had.

“I love you, Bagman.”

He laughs, head thrown back and carefree, enjoying what will one day be considered one of the greatest highlights of his life.

"We've got a residential fire at 720 River Row," Brett heard the speakers cry out overhead just as he walked onto the open floor of his station. 

Instantly, his body tensed. Residential fires had the potential to spread and grow beyond measure, especially in the middle of dry season. One wrong spark, and half of California would light up brighter than a Christmas tree. 

"Let's get it moving!" he barked, already stepping to his open locker to shuck on the heavy standard fire suspenders and jacket with Ct. Brett Richards patched to the front flap. His helmet went on next, and his hair flattened beneath as he strapped it in place. 

The familiar wail of a fire truck overwhelmed his senses, and he wondered how he hadn't gone deaf yet. Twenty years on the service without significant hearing loss must have been a new record. He was closer to losing the ability to hear due to older age than continually getting his eardrums blasted on a daily basis. 

With a grunt, he pulled himself up into the passenger seat, and his body lurched when the truck screeched out of the station, wheels finding grip and purchase of the concrete road. 

"Show station 42 on route. What's the status?" he spoke into the radio. 

"Caller said the oven caught on fire. She had an extinguisher on hand, but with dry season, it needs to be overlooked." 

"Understood." He set the radio back into the holder and groaned. "It's just some oven fire." 

The driver chuckled. "Probably some old lady that fell asleep baking a casserole or something." 

Brett gave him a quick smirk. "Yeah . . . probably." 

However, when the truck pulled onto the small residential street with cars littering both sides, he couldn't help but note that the house where the fire had been wasn't the usual old-lady type, normally covered in overgrown grass and a scary amount of lawn ornaments. 

Brett fucking hated the gnomes. 

Instead, this house had a more modern look to it with a beautiful forest green front door paired with a porch goose dressed up with a yellow rain jacket. He snorted; rain wasn't coming anytime in the near future, that's for sure. 

With a grunt, he heaved himself out of the truck, knees slightly tingling from the height. The sidewalk was also well kept, he noted. No cracks in the foundation, no weeds. Whoever lived here was obviously well able to keep up with lawn maintenance. 

To his right, a low whistle sounded clearly through the bright day. "I take back the old lady comment, cause hot damn." 

Brett side-eyed him before looking at the police officer talking to the homeowner, and then, his driver's comment made sense because there you were. 

Beautiful is what hit his mind first and followed by young. Too young for him. 

Even from far away, Brett couldn't see a wrinkle in sight. His hazel eyes took you in. Your hair gleamed and perfectly framed your worry-pinched face. You were wearing an oversized, flour-dusted shirt and basketball shorts that hung past your knees. As you stood there in the middle of your walkway, you shifted back and forth, feet probably burning on the hot concrete, and Brett felt the urge to go over there and pick you right up. 

Instead, he continued walking until he stopped a few feet away, and your eyes widened when they caught on him, and your stomach somersaulted down to your toes. 

There he was: the hot firefighter you saw with bulging biceps as he cleaned equipment just in the entrance of his station as you walked by with bags of ingredients since the store was close enough to where you lived. 

You hadn't been able to get him out of your mind and especially your dreams that had you waking with a warm sweat and tingling thighs that led to a hand dipped between them. You tried not to stare and keep your eyes on the police officer while he finished writing down your statement, but every fiber of your being wanted to turn its attention to the silver fox. 

The officer gave you a nod before turning away with a small greeting to the firefighter. Now, it was just him and a few more men from his crew. 

He smiled at you and stuck out his hand. "Heard you had a fire here?" 

"Yeah," you responded, trying not to come off as desperate as you savored the way you hand fit snuggly into his. "Set the oven a little too high and a little too long." 

"Guessing whatever you were making got caught in the . . . cross fire?" 

"My poor brownies were the only casualty," you joked back, insides beaming when he barked out a small laugh. 

Brett conjoined his hands at his front. "Well, seeing as there's no active fire, I just need to take a walk through for protocol during dry season and make sure everything's in order." 

"Perfect," you said before taking small steps in the direction of your house. "Follow me?" 

He nodded in response, and his thick heavy boots clomped the whole way up your small steps. 

"Cute goose," he muttered. "Though, I think he looks a little hot in that jacket." 

The corner of your mouth twitched. "I have a different outfit for him during the summer, but I've been too busy baking." Your wrist twisted to get the front door open. "His name's Richard, but I call him a little dick because after I bought him and put the sand in, he tipped over right on my foot." 

"Oh?" Brett said as he stepped through the threshold and into your house. "What a coincidence that I share a name with your . . . uh . . . dick goose." He tapped a finger against his name patch. "Though my first name fortunately happens to be Brett." 

Your eyes gleamed. "Glad to finally put a name to a handsome face." 

Oh, you were flirting Brett caught on, and deep inside his chest, his heart fluttered a bit. 

He did his best to not look around your house, but his hazel eyes almost felt drawn to all the little bits and pieces of your evident life within the walls. Although a little hazy from the fire, he could feel that this house was home. 

"You have a beautiful house," he mentioned while you walked him deeper towards the kitchen. "Matches the gorgeous owner." 

You didn't turn around, not wanting to show how red your cheeks had gotten. "Thank you," you finally managed to squeak out just as your kitchen came into view. 

Brett stepped around you and tsked as the sight. The extinguisher foam covered your countertops and oven, and he knew that'd be a bitch to clean. He bent at the waist and looked inside at the racks, eyes scanning for anything resembling a left-over ember. 

"Mind if I take a look at your smoke detectors? You'll have to replace them because of the smoke." 

You twirled a piece of hair around your finger. "I was meaning to replace them before this . . ." 

Above his head, you had at least three detectors that he counted on his way in, and when he looked up with a craned neck, his eyes narrowed. 

"You know these have been expired for a year, right?" His low, disappointed tone sent a shiver up your spine. 

You sighed loudly. "Guess I haven't had time for those either. I don't think I even own a ladder anymore after my ex took his." 

Brett tried not to focus on the burning feeling of jealousy that simmered. "Did they even go off when the fire caught?" 

"No. I smelled the smoke from my bedroom. Normally, I bake low and slow, but I needed to get these brownies over to the bake sale asap, so I tried a higher degree but forgot that the time should have decreased to," you rambled from the top of your head even if the bake sale was completely fictional, and you'd been baking brownies since you could walk. 

But a girl had to do what a girl had to do to get the sexy firefighter to her house. Screw your social anxiety, but setting brownies on fire seemed easier than going up to him and asking him out. And the best part? It all worked according to plan. 

Brett crossed his arms when he finally looked back at you. "These need to be replaced as soon as possible." 

"Got it," you said, nodding along. "I'll pick up a ladder and new detectors next time I'm in town." 

"And make sure that your oven is at the right temperature and the timer is set accordingly. I think your bake sale would prefer your safety over you being tardy." 

"Yes, sir. I'll make sure to keep an eye on the oven." 

Brett tried not to show how much the sir sent blood from his head and down lower. 

"Good." He bit back the want to place girl at the end. "Pretty girls like you don't need to go up in a house full of flames when it can be avoided." 

He liked the way you tore your eyes away from his and the flush that rushed into your cheeks. Your chest expanded fully in a deep breath, and Brett swore you weren't wearing a bra. He needed to get out and fast before he popped a boner in his pants like a teenager. 

"Guess that's everything then," he sighed. 

You wanted to pout, wanted to ask him to stay longer, but after seeing the sweat pooling down his cheeks, you knew he probably wanted to leave and get out of his jacket. You silently cursed yourself for not turning the air down any cooler or not even having something for him and his guys to drink. 

You cleared your throat. "Thank you for making sure that everything's fine. I can sleep well knowing Dick and I are safe." 

Brett tipped his head. "That's what we're here for." 

The two of you made your way back to the front, and you stopped at the door. "Um, Mr. Richards—" 

"Please, call me Brett, sweetheart." 

"Brett," you echoed, and Brett never wanted anyone else to say his name but you. "Are people allowed to bring food by the station if possible?" 

"Yeah," he said, running a hand along his stubbled jaw. "Lots of people do it. I know the guys really appreciate it when someone does." 

"Okay." Thoughts about bringing him something to eat made you go a bit fuzzy, but a few rapid blinks kept you straight. "Stay safe and cool out there." 

"Will do. And don't forget those detectors," he warned playfully, "or Dick might become barbecue." He stepped out onto the porch and then down the step just as the door clicked shut behind him. 

Brett sighed loudly into the air as he rejoined his group. “Let’s load up and get back to the station.” He pulled back up into the passenger seat and slumped in his chair. “So much for the old lady. “

What he didn’t know is you did the same to your front door, back pressed against the wood as you formulated what to make to take to the station once you got your kitchen cleaned up. Desperate, you looked through the fridge and pantry, and somehow, you noticed you still had the right amount of everything for brownies. 

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

The tin filled with fresh brownies warmed your palms while you carried it in the direction of the firestation. Beneath your sternum, your heart clenched and fluttered wildly like a swarm of butterflies had gotten stuck on the way down to your stomach. In just a few more steps, you’d get to see Brett again. It had only been a few days since your planned oven fire, and you guessed it’d be appropriate to wait until you showed up unannounced, but you couldn’t wait any longer. 

Your ears perked at the sound of boisterous laughter the closer you got. 

Not knowing which way was the entrance, you slowed your steps until you got to the large opening of the station. Inside, you caught two guys standing in a not-quite-there half circle with their backs toward you. Thankfully, your steps didn’t echo in your approach, and you got to take a deep breath to calm your nerves before speaking. 

“Excuse me?” you asked, and tempted like a sirens song, they whirled around with surprised expressions. 

The one in the middle with Donovan plastered to his shirt spoke first. “How can we help you?” 

You slightly raised the tin. “I don’t know if any of you remembered, but my oven caught on fire a few days ago, and I wanted to bring a small thank you gift for responding so quickly.” 

Their eyes widened, and the one with Crawford on his shirt smiled widely. “You were the one with the duck on your porch.”

You went to correct him, but a new voice beat you to it. 

“Goose, Crawford. That thing didn’t even look like a duck,” Brett answered for you. 

Crawford rolled his eyes. “It’s a bird with a beak, Chief. Goose, duck, they’re all the same.” 

Brett raised his eyebrows in a greeting to you. “How can we help you, sweetheart?” 

If the two firefighters looked toward their chief with weird, confused faces, you didn’t notice, too busy locking your eyes with hazel ones that you wanted to drown in. 

“I brought brownies.” You tilted the tin for him to look through the clear, plastic covering. “As a thank you for making sure my house wouldn’t burn down.” You thrust them out for him to take. 

His lips twitched and spread into a smile that made his crows’ feet appear around his eyes. “We will definitely enjoy these.” He took them from your hand, and you tried not to gasp softly when his fingers brushed yours. 

You thought he’d ask you to leave, but Brett Richards was full of surprises. He handed the tin over to Donovan before saying anything else. 

“Why don’t you two take these into the breakroom? I have a few follow up questions to ask . . .” He trailed off, suddenly realizing he didn’t even know your name. 

However, you happily provided it for him, and somehow he smiled even wider. He jerked his head in the direction over his shoulder. 

“You got a second for me?” he asked, and you nodded faster than you should have. “My office is just this way.” 

You kept still when his hand planted in the small of your back to push you along with his long strides you almost failed to keep up with until he stopped right at the door.

“It’s not as pretty as your house,” he warned. 

“I bet it’s not too bad,” you replied after he splayed a hand against the grain while pushing it open for you to slip by. 

The gap wasn’t big enough to give you space when you walked through, your shoulder brushing against his firm chest as you did, and a small flash of him pressed up against your body zapped through you like lightning. 

In the office, he had a small desk and two small chairs in front. You chose the one on the right and sat down, hands nervously brushing over your pants in hopes you hadn’t gotten flour on them. 

“Would you like a cup of coffee?” he asked. 

You shook your head. “A bit too bitter for me, unless you have the most sugary creamer known to man.” 

“Sorry, sweetheart, but I’m all out of that, I fear.” He almost seemed disappointed that he didn’t have what you wanted as he sat in the leather chair behind his desk with a small groan. “Just wanted to ask if you’ve gotten your detectors yet? I know you said something about not having a ladder . . .” 

He watched you visibly brighten, and something told him you’d listened to his words. 

“They just arrived this morning with the rest of my Walmart order. And I even got one of those carbon mo-mono—” 

“Monoxide.” 

“Yeah . . . that! One of those detectors too.” 

He tilted his head slightly. “You didn’t have that one to begin with?” 

Your fingernail found a piece of skin to pick at. How you hated disappointing anyone, especially him. “No. I thought I did, but I guess that just got away from me too.” 

“That’s okay, sugar. As long as you have one now, that’s all that matters. Were you able to find a ladder to get them installed?” 

You looked down at your lap. “I guess that’s why I also came here. I did get a ladder, but I’m worried I won’t be able to get them in correctly. Do you think one of your guys would be willing to come by my house at some point and do it for me?” 

Brett gripped the arm wrests and sank his blunt nails into the leather at the thought of sending someone over to your home, someone getting to spend time with you. It sent jealousy raging through his veins. He blinked slowly to rein in his feelings. 

“Why don’t I just come over,” he settled on. 

“But aren’t you busy? One of those guys called you Chief. I wouldn't want to take any of your time away for something as silly as installing smoke detectors,” you nervously chuckled with a wave of your hand even if you wanted to scream yes. 

He sputtered out a breath. “Nonsense. I’m more than happy to do that for you. Besides, the only ones waiting at home for me are my cats. I think they could wait a little longer for dinner.” 

“You have cats?” you asked, voice high-pitched and excited. “Can I see a picture?” 

Brett dug into his pocket and pulled out his phone. “I have three: two bengals and a tabby that decided my house was its property.” He turned his phone around, thankful that he decided to use a more recent picture as his screen saver. 

You softly took the device and held it to your face. “Brett, they’re so cute!” 

“The bengal on the right is Bagel, then the tabby is Marble, and then the other bengal is Swirl.” He laughed at himself. “Real original, right?” 

Your eyes met his over the top of the phone. “I think they’re absolutely precious. I thought about getting a cat until my friend’s ragdoll had to stay over one time, and he licked frosting right out of the bowl for a wedding cake I was making.” You pouted at the memory. “I had to make a whole other batch and it took forever. So, that’s why it’s just me and Dick.”

“I’m sure Dick is glad that he’s the top bird of the house.” 

“When he’s not falling on my feet that is,” you grumbled before settling into the chair after handing Brett his phone. “Are you sure you’re free to come over? I don’t want to keep you up.” 

Brett leaned forward and clasped his hands on top of his desk. “I wouldn’t have offered to do it if I didn’t mean it. Do you have any plans for tonight? I’d sleep better knowing you’re in a house with proper detectors.” 

You tried to not let that go to your head, along with the idea of Brett possibly sleeping over under those same detectors. So, you did your best to keep calm and smile prettily. “I’m all yours.” 

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

There was one thing you hadn’t thought through in the grand scheme of things. 

The first time Brett had been in your house just a few days ago, he was hidden beneath a few layers of heavy-duty, fire-resistant clothes that completely drenched his figure and hid him out of sight. But now as you watched him install your detectors in plain clothes, saliva pooled around your tongue, eyes trailing his body while he did one of the most mundane things men could do. 

His shirt wasn’t tight at all, but did it ever stretch over his biceps as he used both hands to twist the detector into the ceiling. His hazel eyes tracked his own movements, and his face tilted slightly at the right angles to see where to screw the thing in. You wondered if he was this tentative with other things, face near inches to the circular object. Your eyes trailed lower to where the swell of his stomach sat against the top of the ladder, and a small pudge pushed over the indent. He had one foot settled on a higher rung where his right knee jutted out and his left stayed straight down, but it was his thighs that kept your attention—his sturdy, thick thighs that you wanted to wear as earmuffs. 

“Hey, sugar? Can you hand me the screwdriver I put on your counter?” he asked, not even taking his eyes off the detector. “I just want it to be secured to the ceiling and not fall off in the night.” 

You stood underneath him with wide eyes, not fully comprehending what he asked you. You were way too busy thinking of his bicep wrapped around your neck than the words coming from his mouth. 

When you didn’t answer, Brett finally looked down and met your slightly ditzy expression. 

“Sweetheart?” he questioned again, and the name seemed to finally pull you out of where your brain went. 

“Oh! The screwdriver.” 

“On the—” 

“Counter,” you finished. “Got it.” 

Turning, your hair swished with the movement, and when you disappeared around the corner, Brett sighed and pinched his eyes shut, head resting against his raised arms. Sure, he might have looked as though he were concentrating on getting the damn thing in the ceiling, but installing detectors was something he could do in his fucking sleep. He didn’t need a damn screwdriver; he just needed you out of the room before his cock swelled to the point you could see the print through his pants. He had already been sporting a half-chub since he walked into your home. The ladder could only do so much to hide it. 

Brett didn’t know how much more he could take of your big eyes and need to do everything he asked with a smile and earnestness in your step. 

Fortunately—more like unfortunately—the one he was working on was the last to install, and he was dragging it out more than he should have. 

“Here you go,” you said, tapping the end of the screwdriver on his hip, and Brett nearly jolted at the surprise. 

When had you come back? 

“Thanks, sugar,” he muttered as he wrapped his big hand around the pink tool he got from your small tool kit. 

You pursed your lips. “I know this is the last one, but would you like to stay for a bit? I have pie from yesterday that hasn’t had a taste tester.” 

“Oh, I shouldn’t be here longer than needed.” 

“B-but, you didn’t even get a brownie that I made for you.” 

He smirked slyly. “Thought those were for the whole station.” 

Your foot twisted into your hardwood flooring. “Yeah they were, but you’re the one who came in and checked. I also have coffee . . .” 

“And the most sugary creamer on earth?” 

“You know it,” you giggled. “Whad’ya say, Chief Richards? Stay for pie?” 

He pretended to think for a moment before nodding his head. “Fine. You’re pulling my arm.” He shoved the detector into the holder and placed two hands on the ladder. “Right on time too, because you are now the owner of a sanctioned working smoke detector-ed home.”  

Your hands clapped together. “Thank you so, so, soooo much again. I still can’t believe they had been expired for a full year.” 

Brett jumped down from the top rung on instinct, not bothering to go down one by one. “Most people remember to look closer at the dates when changing the batteries. I wouldn’t go right to saying it’s a good thing your oven caught fire, but who knows what would have happened if your house went up in flames when you weren’t home.” 

“I think a really hot firefighter would have still come to my rescue,” you said with a wink. 

A beautiful flush filled his cheeks, and he tried to clear his throat, but it came out as more of a half-groan. 

“All right, sweetheart, let’s have your pie before you give this old man a heart attack with your sweetness,” he said and started to usher you towards the kitchen. 

“You’re not that old,” you scoffed. Brett sat in one of the chairs at your dining table while you uncovered the pie. “It’s apple; I hope that’s okay?” 

“More than okay,” he responded. “And I’m at least twenty years your senior, sugar, you don’t have to lie.” 

You hummed, dragging a knife through the crust and filling. “What year were you born?” 

“1975.” He caught the wince on your face. “Oh, don’t give me that. Older than twenty years?” 

“Try twenty three,” you said softly. You used a clean finger to swipe the pie off and onto a plate. 

Brett ran a hand down his face. Fuck. You were younger than his daughter. His hands curled into fists. What kind of sick, pervy old man was he acting like? There was no way he was going to give in to his deep desires now, not when you—

“Brett?” you asked, plate filled with pie outstretched. 

He swallowed thickly, Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat. “Sorry; distracted.” 

“Oh.” 

Now he’s made you upset. Double fuck. How dare he? He’d done all this for you: flirty, coming over to your house, letting his jealousy run his mind. This wasn’t your fault. 

The fork you’d given him scraped against the ceramic, and he put a bite in his mouth. He moaned around the metal and let his eyes flutter shut as the flavor of rich spice, apple, cinnamon, and buttery-flaky crust exploded on his tongue. 

“Fuck, sugar, that’s—” 

“Good?” He swore your eyes got bigger with anticipation. 

“That’s the best damn pie I’ve ever tasted. Probably the best damn thing to get in my mouth,” he groaned, already going in for another bite. “This is all homemade right?” 

You giggled again at the way he shoveled the pie into his mouth between his sentences. “Yep. Crust first, cause it always takes the longest. Then the filling. It’s just apples, cinnamon, and honey.” 

“Just apples, cinnamon, and honey my ass,” he grumbled. “This—you should open a bakery.” 

“Really?” Your eyes gleamed. 

“Fucking really. And do it right across the station so I can come by every day. I’d be your best customer if I got to eat this all the time. Probably get too fat to fit in my uniform, but it’d be worth every bite.” 

Your thighs clenched together at the idea of being the one to feed him, to see him every day just because he loved what your hands made. You did your best to stifle the whimper that followed, but the small noise squeaked out loud enough that he looked up at you through his eyebrows just as he put the last bite into his mouth. 

He said nothing while your eyes locked. Instead, he dragged a finger across the plate, tip picking up any crumbs or sticky filling leftover, and popped the digit into his mouth, cheeks hollowing as he sucked. 

“Brett,” you whimpered, tongue peeking out to wet your dry lips. “Can’t do stuff like that.” 

“Like what, sugar? I’m just being the kind guest and finishing the plate you made for me.” He pushed up from the table and stood at full height. “But something’s telling me I haven’t eaten everything yet.” 

In two steps, he towered over you and placed a hand on your chin. His bicep bulged in his sleeve while he applied upward pressure to stand you up, top of your head barely reaching the middle of his throat. His chin dipped. You looked up and noticed how blown his eyes were; pupils almost covering the deepened hazel of his irises. 

His hands rose and cupped your face. You weren’t too sure who moved first, but in the next sharp inhale, his lips met yours, and you melted right into him like butter in a hot pan, hands coming to grip his forearms that you could barely wrap your fingers around. His lips moved against and enveloped yours in hot, heavy lapping motions. 

He bent his knees to get at you with a better angle, and the movement made your hips knock together, drawing moans from both your chests. His hands moved downward, fingers trailing from your neck and tightening around your waist before finding your ass. He squeezed hard, and the feeling had your mouth opening further for more noises to escape. 

Brett found his opening, and his tongue slipped through your teeth. The hot, wet muscle explored your mouth as he took in your taste. If he focused enough, he found a hint of chocolate and coffee. 

“You taste so fucking sweet, sugar,” he moaned out. You took big gasping breaths against his lips. “Need more,” he muttered, more to himself, before taking your lips back against his, tongue diving right back in to swirl and dance against yours. 

You, on the other hand, tasted the remnants of the pie: apple and spice and something completely notable as Brett Richards. You wanted to bottle him, add him to your next dessert. Your hands wandered across his body as he kissed you. Palms flat against his stomach that tensed under your touch. Fingers gripping onto his pecs and feeling the muscle of them under his shirt. 

He pulled back again when oxygen became much too needed, and he rested his forehead against yours. 

“I shouldn’t be doing this,” he sighed. “I’m too—” 

“If you say old,” you panted, “I’m going to hit you. Age just makes wine finer, and Brett, you’re the finest man I’ve ever seen.” 

He groaned loudly, the noise echoing in through your open kitchen. His knee buckled slightly, and you stepped up, letting your core slightly brush against the top of his thigh. You whimpered at the pressure, and Brett’s eyes snapped open. 

“Oh, you poor thing,” he tutted before placing his hands back at your waist and turning you around in a fluid motion. You arched into him when the edge of your table dug into your lower back. “What type of guest am I? Making you all needy and not doing anything to help.” 

Without any struggle, he lowered his hands to the plush of your thighs and lifted you onto the table’s surface, legs dangling and spread just enough for him to push between, his thighs barely fitting against yours. The size difference sent a wave of dizziness up to your brain as you noticed how much he swallowed you up. 

His palms rested against your knees, and he bent at the waist to meet your lips again with searing heat and tongue. 

“Brett,” you mumbled against his lips and bucked your hips upward. “Need you.” 

He began to trail open-mouthed kisses along your neck, stopping only to suck and nip at your skin. “I’ll help you, baby.” 

He lowered until his knees hit the small bit of the circular carpet you had under the table legs and his face slotted near your core. He didn’t look away as he hooked his fingers into the waistline of the shorts you were wearing and the hem of your underwear. They both slid down your legs with little resistance, and Brett tossed them to the side. Without the constraints of the fabric, your thighs opened a bit wider on instinct. 

Brett’s throat constricted around an inhale as he stared right at your glistening folds. Almost mesmerized, he ran a shaky finger right down the middle from where your clit peeked through its hood and down to the top of your sopping entrance. Above his head, you keened at the lightest touch, body already begging for more. 

“Easy, sugar. Let me savor this dessert,” he whispered. 

He inhaled deeply, taking in your purest scent, before leaning in. He first dragged his flat tongue along your outer folds, adding to the wetness with his thick saliva. You moaned loudly at the feeling. Your fingers curled around the edge of the table just near his cinnamon sugar curls that you desperately wanted to latch onto as he edged his tongue nearer to where you needed him. 

Stars littered your vision when he finally circled your clit with the stiffened tip of his tongue, your bud rolling with pleasure and heat that had your thighs clenching around his head. Your stomach dipped and tightened, hips softly rocking in small motions to egg him on. 

When you looked down your stomach, his hazel eyes were already looking up at you, the lower half of his face covered by your soft mound as he sucked your clit between his lips. He kissed at her like he kissed you with wanting, languid puckers and tongue. But you needed more of him. 

“Breeetttt,” you breathily moaned. “Please, I need—” 

Your words died in your throat and changed into high-pitched mewls as your walls stretched around the finger he slowly thrusted in. Brett groaned into your pussy at the feeling of your muscles sucking the digit in farther, and the vibrations sent rolling hot pleasure straight to your navel. 

“Ohhh!” you gasped as your thighs tensed. “Feels—fuck!—Feels good!” 

“Yeah?” he asked, pulling back enough to wear his lips gingerly moved against your puffy folds. “Feel how deep I’m inside you? You’re so fucking tight around my finger. I’m going to need to stretch you out with at least three before I can get my cock in you, baby girl.” 

Your hips bucked at his words, and your chest tightened. 

Brett felt the way you clenched down, and in the next thrust, he added his middle finger to the mix. Your whimper that followed due to the filling pressure was music to his ears. He slightly parted the two as he ran his fingertips along your walls, prodding and dragging them to add to your building ecstasy. His wrist twisted so he could start curling them upwards, wanting to find the spot that made you squeal. 

He found it in three tries, and your body tensed and spasmed when he pressed into the spongy spot. 

“Does that feel good, sweetheart?” he asked before licking a hot stripe from where his fingers dipped into you and up to your clit. 

You nodded dumbly. “Yes, siiirrr,” you slurred, tongue heavy in your mouth. “Feels good. Shit!” 

With a glance up, Brett smiled widely at your fucked out expression and tears threatening to spill down your cheeks. The sight made his cock somehow swell even more, and he fought the urge to bring a hand down to rut against. If he was going to cum, he wanted it to be deep inside you. 

He withdrew his fingers from your fluttering hole and swirled them around your soaked, spit-slick, throbbing clit, causing more moans and stutters of your hips. 

“One more finger, baby.” 

He dragged all three through your folds as he stood from the kneeling position to take your lips back into a kiss. You leaned back to accommodate the way he still had to lean over you. In one inward motion, he pushed his fingers back into you, and you pulled away from his lips to whine loudly at the intrusion, tears finally spilling down your cheeks. 

Brett thought you looked so pretty with your glossy eyes and flushed cheeks, and without thinking, he licked up the tear trails, the small tang of salt mixing in with the sweet aftertaste of your arousal. He then kissed you deeply. A moan ripped through your throat. 

You could taste yourself on his tongue. Your lips sucked on the muscle, chasing after it when he tried to look down at his fingers and how you clenched around them. You were still tight, and your walls had eased, but Brett knew you’d be like a vise around his cock. 

“You’re going to feel so good around me, sugar,” he groaned, already envisioning the feeling of your tight warmth squeezing his length. “Already feel so good around my fingers.” 

“Yeah?” you panted, head tipped back and eyes squeezed shut as you focused on the in and out and in and out and in and out of his fingers. “You too.” 

“Are words getting hard, baby? Are you close to cumming just from my fingers?” he cooed and pressed small kisses along your jaw. “I can feel you tightening. Sooner you let go, sooner I can fuck you, sweetness.” 

“Brett!” you yelped with a buck of your hips. “Wanna cum!” 

“I know you do.” He curled his fingers and lightly thumbed at your clit. The reaction in your body was almost instant as you tensed, muscles preparing for the pure onslaught of rushing arousal that was about to snap. “And I want you to cum for me.” His fingers pistoned into your walls. “I want to feel your pussy clench around my fingers.

Your shirt was still on, but like he imagined you had the first time he was over, he could tell you weren’t wearing a bra. So, without warning, he leaned in and bit down on your right nipple hard enough to set off your orgasm. 

In a loud moan that dipped and rose into a higher pitch, your walls clenched rhythmically around his fingers, holding him deep against the spot that made your thighs tense. Your body shuddered and leaned into Brett’s sturdy chest as you came. 

“Oh, good girl,” Brett muttered after unlatching from your nipple and leaving a wet spot on your shirt around the nub. “Cumming so beautifully for me; looking so pretty like I knew you’d be.” His thumb never stopped swiping at your clit to draw the effects of your high for as long as possible. “Can’t wait to fuck you, baby girl.” 

“Brett,” you whimpered, chest heaving against him, hands gripping at his shoulders. You knew he’d probably have crescent nail marks deep in his skin after you let go. “Bedroom.” 

He scooped you up without even thinking. Your bare core sidled up across the rough, scratchy fabric of his pants, and you jerked slightly in overstimulation. Brett said a non-verbal thank you to whoever built your one-story house. He was about to fuck you three ways till Sunday, but the idea of his knees giving out up a flight of stairs would have buried him in embarrassment. 

Knowing exactly where your bedroom was after installing yet another detector on your wall, he kicked the door in gently, and in three large strides, he tossed you onto the bed. Your body hadn’t even had the chance to bounce against the plushness of your duvet before Brett tugged you towards him by your ankles, spine dragging across your mattress, shirt riding up to give him a sliver of your bare breasts. 

Once you got the idea to hook your ankles around his waist, he wasted no time in yanking your shirt clean up over your head. Now, you lied naked in contrast to him being fully clothed, and a jolt of pleasure had your pussy clenching around nothing and your lips pushing into a pout. 

Brett leaned down and ran a thumb across your bottom lip. “Don’t give me that look, baby.” He tapped the side of your thigh with his palm and jerked his head. “Move up and get on your hands and knees for me, sugar.” 

Your torso twisted as you rolled over and began to crawl up the bed. However, the sound of clothes ruffling caught your attention, and you stopped to look over your shoulder as Brett pulled his shirt off and unbuckled his belt. He tossed the accessory to the ground with a heavy clunk before pushing his pants and boxers down in one go. Your mouth went dry before instantly watering as your eyes tracked the way his cock bobbed slightly under the sheer weight of it. 

He was definitely the thickest you’ve ever seen, head already on the verge of purple and smeared in a glinting wetness. He had one prominent vein running along the side, and you were sure he seemed to get thicker at the base before the rest disappeared into a thatch of greying, wiry hair. He gripped himself slightly, running a thumb into the spot between the head and the shaft, and another dribble of pre cum trickled over his knuckles. 

Brett groaned at the feeling of finally getting some pressure around his cock. When you let out the smallest, neediest whine he’d heard from you yet, he looked up and met your eyes over your bare shoulder. 

“What’d I tell you, huh?” he asked. 

He took one step before kneeling at the edge of the mattress. His eyes caught the small bit of drool pooling at the edge of your lip. If he had more time, he would have let you suck at his tip, but he needed to be inside you now. His cock jostled as he placed his hands on your hips and tilted them upwards, his knees knocking against yours to widen your thighs. He shuffled forward until your ass flushed against his pubic bone. 

“Hands and knees,” you whimpered, head already lolling downward. 

A hum rumbled through his chest. “Good; you can listen.” He gripped himself again, positioning the head to slip along your folds before notching it against your entrance. “Ready, sweetness?” 

You nodded against the pillow, but that wasn’t enough for Brett. 

“Use your words, or are you already too dumb to find them?” he grunted. “Haven’t even gotten my cock in you yet.” 

“Please,” you warbled, “please fuck me.” 

“Okay, baby, deep breath for me,” he muttered before slowly pushing his hips inward. A grunt ripped from deep in his throat when his tip slipped through your first ring of tense muscles, and he tried not to tip forward onto your back at the feeling. 

Below him, you felt as though you were already being split wide open, his fingers did little to actually prepare for his size. Your body tensed, and your walls clenched tightly, pausing his movements. 

“Fucking hell, relax for me, sweetheart,” Brett grit through his grinding teeth. “Gripping me like a fucking vice.”

He reached over and down across your hip and slowly started circling your clit to ease himself deeper. After a few moments of gentle stimulation, he felt your walls begin to relax. “There we go. Loosening up so well for me.” 

His hips made a shallow thrust, feeding his cock to your pussy inch by inch. He groaned loudly, and the noise echoed in your bedroom and danced with the pathetic noises slipping through your lips. 

“Biiiggggg,” you panted, tongue peeking through your lips and wetting the pillow case with a small circle of drool. 

“Yeah?” Brett asked. Sweat already beaded at his brow. His body trembled. “‘M not even all the way in yet. Don’t think I can push through—” 

“You can!” you sobbed. “Want it, want it, want it all. Please.” 

His hands tightened around your hips, wanting to leave perfect bruises in the shapes of his fingerprints. “All right, baby. I’ll give it to you.” 

Your breath shuddered as he bullied his cock the rest of the way in through your fluttering walls. You could feel him in your throat. He was so fucking big, and it almost hurt to breathe. Your arms shook where they held you up, your belly tightening with pure pleasure from just being stuffed to the brim. 

Brett sighed in relief when he fully sheathed himself inside, and you choked on a moan because his cock brushed right against your soft spot as his tip kissed your cervix. He continued rubbing at your clit while starting off with small thrusts. A loud squelch sounded from between his cock and your pussy, and his eyes caught the small ring of creamy white already sticking to the hairs at his navel. 

“Baby girl,” he moaned and thrust back in, pushing all the air from your lungs. “Fuck!” 

Your head dropped again so you could see down your stomach, and your thighs tensed at the small bulge of your stomach. You tried your best to balance on one hand to touch it, to squeeze at his cock through your skin, but every time your hand lifted, your other arm wobbled too much. Brett felt the few attempts and paused. 

“Is everything okay, sugar?” he asked, voice filled with concern. 

You nodded. “Can see you.” 

His brows pinched. “You can see me?” he echoed. 

“Stomach.” 

His expression dropped when it hit him. “Oh.” 

He slowly splayed a hand across your stomach and did a small thrust. Right there, in the middle of his palm, he could feel himself dragging through your walls. The thought of him being big enough that he was visible sent a shiver down his and your spines. 

“Oh.” He seated himself inside and pressed upward with his hand. “Damn, fucking—” He sputtered out as you squealed, your insides tightening around his length. “Can feel myself right here. I’m so deep—shit!” 

You tried your best to say something, but your mind went blank, mouth only capable of spitting out whimpers mewls with each jolt of his hips against your ass. Your cheek dug into the plush of the pillow. 

He started to speed up in wet plap, plap, plaps, thighs hitting the backs of yours where your arousal was spreading downward toward your knees. With one particular hard thrust upward, your arms gave out, and your chest now flushed with the bed. 

“Oh, you sweet baby. Can’t even hold yourself up for long,” Brett cooed through his cock reaching depths you didn’t even know could be reached. “Can’t stay put, can’t speak, can’t fucking make sure your smoke detectors are working.” He pulled out, letting his cock slip from your clenching walls. 

Your whine of confusion barely hit his ears before he pushed your hips down onto a pillow he quickly slipped below. Through the hazy and numb fuzz of your brain, you moaned when his weight rested on top of your back, his stomach slotting into the dip of your spine, thick thighs pinning you down.  

He was deliciously heavy everywhere. 

His hips tilted to the side so he could slip back into your soaking pussy. “Is this better for your dumb brain, sugar? Need me to do everything for you? That’s right. You need me to make you safe, make you feel good. Used me to get your house up to date, used my fingers and tongue to get yourself off.”

He pushed upward, and you wailed beneath him at the angle change. You tried to lift your head, but your neck quivered at the weight. 

“Even now,” Brett tutted, “you can’t even hold your head up. But don’t worry, sweetheart, this old man can do it for you.” His freckled arm curled around your neck until your chin rested on the hump of his bicep. “Is that better?” 

You nodded, mouth wide open to take in lungfuls of air. He could even feel a small sliver of your drool drip from the corner of your lips. He smirked against the side of your head. 

“Droolin’ all over me in every place.” His hips languidly moved against you, his cock hitting deep with every single roll. “Mouth, pussy, just a drooly little baby who can’t do anything.” 

With his free hand, Brett reached between you and the duvet that was probably soaking up all your spilled slick that he pushed out of you. The tips of his fingers brushed against your throbbing clit, and he used his thrusts to grind yourself against his fingers. The added pleasure and stimulation was growing to be too much. His hips stuttered slightly when your walls started to clench and keep him buried. 

“Oh, your pussy loves when I play with your clit. She just wants to cum, sweetheart. So fucking tight around my cock.” His thrusts changed into rhythmic, punchy motions. 

“G-gonna!” you managed to squeak out right as your body tensed once and long as you came around him. 

“Fucking—” Brett cursed. 

He did his best to continue keeping a pace to draw out your high and fluttering walls that sucked him in, but he was no match. He thrust in once, twice before his body seized through his own orgasm, cock spurting his release deep inside to mix with the frothy arousal dripping out of you. Having felt like you sucked the life right out his cock, Brett put all his weight on top of you. 

The feeling had you melting right into the sheets, lungs compressing in a breathy sigh of content. 

In the gooey waves of endorphins, Brett rolled you both to the side, his dick slipping from your hole in the motion. However, he was quick to drag his fingers through the mix of you and him that seeped out and push the wet glob right back in. You whined through the tinges of overstimulation, but he quietly hushed you. 

His arms never left your middle as the two of you came down from the high, and he nuzzled his face into the crook of your neck while he lightly dragged his fingers up and down the skin of your arm. You gripped onto the arm that was trapped between your body and the bed. 

“Worth it,” you sleepily muttered. 

At the sound of your voice, Brett propped his head up with a bent arm. “What was that, sugar?” 

“I said,” you grumbled as you fought back the urge to sleep, “worth it. Saw you—” Your jaw popped in a yawn. “Saw you at the station; thought you were hot; wanted to say something but I was scared so—” 

His body jerked in a laugh. “Don’t tell me you set your brownies on fire just to get me in your bed.” 

“Stop, drop, and roll, Captain Richards.” You blindly reached for the duvet that had been pushed down to drape it up over both your bodies. “But it worked. Like I said . . . worth it.” 

Brett shook his head before gently kissing your shoulder. “You’re nothing but trouble. Might have to teach you a lesson after you take a nap.” 

“I can take it, old man,” you muttered before letting yourself dip into sleep. 

“We’ll see, sweetheart. We’ll see.”  

Assignments came and went. He moved, you moved—but you always stayed in touch. Bob looked out for you in a way no one else ever did, even when he was halfway across the world. Eventually, you ended up back on the same base again—him crashing on your couch because he hated the barracks. 

You were burning out at the time. Your contractor status was fragile. Insurance was expensive. But you couldn’t even think about moving back home. One night, you were crying, spilling your guts to Bob, stressed out of your mind, when he said it—the two words that changed your life. 

Marry me. 

You said no at first, because of course you did. But after a long conversation and a few more tears… you agreed. Because it made sense. You trusted him—more than anything—and if he was okay with it, how could you not be? 

You promised that if he ever met someone he truly loved, you’d bow out and let him be happy. But every time you said it, he’d just shrug and say he is happy. That you make him happy. And that he’s just glad to be able to look after you. To know you’re safe and cared for, that you don’t have to worry about losing your job, or affording healthcare, or having somewhere to live. 

He just wants to be there for you—in every way he can. Including the benefits of a military marriage. 

So, now you’re here. On North Island. Because Bob’s special detachment just got commissioned as a permanent unit—which obviously means his wife would be moving to be with him. 

“Are you sure you’re okay?” Bob asks, dark blue eyes wide behind his glasses. “I feel bad.” 

“Bobby, come on,” you sigh, propping a hand on your hip. “I’m a very capable woman. A few boxes aren’t going to break my back.” 

“I can call in sick?” he offers. 

You stare at him, deadpan. “Do not call in sick. Get your butt to work. I’m fine.” 

The new apartment is littered with moving boxes and half-assembled furniture. You’ve been here for two days already, but there’s still so much to unpack. Most of it’s yours. Bob barely brought anything from the barracks, but everything you hauled from Lemoore? Definitely not minimal. 

“It’s my shit anyway,” you say, walking him toward the door. “My responsibility to unpack.” 

He sighs as he steps into the corridor, turning back with a look you know too well. The one that says he’d set the sky on fire just to keep you warm. 

“Are you sure?” 

“Yes,” you say, exasperated. “Now go, or you’ll be late.” 

He hesitates—brows drawn, boots still planted. 

“Bob Floyd, go to work.” You lean in, hand on his shoulder, and press a kiss to his cheek. “Now.” 

His face flushes, lips twitching into a smile. “Fine. I’m going.” 

You watch him head down the hall toward the lift, cheeks still pink as he presses the button and waits. 

“Don’t lift anything heavy,” he calls, just as the elevator doors slide open. 

“I won’t,” you call back. “Leaving all the heavy stuff for you, my love.” 

He smiles softly, nods once, and steps into the lift. 

You roll your eyes and step back inside, shutting the door behind you. Then you lean back against it, staring out at the mess of boxes and half-built furniture. 

You’ve got the husband-and-wife act down pat after just over a year of marriage—although, at this point, most of it doesn’t feel like an act at all. Just genuine affection. Because you do love Bob. More than anything. And you don’t know what you did to deserve a best friend this goddamn sweet—all you know is that you’re beyond grateful for him. 

You linger there a moment longer, facing off with the chaos of cardboard and scattered tools. Then you take a deep breath, push off the door, and start tearing open boxes. 

You spend the entire day in the apartment—unpacking, sorting, putting things away. You leave most of the furniture alone. Not because you can’t build it, but because you know Bob would be mad if you did. He considers it his job every time you move, and honestly? You don’t mind. The fewer blisters you get from over-twisting stripped screws, the better. 

By six p.m., your limbs are aching, your head is throbbing, and your stomach’s growling so loud you're almost positive the neighbours can hear it. You still haven’t gone grocery shopping, which means the only things you’ve had all day are a coffee Bob made for you and a protein bar he picked up yesterday when he filled your car up. 

You dig your phone out from under a pile of packing paper and shoot Bob a quick text to let him know you’re heading to the store. Then you pull on a hoodie—or Bob’s hoodie, technically—and head out the door. 

The grocery store is only ten minutes away and easy to find. You park, grab a trolley, and start weaving through the aisles. Normally, you’d have some sort of list—scribbled on a scrap of paper or texted from Bob—but today, you’re winging it. On an empty stomach. Great. 

You’re only in the second aisle, gazing at the Pop-Tarts and wondering which flavour Bob would be the least disappointed in when— 

“Excuse me.” 

You whip toward the voice, eyes wide. “Crap. Sorry, am I in your way?” 

It’s a man—mid-thirties, probably—with pretty green eyes and a wide smile. He’s gorgeous in that obnoxious way that makes girls swoon—and yeah, he definitely knows it. 

“No, no,” he says, raising a hand. “I just—I have to ask. Do you always look this good in a grocery store? Because now I have to pretend I didn’t almost walk into a cereal display.” 

You snort softly. “Wow. Good one.” 

He lifts his brows. “Did it work?” 

You consider it for a moment, tilting your head and leaning a hip against the trolley. “Hm. No. Not really.” 

“Damn it,” he chuckles. “I’ve been trying to think of something to say for the last two aisles that wouldn’t make you immediately reject me.” 

You laugh softly, giving him a quick—but deliberate—once-over before meeting his gaze. 

“It’s not the line,” you say. “It’s the uniform. I don’t date military, sorry.” 

He frowns. “But I’m not wearing—” 

“Dog tags,” you cut in, eyes dropping to the silver chain peeking out from his shirt. 

“Shit,” he says, laughing. “You’re good.” 

“It wasn’t that hard.” 

“Really?” He steps aside to let someone pass, bracing one hand on the shelf beside you. “What else gave me away?” 

Your eyes flick down to his feet. “Boots.” Then his wrist. “Watch.” Then up. “Haircut.” 

He raises his brows. “Impressive.” 

“And your posture,” you add, gaze drifting across his broad chest. “It’s too straight. Too perfect.” 

His eyes narrow playfully. “Did you just call me perfect?” 

You roll your eyes. “I called your posture perfect, pretty boy. Now if you’ll excuse—” 

“So you think I’m pretty?” he interrupts, still not moving. 

“You know you’re pretty. You don’t need my validation.” 

He shrugs. “Couldn’t hurt.” 

You shake your head, biting back a smile. “Alright. What’s it going to take for you to get out of my way?” 

“A number,” he replies, too quick. 

You give him a flat look. “Okay. One. Now move.” 

He smirks. “Clever. But not the number I’m looking for.” 

“Then keep looking,” you say, gripping the trolley and stepping back. “Because I don’t date military. Trust me—it won’t end well.” 

Then you quickly steer around him before he can stop you, pushing the trolley down the aisle. 

“Won’t end well for you or me?” he calls after you. 

You glance over your shoulder. “Really want to find out?” 

“Can I at least get a name?” 

You stop at the end of the aisle, turning back with a small smirk. “See you around, pretty boy.” 

“Oh, you will!” he shouts, loud enough to earn a few puzzled glances from other customers. 

You laugh quietly to yourself as you turn your trolley into the next aisle. You catch glimpses of the man again as you shop, but you keep your focus on the task at hand—filling the cart with things you know Bob likes, and whatever you can throw together into a few easy meals. 

Still, you’re a little disappointed. Because that guy was hot, and he seemed like he could be a bit of fun. But you and Bob have one very strict rule: no military. 

You’re allowed to mess around with other people—because you’re both human, and you still have needs—as long as it’s casual and doesn’t put the arrangement in jeopardy. 

Hence, no military. 

It’s just too risky. Not that you ever really see the same person twice—because even that feels like a gamble—but especially not someone you might bump into at work. You’re still a civilian contractor, and if you hook up with someone and they recognise you on base? God, the whole thing could blow up. 

So you keep your hookups brief, occasional, and with people who have zero ties to the military. It’s just easier that way. Safer. 

Just as you reach the checkouts, your phone buzzes with a text from Bob: 

‘I’m home. Let me know when you are so I can come help.’ 

You smile and reply with a string of nonsense emojis. Then you pay, haul the groceries to the car, and head home. 

Bob is already in the garage when you pull in—because of course he is. He’s leaning against the wall, looking unfairly adorable in a pair of sweats and an old U.S. Navy hoodie, hair still damp from a shower. 

“Evening, Lieutenant,” you say with a grin. 

He steps up to the car, smiling softly. “How was your day?” 

“Productive,” you reply, popping the boot open. “Couldn’t you tell?” 

He chuckles. “Oh, you mean ground zero upstairs?” 

You nod. “Yep. That’s my organised chaos. Just you wait—by tomorrow afternoon, everything’s going to be perfectly put away.” 

He shakes his head, amused, and leans into the boot, loading as many bags as he can into each hand. When he straightens up, there are only two bags left—and it’s infuriating how easily he handles the weight of four bags per hand, like it’s nothing. 

“Show off,” you mutter, grabbing the last two. 

You head upstairs in comfortable quiet, neither of you feeling the need to fill the silence just for the sake of it. That’s something you’ve always loved about Bob—being around him feels effortless. He doesn’t expect anything from you. Doesn’t ask for more than you can give. 

You could sit beside him for hours and not say a word, and it would still feel like love—not real love, obviously, just the safe, platonic kind. The kind that doesn't get complicated. 

You’ve done things in front of him that would make other men blush. Cried with your mouth full. Passed out snoring on his shoulder during a movie. Gotten so drunk once that he had to wash your hair while you sat slumped in the tub, head in your hands. You’d been wearing your underwear, obviously, but Bob? He hadn’t even looked. Hadn’t dared. Just held the shower head and worked the shampoo into your hair like he was defusing a bomb. Gentle. Respectful. Sweet as ever. 

That’s the thing about Bob—he’s never once crossed a line. Never even hinted at it. You’ve been fake-married for over a year, shared hotels and couches and drunk stories and everything in between, and he’s never tried anything. Never looked at you like that. You don’t think he’s even thought about it. 

Which is honestly kind of a miracle. 

Any other man might’ve used this arrangement as an excuse to test the waters. A ‘harmless’ kiss. A comment. A suggestion. But not Bob. Bob’s too good for that. Too decent. He’s respectful to a fault. The kind of guy who would take a bullet for you but apologise if he got blood on your shirt. 

It’s why you love him so much. Not in a romantic way—just... as a person. As a partner. A friend. You trust him more than anyone. You’d trust him with your life, your secrets, your worst moments. And you know, without a doubt, that he would never do anything to jeopardise what you have. 

Honestly, if more men were like Bob Floyd, the world would be a better place. 

“I met a guy at the store,” you say, pausing halfway to putting the milk away. 

“Oh?” Bob replies, not looking up as he carefully arranges the eggs into the little plastic holder. 

“Yeah, but he was military.” 

“Damn,” he mutters, glancing up briefly. “North Island’s small. You’ll probably have to look further north for anyone not Navy.” 

You nod, leaning a hip against the kitchen counter. “I figured. But he was hot.” 

Bob lets out a soft chuckle. “Really?” 

“Yeah. Bit cocky, but that can be fun sometimes,” you say, turning to unpack another bag. “I don’t know. Maybe I’m just bugging ‘cause it’s been a while.” 

He hums in agreement, quietly focused as he lines the little spice jars up—in alphabetical order, of course—on the rack like it’s a puzzle that might save his life. 

You sigh, dramatic and long, as you drop a few bundles of fruit onto the bench. “Would it really be that bad?” 

He glances at you, brow furrowed. “What?” 

“A military hookup.” 

His eyes go wide. “Yes. That would be bad. Very, very bad. North Island is small. And my squad? We’re kind of... well-known.” 

“I’m not though,” you counter with a shrug. “I haven’t started my new role yet, but my desk is probably buried in the bowels of some overcrowded office. Who says I’d ever even run into you? Or anyone else?” 

Bob shakes his head, firm. “Still too risky.” 

“Ugh,” you groan, throwing your hands up. “Fine. But if my vibrator blows up from overuse, I’m blaming you for cockblocking me.” 

He chuckles again, cheeks flushing pink as he turns away to continue putting away the dry ingredients. He doesn’t reply—but he doesn’t have to. You both know the conversation is over. 

And you know he’s right. It is too risky. 

Your marriage might be a secret for now—from his squad and from his CO—but once you start your new role, you’ll have to declare it. And then you’ll have to be even more careful. Not just about what you say. 

But who you do, too. 

- Bob - 

After dinner and an hour on the lounge—scrolling through your phones, only half-watching the Nat Geo doc on sperm whales that Bob put on—you sit up and yawn. 

“Okay,” you say, pushing off the couch. “I’m going to bed.” 

Bob nods, looking up at you with a soft smile. “No worries. Goodnight.” 

“See you tomorrow, handsome,” you call over your shoulder as you walk toward the main bedroom. 

Bob doesn’t mind giving you the bigger bedroom. He knows you like having an ensuite, plus you’ve always had more stuff than him. So every time you’ve moved, he’s happily taken whatever spare or second bedroom is left. 

He waits on the couch a little while longer, until he’s sure he can no longer hear you moving around. Then he quietly turns off the TV and pads into his bathroom. He brushes his teeth, removes his glasses, and steps into the bedroom across the hall from yours, where his mattress is still lying on the floor—he hasn’t gotten around to building the bedframe yet. 

He’s about to switch off the light when he hears it. That soft, familiar hum—barely audible, but impossible to mistake. 

Bob Floyd knows that sound. 

The sound of your vibrator, buzzing through the walls like a siren song. 

He groans low in his throat, flicks off the light, then drops to his knees at the edge of the mattress. He falls forward, burying his face in the pillows, and lets out a long, quiet sigh. 

He doesn’t move. Not at first. Just waits—face pressed into the cotton, heart pounding, cock already swelling thick and hot against the mattress. 

Because he knows what’s coming. He always does. 

Like a fucking creep, like a goddamn pervert, Bob knows exactly what happens next. And he lies there—unmoving, desperate, strung tight—just listening. 

It starts small. The shift of sheets. A soft sigh. The subtle creak of your bedframe as you get comfortable. 

Then the hum kicks in. Louder now. Higher. The toy you keep tucked in the top drawer of your nightstand—the one he’s heard more times than he’ll ever admit. 

He knows that sound like the back of his hand. Not from seeing it—God, he wishes—but from too many nights lying in the dark, counting every soft rise in pitch, every subtle shift in tempo like it’s a fucking metronome set to ruin him. 

Then your breathing shifts—sharp, shallow, soft. It’s quiet enough to pass for nothing at all. Quiet enough that you probably think no one can hear. 

But Bob hears everything. 

He bites into the pillow, hips slowly rolling down, the friction of the mattress nowhere near enough but still better than nothing. He grinds again… and again, slow and heavy, like he can’t stop himself—and really, he can’t. 

Because he can hear you. All of you. The way you sigh, that breathy little whimper as you press the toy closer. He imagines your thighs parting, your back arching, your free hand curling into the sheets. 

He groans into his pillow, hips pressing forward again—slow and deliberate—pressure dragging against his length while he pictures you wrapped around it. It’s not relief, not even close—but it’s something. It’s the only thing he has. 

And he knows he shouldn’t. God, he knows. This is fucked up. You’re ten feet away, touching yourself, slowly coming apart with no idea he’s lying here, rutting helplessly against his mattress like a goddamn teenager. 

But he can’t help it. He’s never been able to help it when it comes to you. 

Not when he can hear you biting back a moan, shifting your hips under the covers. And then—fuck—that tiny little gasp. The one that always gives you away. That last, wrecked sound you make when you come. 

He’s memorised it. Just like everything else about you. 

And the second it hits his ears, he knows it’s over—and he falls apart too. 

His body locks up, muscles tight, grinding hard into the mattress as his orgasm rips through him—hot, heavy, and overwhelming. He chokes on your name, burying it deep into the pillow like a secret he’ll never tell as he spills into his boxers. 

It’s not graceful. It’s not pretty. It’s desperate. Messy. Shameful. 

And when it’s over, he just lies there—panting, trembling, sticky and spent. 

Shame curls in his stomach, guilt gnawing at the edges of his hazy thoughts. Thoughts of you, in your room, flushed and glowing with that post-orgasmic haze. 

He hates himself almost instantly. 

But this is who he is. This is what he does. Not just since living together or being fake-married—no, Bob has been getting off with your name on his lips for years. 

Because the truth is—Bob Floyd is completely, helplessly, stupidly in love with you. 

God, he wishes he wasn’t. Or better yet, he wishes he’d had the guts to ask you out all those years ago when he first met you at Lemoore. But he didn’t. He couldn’t. He was too chickenshit. And now? Now he’s trapped in a fantasy you think is fake—wearing the ring, playing the role, losing his fucking mind. 

And he’s the idiot who signed up for it. Who offered it. 

All he’s ever wanted was to make sure you’re happy. Safe. Cared for. And if he couldn’t tell you the truth—couldn’t admit that he’s in love with you—then being your fake husband felt like the next best thing. 

Even though it’s killing him. Slowly. And ruining all his boxers. 

Because living with you, pretending to be married to you, is the hardest thing Bob has ever done—literally and figuratively. 

He likes to think he’s good at hiding it. Hiding how he really feels. 

But it’s getting more and more difficult every day, and— 

Fuck. He’s stupid. He left his goddamn bedroom door wide open. 

You could’ve walked out at any moment—you still could. To grab a drink. Check the front door. Or even adjust the thermostat. And the worst part? This isn’t even the first time he’s forgotten to shut it. 

Just like it probably won’t be the last. Because no matter how many times he promises himself he’ll stop getting off to the sounds of you touching yourself, he always lets those breathless little noises unravel him. 

Every damn time. 

After a few minutes of wallowing in self-pity—and sticky underwear—Bob rolls off his mattress, grabs a clean pair of boxers, and heads into the bathroom. He cleans himself up in the dark, avoiding the lights—and his own reflection—before slipping back into his room and falling into bed. 

Sleep finds him quickly, despite the guilt lingering like static under his skin, and before he knows it, the sharp ring of his alarm is dragging him upright again. He groans quietly and moves through the motions the same way he does every morning. 

First, he makes a fresh pot of coffee. Then he showers, does his hair, changes into his flight suit, and heads back to the kitchen. 

Your door is still shut by the time he’s lacing up his boots. He can’t hear the shower running or the muffled sound of videos playing on your phone, so he figures you’re letting yourself sleep in. 

He fills his travel cup with fresh coffee before finding your favourite mug in the sink, giving it a quick rinse, and setting it beside the pot. Then he digs through his work bag for that little pad of yellow Post-it notes and scribbles out a message: 

Good luck today. Remember, the boxes are more afraid of you than you are of them. ♡ 

He sticks it to the side of your mug, checks his pockets for keys and ID, then slips out the door—making sure to shut it quietly—smiling to himself like a loser at the thought of the text you’ll send him when you find the note. 

He knows it’s ridiculous. He knows he shouldn’t indulge himself. But acting like a real husband is what keeps Bob from going completely insane. Kind of. 

Leaving you notes, bringing you flowers, doing all the little domestic things a good spouse might do for their significant other—that’s what makes Bob happy. And he knows it makes you happy too. So he’s not going to stop. Not until you tell him to. Not until you stop saving all his little Post-it notes in that journal you think he doesn’t know about. The one you keep in the top drawer of your dresser, hidden beneath your lingerie. 

And how does he know that? 

Well—spouses do each other’s laundry. It’s completely innocent. He has absolutely no hidden agenda when it comes to offering to do your laundry. It’s not like he’s ever gotten off into a pair of your panties before. 

That would be insane. Perverted, even. 

Bob wouldn’t do that. No way. 

“Hello?” Natasha waves a hand in front of Bob’s face. “Are you even listening?” 

He blinks, vision slowly refocusing on the brunette standing in front of him. He’s not sure when she walked into the briefing room—or when she even started talking. All he knows is that, before he started daydreaming about your lingerie drawer, he was the only one in the room. 

He clears his throat. “Sorry. Distracted. What were you saying?” 

She folds her arms and glances around, as if checking to see if anyone else can hear what she’s about to say. “How’d the move go?” 

Bob straightens a little, subtly shifting in his seat to check the room. Javy and Reuben have arrived and are seated at the back, talking about the flight schedule for the day. 

He turns back to Natasha and nods. “Good. She’s still unpacking. Won’t start on base until next week.” 

“You should tell Mav,” she says, sinking into the seat beside him. “You’re going to have to declare the relationship. It’ll be better coming from you. At least then you can ask him not to tell the others.” 

Natasha knows about you—of course—not because Bob told her, but because she saw his ring hanging beside his dog tags during PT one time. She also spotted the polaroid he keeps of you tucked behind the threat matrix card on his kneeboard, and she put two and two together. 

He hadn’t hesitated to tell her it wasn’t a traditional marriage—because he knew Natasha would understand. What he didn’t expect was for her to immediately clock that he’s in love with you. Or the way she sighed and shook her head when he told her that you didn’t feel the same and asked her to keep her mouth shut. 

He knows she wants to meet you, too. He’d even say she’s dying to. But that can’t happen yet. Not until you’re properly settled on North Island and his CO knows about the relationship. Then Bob will think about telling the rest of the squad. 

Or maybe he’ll just invite Natasha over for dinner and forget the rest of them entirely. Because you’re his secret—his favourite secret—and something about letting that out makes him feel nauseous. 

“Good morning, aviators!” Maverick calls as he walks into the room. “Nice to see that most of you care about being here early.” 

He drops his folders on the desk before powering up the digital display and pulling out his tablet. 

Natasha nudges Bob in the side and tips her head toward Mav. Bob hesitates, glancing over his shoulder to see that Mickey has joined Reuben and Javy at the back, but neither Bradley nor Jake are here yet. They’re not late—but they’re cutting it close. Which means Mav won’t start right away. 

Which means Bob has the perfect opportunity to speak to his CO about you. 

Natasha elbows him again, harder this time, her eyes wide with warning. 

“Okay,” Bob mutters, pushing up from his chair. “I’m going.” 

He walks slowly up to where Maverick is scowling at his tablet, tapping the screen harder than necessary. 

Bob clears his throat. “Mav. Can I talk to you for a sec?” 

Maverick glances up, brow furrowing. “Of course. Everything okay?” 

“Yeah—uh, yes sir,” Bob replies, dropping his voice low. “I just wanted to mention something before it comes up.” 

“Okay…?” Maverick says slowly. “Is this private? Do we need to leave the room, or—” 

“No, it’s okay,” Bob says, pushing his glasses higher up his nose. “I mean, it is private, but before the others get here—um.” He clears his throat again. “My wife just moved here. She’s a civilian contractor, and she’s going to be working on base.” 

Maverick’s brows shoot up, but his voice stays low. “Wife?” 

Bob nods. “Yes, sir.” 

“Wow. Okay.” 

“I’d just appreciate if you could keep it quiet,” Bob adds. “We’re not really—” 

“Don’t worry.” Maverick drops a hand on Bob’s shoulder. “I get it. The squad doesn’t need to know. This is your life, your secret. Your wife.” 

God, Bob loves hearing that. His wife. 

“Just file the paperwork with HR, and let me know if there are any issues,” Maverick says, letting his hand drop. “If anyone questions it or gives you a hard time, send them to me. I’m not against a—um… convenient arrangement. So I’ll vouch for you, alright?” 

Bob’s cheeks flush. “Thank you, sir. I appreciate it.” 

Maverick nods, and Bob takes the dismissal. He turns back toward the room and is relieved to find the others still deep in conversation at the back. Only Natasha is watching him, her eyes sparkling and lips curled into a knowing smirk. 

“What’d he say?” she asks as he drops into his seat. 

Bob shrugs. “Not much. He understood the situation.” 

“Oh?” Natasha raises a brow. “So he’s all over the fake-wife-who-you’re-secretly-obsessed-with thing?” 

Bob shoots her a sidelong glare. “Shut up.” 

She snorts quietly to herself but doesn’t say another word—just turns her gaze toward the digital display where Maverick is bringing up their latest sim stats. 

Eventually, Jake strides into the room, with Bradley not far behind. They drop into their usual seats, and Maverick launches into the day’s briefing—something about sim times, and how they need to be tighter. Bob tries to pay attention, but his focus is shot. He stares at the screen, nodding at the right moments, jotting down a few notes here and there, but his mind is miles away. 

With you. Wondering what you’re doing. Whether the unpacking is going okay. If you’ve seen his note yet. If you’ve texted him. 

He’s usually better than this—better at compartmentalising, staying locked in—but something about today feels different. Maybe it’s the fact that you’re finally here. In North Island. In the apartment. In his everyday life, not just in his daydreams and text messages. 

He keeps thinking about last night. The way your shirt had ridden up while you reached to shove a box into the top cupboard above the fridge. The warm stretch of bare skin, the way your hips swayed without you even realising. Or the soft little moan you let out when you bit into your chocolate bar after dinner—like it physically hurt to taste something that good. Or the way your lips wrapped around it, slow and indulgent. He shouldn't be thinking about that. But he is. 

Mostly, though, he can’t stop hearing you. 

That breathy, broken little sound you made in the dark. The one that slipped through the walls when you thought no one could hear. When you were touching yourself. Coming apart. And he was ten feet away, grinding against his mattress, pretending it was you. 

God. What is wrong with him? 

He drags a hand across his jaw and tries to focus, but it’s useless. It’s like something inside of him cracked open during the special detachment—like the distance rewired him. Like missing you for so long left something raw and exposed, and now that you’re here, in his orbit again, he can’t think about anything else. 

You’re everywhere. In his apartment. In his bed—in a way. In his skin. 

And no matter how hard he tries to shake it off, you're still there. Taking up every thought, every breath, every beat of his heart. More than ever. And God, he’s not sure how to deal with it anymore. 

“Not hungry, Floyd?” Javy asks, pausing at the door with a small frown. 

Bob blinks, quickly glancing around the now-empty briefing room—except for Javy. “Is it lunch?” 

Javy chuckles. “Yeah, man. Where have you been?” 

Bob takes a deep breath and pushes out of his chair, gathering his things before following his very sceptical squadmate out into the corridor. 

By the time he reaches the mess hall, everyone has already grabbed lunch and settled around the usual table. Bradley and Reuben are deep in an argument about something Maverick apparently critiqued during their sim flight last week—not that Bob has any idea what it actually was—and Natasha is explaining to Mickey, for some reason, that possums do not, in fact, lay eggs. Why? No clue. 

“Okay, everyone shut up,” Jake says, dropping his tray with a dramatic thud. “I have an announcement.” 

The squad falls quiet—all eyes on him, brows raised, mouths shut. 

“Thank you.” Jake grins. “I just wanted to let you all know that I—Jake Seresin—met the love of my life last night.” 

Natasha frowns. “Are you talking about Penny’s new bartender? Because she literally told you to choke.” 

“Nope,” Jake replies, unfazed. “Different woman. Grocery store. Breakfast food aisle. She was buying Pop-Tarts but looking at me like I was the tart.” 

Reuben snorts. “That checks out.” 

“So what happened?” Bradley asks, a smirk lifting one corner of his mouth. “Did you talk to her?” 

“Yep,” Jake nods. “It was magical. She was so hot, and funny too. The chemistry was insane.” 

“Did you get her number?” Mickey asks. 

Jake sighs. “Well, no, but—” 

Bob frowns, leaning in. “What was her name?” 

“Didn’t get that either.” 

Bradley chuckles. “Hold on. So she’s the love of your life, but you don’t even know her name?” 

“We had a connection beyond this plane of existence,” Jake insists, eyes narrowed. “I’m telling you. It was spiritual.” 

“Is there anything you did find out about her?” Javy asks, clearly trying not to laugh. 

Jake shrugs. “Well, she clocked me for military pretty quick, and said she doesn’t date military.” 

Bob’s stomach drops. Panic creeps up the back of his neck, making the little hairs stand on end and his flight suit feel uncomfortably hot. 

“She wasn’t wearing a ring, was she?” Reuben asks, grinning. 

“Nope,” Jake says. “I checked. Not making that mistake a third time.” 

Bob exhales quietly, relief washing over him. He remembers—very clearly—seeing your wedding ring on your finger last night. He always notices when you're wearing it. He fucking loves seeing it on you. 

“Alright, Romeo,” Natasha says. “How exactly do you plan to find this mystery woman again if you don’t know anything about her?” 

“I trust the universe,” Jake says, leaning back with smug confidence. “I’ll see her again. Soon. It’s destiny.” 

Javy claps a hand on his shoulder. “Okay, destiny. You might want to stop talking before someone calls medical and gets you checked for a head injury.” 

Jake just rolls his eyes and picks up his burger, eyeing the beef patty like it might be radioactive before finally taking a bite. 

There are a few minutes of quiet while everyone starts eating their lunch. Bradley grumbles about how he should’ve picked the burger instead of the sloppy joe, and Javy mutters something to Natasha about trading his vanilla pudding for her chocolate one. 

Then Reuben pipes up, loud and clear across the table. “So, Floyd… saw you whispering something real secretive to Mav this morning. What was that about?” 

Bob stiffens, nearly choking on his sip of water. “What? Oh, nothing. Just… work stuff.” 

“Oh yeah?” Reuben grins. “Looked like top-secret classified info. You trying to get reassigned?” 

“Probably just checking if he could skip night duty next week,” Natasha says dryly, without even looking up from her pudding. “Someone’s got laundry to fold and throw pillows to rearrange.” 

Bob’s eyes go wide. “I’m not—there’s no—” he splutters, flushing red as he waves a hand in mild panic. “It was literally just… paperwork.” 

Javy raises a brow. “Paperwork that makes you blush like that?” 

Bradley frowns, leaning forward to look at Natasha. “What are you talking about throw pillows?” 

She glances up, eyes wide and brows raised—the picture of innocence. “Hm? Oh, nothing.” 

Bob sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose and rubbing the spot where his glasses sit. “Can we just drop it?” 

“Ooh,” Mickey pipes up. “Maybe Bob has a secret love child we don’t know about.” 

Reuben leans in, eyes gleaming. “Blink twice if it was about alimony.” 

Bob lifts his head with a flat stare. “Do I look like I have time for children?” 

“Secret love child…” Jake says slowly—thoughtfully. “Honestly, I’d believe it.” 

“If Bob had a kid, don’t you think we’d know?” Bradley says, flicking a green bean across the table at Reuben. 

“Exactly,” Natasha grins. “If Bob had any secrets, we’d know. Right, Bob?” 

If looks could kill—or at least maim—Natasha would already be halfway to medical by now. 

“Right,” Bob mutters, jaw tight. 

“And if anyone had a secret love child,” she adds, gaze drifting across the table, “it’d be Hangman.” 

Jake scoffs. “Why me?” 

Mickey snorts. “Because you have the most sex, hands down.” 

“Speak for yourself, dude,” Reuben mutters. 

“Yeah,” Bradley smirks. “Seresin strikes out more than the rest of us combined.” 

“Well, yeah,” Mickey chuckles. “But only because he flirts with way more women than the rest of us.” 

“Again,” Natasha chimes in, “speak for yourself, Fanboy.” 

There’s a chorus of oohs interlaced with laughter as Mickey rolls his eyes, cheeks going just the softest shade of pink—but Reuben notices. The teasing quickly shifts to Mickey, leaving Bob staring down at his lunch with his pulse pounding in his ears. 

The next half hour passes in a blur while Bob does his absolute best not to think about you—which means, of course, you’re all he can think about. And then just as everyone starts rising from their seats, his phone buzzes with a burst of rapid-fire texts stamped with your contact name. 

‘The boxes are winning. If I don’t make it, tell my husband he was too good for this world.’ 

‘Oh, and he’s not allowed to move on for AT LEAST two weeks.’ 

‘P.S. your wife says thanks for the coffee. Might reward you later with some expertly folded laundry.’ 

Bob’s heart lurches into his throat while all the blood in his body reroutes south. He types out a quick reply: ‘What laundry?’ 

“You coming, Floyd?” Natasha asks, standing on the opposite side of the table with a frown. 

Bob looks up, dazed. “I—uh, yeah. I’m coming—I mean, you go. I’ll catch up.” 

“Okay...” she mutters, eyeing him suspiciously as she turns to follow the others toward the tray return. 

His phone pings again, lighting up with another text from you: ‘Found a pile on the floor in the bathroom and assumed it was dirty? Promise there was no creepy sniffing, and I definitely didn’t notice anything about your boxers!’ 

Bob lets out a strangled noise, drops his phone onto the table with a clatter, and buries his face in his hands. 

Right now, he wouldn’t mind if the ground opened up and swallowed him whole. Or if a rogue fighter jet spiralled off course and obliterated the mess hall. Or if a black hole cracked open beneath his chair and sucked all of North Island into oblivion. 

Except for you, of course. He’d want you to be safe. 

But aside from that, he’d gladly disappear right now. Some inexplicable catastrophe would do just fine—anything to keep him from going home and facing the woman who just washed his crusty boxers. Boxers that were only crusty because of her, anyway. 

And— 

Oh, God. Why is he getting hard? 

It doesn’t make any sense. One dumb joke about laundry and boxers and suddenly his body is acting like you sent nudes. He’s not even thinking about you like that—not really—and yet here he is, halfway to a full-blown erection in the middle of the mess hall with zero warning and absolutely no control. What the hell is wrong with him? 

He shifts in his seat, eyes wide and pulse thundering in his ears as his flight suit starts pulling taut in places it absolutely should not. 

If he doesn’t get moving, he’ll be late—and Maverick will ream him for it. But he can’t exactly stand up with a raging hard-on in the middle of the goddamn mess hall. 

With another strangled groan, Bob white-knuckles his lunch tray and holds it right in front of him as he shoves back his chair and stands. He beelines for the tray return, drops his tray without making eye contact with a single soul, and turns sharply toward the exit. 

Once he’s out the door, he yanks down the zipper of his flight suit and adjusts himself as quickly and discreetly as humanly possible. 

Mercifully, there’s no one within ten feet of him—but just ahead, where the squad is walking back toward the squadron building, Bob spots Reuben glancing over his shoulder. Brows drawn. Eyes wide. Curiosity written all over his face. 

And now Bob wants to die. 

Great. What a fantastic Tuesday he is having. 

By the time Maverick dismisses the squad at the end of the day, Bob can’t get out fast enough. He barely mumbles a goodbye before practically running out the door and across base. 

He flicks you a quick text to say he’s on his way, then jumps in his car. But instead of heading straight home, he makes a stop at the little florist he passes every morning and afternoon—the one he’s been wanting to visit for months. He’s been thinking about it since you agreed to move here, picking up flowers on his way home from work like some hopeless suburban husband. It’s dumb. Ridiculous, even. But he can’t help himself. He started doing it the first week you moved in after the ‘wedding’ and now it’s a ritual. A compulsion. 

He grabs a bunch of blood-red roses—because he’s romantic like that—and drives the rest of the way home, parking beside your car in the underground garage. His palms are sweating by the time he’s in the lift, and his heart won’t slow down. He feels twitchy. Wired. Like his whole body has been buzzing with anticipation since he last saw you—which, tragically, was only twenty-four hours ago. 

“I’m home,” he calls as he pushes open the door, trying not to sound breathless. 

The apartment already looks better than it did this morning. Fewer boxes now. The bookshelf is upright and full. The dining table is properly assembled—chairs and all. There’s a knife block, a roll of paper towel, and a candle on the kitchen bench. And right in the middle of the island—an empty glass vase. Almost like you knew. 

“Bobby,” you call, ducking your head out of your bedroom door at the end of the short hallway. “Just showered. I’ll be out in a sec.” 

His breath catches at the sight of you clutching a towel to your chest, damp skin glowing, droplets racing down your collarbones and disappearing between the curves of your breasts. Your hair’s wet. Your legs are bare. And for one unbearable, glorious moment, Bob forgets what language is. 

His cock twitches. 

“No worries,” he mutters, voice hoarse and a little too high. 

You’re already gone before he even finishes speaking, but you don’t fully close the door—and his pulse kicks hard against his ribs. Because fuck, you’re naked in there. 

He drops his bag like it’s on fire, kicks off his boots, and sets the flowers on the counter without even looking. Then he starts down the hall toward his room, right across from yours. His head is bowed like he’s deep in thought, but his eyes flick to that sliver of open door. 

And God—he sees you. 

Just a glimpse. Just enough. A stretch of skin. The slope of your back. And then you turn slightly toward the bed and—fuck. Your tits. Just there. Bare. Bouncing softly with your movement. 

He lets out a strangled sound and walks face-first into his closed bedroom door with a loud thunk. 

“Shit,” he hisses, clutching his forehead and praying to every saint he can think of. 

Your door swings open and you step out, now holding a sweatshirt to your chest. “You okay?” 

Bob can’t even look at you, his cheeks burning. “Yeah—yeah, I’m fine. Wasn’t, uh… wasn’t looking. Just tired. Mav really pushed us hard. Long day.” 

“Mm,” you hum, clearly amused. “Well, Lieutenant, maybe wait until you’re in bed before you close your eyes?” 

He half-laughs, half-chokes, and gives you a quick salute. “Noted. Bed first.” 

Then he shoves his door open, stumbles inside, and shuts it behind him in one fast motion. He leans back against it, eyes squeezed shut, hands trembling. 

His cock is hard. Painfully, unreasonably hard. Pressed tight against his flight suit with nowhere to go. 

God, did you notice? 

He’s pretty sure you didn’t. Otherwise, you’d be freaked out. Right? 

With a deep breath, he drags the zipper of his suit down and wriggles out of it. He kicks it off his feet and leaves it crumpled on the floor before turning to face the door. Then he braces one hand against the wood while the other slips beneath the waistband of his briefs. He pushes them down slowly, deliberately, letting his hard length spring free, skin slick with the heat of anticipation. 

His breath catches, shaky and uneven, as he wraps his fingers around himself. He drags slow, torturous strokes up and down, eyes squeezed shut, clinging to the vivid, forbidden image of you—wet, vulnerable, just beyond that goddamn door. 

Each stroke draws a ragged gasp, the heat building low in his belly until it’s almost unbearable. His hips start to lift, chasing the mounting pressure, fingers tightening instinctively. 

He imagines your voice—soft, breathy—whispering something filthy in his ear, something that would have him leaking on the spot if he dared to imagine it too loud. 

His skin prickles, pulse pounding in his ears. The world shrinks until there’s nothing but his hand, the hard length in it, and this door separating you from him. 

He fights to steady his frantic breath as white-hot pressure builds at the base of his cock. And just as that delicious snap of heat tears through his body— 

“Hey, did you want the blue Gatorade or can I take it?” you call out. 

His whole body locks up, release spilling in hot, sticky ropes against the door. 

Fuck. 

“A-All good,” he croaks. “You have it.” 

He slumps forward, forearm pressing against the wood as his head drops with a soft thud. His dick twitches in his hand, still half-hard, still leaking. 

God, this has to stop. He can’t just jerk off every time he sees so much as your shoulder. 

Though, what he saw before was much more than that. But he was creeping—looking for it, trying to catch a glimpse. No, this all has to stop. Not just the wanking, but the perving too. Jesus Christ, it has to stop before you find out. Or worse—catch him. 

The thought makes his spine tingle—but... not in an entirely unpleasant way. 

Great. Now he’s turned on by the idea of you catching him in the act. 

Maybe he needs therapy. Or maybe he should be the one getting checked for a head injury—not Jake and his grocery store destiny. 

After stripping off his underwear—using them to wipe down the door, because he’s disgusting—and pulling on a pair of sweats, Bob finally steps out of his room. His cheeks are still hot, his pulse still hammering, but at this point, that’s just baseline when it comes to being around you. 

“You don’t have to keep getting me flowers,” you say, smiling softly as you arrange the bouquet in the vase like you’ve done it a hundred times. 

He shrugs. “Just being a good husband.” 

And trying to make up for jerking off to you like a goddamn lunatic. 

“Well,” you slide the vase into the middle of the kitchen island, “they’re gorgeous. Thank you.” 

He gives you a small nod, lips twitching like he might smile—but then he notices what you’re wearing, and it dies immediately. 

“Going out?” he asks, keeping his tone light. 

“Yep,” you reply brightly. “I’ve got a date.” 

His stomach drops. 

“Okay, not a date,” you amend quickly. “Just a hookup. Strictly sex. But I didn’t feel like I could show up in my sweats, you know?” 

Bob thinks you look stupid hot in your sweats. But right now you’re in a pair of jeans that cling to your ass and a shirt he’s pretty sure he’s never seen before, and his brain is starting to melt again. 

“Hence, the nice clothes,” you add, gesturing to yourself. “I shouldn’t be late. Probably won’t even eat. So… save me some dinner?” 

Bob frowns. “What dinner?” 

You roll your eyes, sliding one arm into your jacket. “Whatever you decide to make. Because you’re an amazing cook. And I know you’re going to make something, because you cook every weeknight except Fridays.” 

“What if I don’t feel like cooking tonight?” he mutters, feeling petulant and jealous and very much trying not to show it. 

You smirk. “Okay, grumpy. Then order me some extra takeout.” 

He doesn’t answer—just nods once and turns to the fridge, opening the door like whatever’s inside is the most fascinating thing he’s ever seen. 

“I’ve got my location on,” you say, stopping at the front door to slip your shoes on. “Just in case the guy’s a psychopath.” 

Bob glances over his shoulder. “Should I be worried?” 

“Nah,” you shrug. “He’s an accountant. Boring as hell. No military ties. Didn’t even know North Island was a Navy base—thought it was Air Force.” 

Bob’s eyes narrow. “You’re kidding.” 

“Nope,” you say with a laugh. “He’s up in La Jolla. I guess when you’re wealthy enough, you don’t have to worry about anything outside your little bubble.” 

Bob shuts the fridge and turns to face you, frown deepening. “La Jolla’s nearly an hour away.” 

“I know,” you say. “But no military, remember? Means I have to travel. And Bob, I know you don’t want to hear this—but I need sex. I’m dying. I’m falling apart. My vibrator can only do so much, but I need a real di—” 

“Okay,” he cuts in quickly, eyes wide. “That’s… enough. Just go. Be safe.” 

He steps up against the kitchen island, grateful that the counter is hiding his growing hard-on. Again. 

You flash him a grin and pull the door open. “If I’m not back by eleven, call the cops and avenge me dramatically.” Then you step out into the corridor, waving. “Love you! Bye!” 

“Love you too,” Bob mutters. 

The second the door clicks shut, he collapses forward, forehead hitting the cool marble benchtop with a groan loud enough that you might’ve heard it on your way to the elevator. 

Bob spends the evening doing everything he can not to be a creep. He cooks dinner, sets aside a container for you, and watches a documentary called Inside The Vatican—hoping some religious guilt might fix him. 

It doesn’t. 

After washing the dishes—and spending a concerning amount of time scrubbing your mug—Bob paces the apartment, trying desperately to think of anything besides jerking off. Then his eyes land on his mattress still lying on the floor, and he decides maybe building his bed will take up enough time. 

Again, it doesn’t. 

Once he hauls the mattress into the frame, he spends the next twenty minutes carefully rearranging the furniture in his room. Then he sits on the edge of the bed, phone in hand and stalks your location like a man possessed—willing it to move, craving nothing more than to see you heading home. But after ten minutes of nothing, he gives up. 

So he decides to wash his bedsheets. He strips the mattress, hauls the bedding to the small laundry room beside his bathroom, and shoves it all into the washing machine. Once the cycle starts, he checks the dryer—and immediately regrets it. 

Your bedding is crumpled up inside, still a little warm and smelling so strongly of you it makes his head spin. 

He tries—he really does—to pull it out and just dump it at the foot of your unmade bed. But no. He can’t leave it like that. He has to make it. It’s what you would do for him. Because you’re not just housemates—you’re friends, you’re a good fake husband and wife. Making your bed is just a kind, domestic gesture. 

That’s all. 

With a deep breath, he starts unravelling your bedding. He finds the fitted sheet and drapes it over the mattress, stepping carefully around the bed to tuck it in and smooth it out. His hands move mechanically, trying to focus on the task, willing himself to keep it together. 

Even though the scent of you in here is like a drug—sharp and heady, flooding his senses and making his sweatpants feel tighter by the second. But it’s fine. He’s got this. He’s in complete control. 

Once the fitted sheet is on, he picks up your duvet and throws it over the mattress before smoothing it down. Then he finds the two pillowcases, picks your pillows up off the floor, and starts shoving them in. 

He’s almost done—and almost proud of himself—as he drops one of the pillows at the top of the bed, closest to the side he’s on. Then he grabs the other one, leans forward to place it on the far side, and— 

His cock brushes the pillow. 

Just barely, but it’s enough. Enough to make heat pool at the base of his spine, to turn half-hard into fully, painfully hard in a heartbeat. 

His breath catches. His fingers twitch. He tries to pull back—he means to—but his body betrays him. His hips roll forward, dragging his length against your pillow in the most delicious, dangerous way. 

He groans. Loudly. And grinds down again—harder, deeper. His cock drags thick and aching against the pillow, trapped beneath the soft cotton and the cling of his sweatpants. The smell of you is everywhere—on the fabric, in his lungs, in his mouth—and it’s driving him fucking insane. 

He leans forward, spreads his legs, and humps the pillow like a dog in heat. Quiet, desperate thrusts. Every inch of his skin burning. His lips part on a shaky gasp as he picks up a rhythm—slow at first, then faster, rougher. 

His hands fist your duvet. The mattress creaks softly beneath him. 

He grinds harder, angling his hips until the pressure hits just right, chasing friction, chasing the fantasy. You, writhing under him. You, moaning into the mattress. You, letting him rut against your thigh like a pathetic, needy animal. 

His cock pulses hard against the pillow. He’s panting now, forehead damp, face twisted in agony as he thrusts deep into the softness over and over and over— 

And then he’s coming. Sharp and hot and shameful, grinding through it like he never wants it to stop. His sweatpants absorb most of the mess, but some of it seeps through onto your pillow, warmth soaking into the cotton. 

“Shit, shit, shit,” he mutters, scrambling upright. 

He snatches the pillow off the bed and yanks the cover off. There’s only a small stain on the pillow itself, barely the size of a dime. He’ll just flip it. 

He grabs the other pillow, strips its case, and bolts to the laundry, shoving both into the washer with his half-finished load. Then he makes a beeline for the linen cupboard and exhales hard when he spots a similarly coloured pair of pillowcases. 

Ignoring the mess in his sweats, he returns to your room and quickly finishes making your bed with the fresh covers—flipping the soiled pillow face down—before fleeing the scene and shutting the door behind him like it might somehow seal in his shame. 

He needs help. He needs therapy. He might even need religion. 

At this point, he’ll take whatever divine intervention he can get, because clearly he can’t be trusted not to hump your goddamn pillow like some desperate, fucked-up freak with zero self-control. 

What the hell is wrong with him? You’re his friend. His roommate. His fake wife. Not his personal fantasy to jerk off to in every room of the apartment. 

But no matter how many times he tells himself to stop, no matter how disgusted he feels afterward, it’s like his body won’t listen. 

It’s not just lust—it’s deeper than that. Obsessive. Addictive. He’s terrified you’re going to catch him one day and never look at him the same again. And that’s what really scares him. Not the guilt, or the shame, or even the twisted desire. 

It’s the thought of losing you. Because as much as he wishes he could compartmentalise the feelings from the hormones, it’s all tangled up now. He needs you like air—like water. 

Romantic or not, sexual or not—he just needs you. 

So he has to stop. He has to figure out how to act normal before he fucks this whole thing up beyond repair. 

After a cold shower—self-imposed punishment—and making his own bed, Bob flops onto the couch and hits play on a documentary about sea otters. Then he checks the time on his phone—and your location. Again. 

He tells himself it’s just to make sure you’re safe, but his heart still leaps when he sees you’re already halfway home. 

He tries to focus on the otters—really tries—but his eyes keep darting to the front door like you might materialise out of thin air. Which is stupid, because he knows exactly how far away you are. He’s watching your little blue dot crawl toward him on his phone screen like a stalker. 

Thirty painstaking minutes later, the dot pulses directly over his own. Right on top of him. 

He holds his breath. And when the lock finally clicks, he forces his gaze back to the TV screen—doing his best impression of someone who is totally, one hundred percent emotionally invested in a family of sea otters and not, in any way, pathetically desperate to see you walk through the door. 

“I’m back,” you mutter, shoving the door open a little harder than necessary. 

Bob frowns, eyes narrowing at your expression. You’ve come home from hookups before, and he knows what you look like when they’ve gone fine, or good, or even great—he hates that the most. But this? This isn’t any of those. 

“Hey,” he says cautiously. “You alright?” 

You scowl as you shrug out of your jacket, tossing it toward the dining table along with your keys. Then you kick off your boots and leave them lying haphazardly by the door. 

“No,” you snap. “I’m not alright. That was the worst experience of my life.” 

Bob’s eyes widen—and it takes everything in him not to smile. He shifts on the couch, making more room for you, and grabs the remote to pause the TV. 

“What happened?” 

You stomp over and drop down beside him, groaning as you fall onto your side into the throw pillows. 

“He opened the door shirtless,” you start, already exasperated, “which would’ve been fine if he wasn’t holding a protein shake—and if the first thing out of his mouth wasn’t, ‘Sup, babe.’” 

Bob’s brows shoot up, but he manages to not to laugh. 

“Then he led me straight to his room, which reeked of feet and Axe body spray. He dropped his fucking sweats, laid down on the bed, pointed at his half-hard dick, and said—” you hold up finger quotes, “—‘The weapon awaits.’” 

Bob snorts and immediately slaps a hand over his mouth. 

You sit up and glare at him. “Don’t.” 

He shakes his head. “Didn’t say anything.” 

“You’re thinking it.” 

“Thinking what?” he asks, all wide eyes and faux innocence. 

You give him a flat look. “That I deserve it.” 

He shrugs, fighting a grin. “I wouldn’t say that.” 

“No, but you’re thinking it,” you mutter, settling back into the couch with your arms folded. 

He chuckles softly. “Maybe a little.” 

“Ugh,” you sigh, tipping your head back. “I just wanted to get laid, not be traumatised.” 

Bob snorts. “Maybe don’t trust what people say on dating apps. Or drive almost an hour to hook up with a guy you’ve known less than a day.” 

“I needed sex, Robert,” you say with a sidelong glance. “What else was I supposed to do?” 

His heart kicks against his ribs. He wants to say me. You were supposed to do me. Your best friend. Your fake husband. The guy with a perfectly functional—and admittedly impressive—dick that is quite literally always hard for you. 

He opens his mouth to reply—to say something he’ll almost definitely regret— 

But you cut in first. 

“He couldn’t even find my clit. I had to literally direct him—like a fucking traffic controller.” You curl your legs up beside you, muttering, “I faked it just to get out of there.” 

Bob’s mouth goes dry. “Faked it?” 

You nod, eyes still fixed on the frozen TV screen. “Yup.” 

There’s a beat—long enough for Bob to imagine every possible thing he could say next. 

But then you sigh—loudly. “I just want someone who listens. Is that really so much to ask?” You glance over at him, brows drawn. “I’m not expecting some expert sex god. Just… someone who pays attention. Enough to figure out what actually feels good.” 

Bob lets out a dry laugh. “Yeah. Imagine that. Someone who listens. Really pays attention. Makes sure you finish.” He shifts awkwardly, glancing down to check that the bulge in his pants isn’t obvious. “Multiple times, even.” 

“God,” you sigh. “Men like that must be a myth.” 

He clenches his jaw, biting back every smartass thing echoing in his head. Now isn’t the time to make you feel worse. And it probably isn’t the time to admit that he’s been secretly in love with you for years. 

Although, Bob’s not sure when the time for that would ever come. 

Right now, you just need a friend. Someone to complain to. Someone to remind you that it’s not you—it’s men. They suck. 

“Well,” you say, swinging your legs off the couch and pushing up. “At least I’ve got my vibrator to make up for that shitty experience.” 

Bob nearly chokes. 

“I’m heading to bed,” you add. 

“No worries,” he mutters, giving you a tight smile. “Goodnight.” 

“G’night Bobby,” you murmur, soft and sleepy, flashing him a small smile before turning away. 

And God—if that isn’t a shot straight to the heart. A kill shot, to be specific. 

Because you’re so warm. So sweet. And you love him so much—just not like that. He wishes it were enough. But more than anything, he wishes he could show you what you mean to him—because words wouldn’t even come close. 

And fuck, he really wishes you weren’t about to lay your head on a pillow stained with his cum. 

- You - 

By Wednesday afternoon, just about everything is unpacked. There’s a stack of broken-down boxes by the front door, a few rubbish bags full of packing paper, and one very exhausted woman lying on the living room floor—you. 

It’s only three p.m., which means Bob won’t be home for a few more hours, but after three straight days in this apartment alone, you’re starting to feel like you’re losing your mind. Sure, you’ve seen Bob in the evenings—and there was that pathetic hookup last night—but aside from that, it’s been nothing but boxes and furniture and cleaning. 

You don’t necessarily need human interaction. You just need a break. A change of scenery. A coffee, maybe. 

With a deep breath, you push off the floor and grab your jacket from the rack beside the door—the one you just finished assembling. You slide your arms in, slip your shoes on, and head out. 

You’re not overly familiar with North Island, but you’re pretty sure you saw a nice-looking café a few blocks over. And you don’t mind a walk. 

You try to take in your surroundings as you go, but it’s hard not to check out every fit man you pass. Because God, you are horny. So horny that even two rounds with your vibrator last night did nothing to loosen the knot burning low in your stomach. You need dick. Real dick. Good dick. Something hard and decently sized, attached to a reasonably attractive man who knows how to use it—someone who can fuck you stupid so you stop eyeing every guy like he’s a walking, talking slab of prime beef. 

God. You don't want to admit it, but even Bob was looking good last night. With his flushed cheeks, soft messy curls, and those big blue eyes behind his adorable glasses. You were five seconds away from dragging him into your room and letting him ruin your freshly washed sheets—ones you’ll have to remember to thank him for getting out of the dryer and making your bed with. Sweet man that he is. 

But Bob is too nice for you to ask something like that of him. You don’t doubt he’d be decent—probably even good. There’s something about him that tells you he’s not quite as vanilla as people think. But he’s your best friend. You can’t risk ruining a friendship and a perfectly good fake marriage just because you’re desperate to come. 

Not that you think Bob would fall in love with you or anything. God, no. Bob doesn’t see you like that. You just know that arrangements like that get messy, and you love him too much to risk it. 

So for now, you’ll just have to keep looking for some decent dick—something to sate the white-hot need burning behind your hipbones. 

“No way.” 

Your thoughts scatter like a flock of birds, reality seeping back in as you blink toward the source of the mildly familiar voice. 

“Oh,” you laugh softly, cheeks already burning. “It’s you.” 

The green-eyed man from the grocery store grins—and it’s so bright, so wide, you almost want to slide your sunglasses further up your nose. 

“It’s you,” he echoes, just a little breathless. 

That’s when you notice what he’s wearing—a tight tank, gym shorts, running shoes. His tan skin glistens with sweat, chest rising and falling too fast. He’s on a run—or at least he was. 

You lift a brow. “Shouldn’t you be at work? You know, protecting and serving?” 

He shrugs, bracing a hand on each hip. “My CO dismissed my squad early. Thought I’d get some PT in off-base.” 

“Isn’t this whole island a base?” 

He chuckles. “Technically, yeah. But I meant outside the hangar. With the ocean breeze, warm sun—” his gaze flicks down, then back up, “—pretty girls.” 

You roll your eyes. “Right. Because there weren’t enough of those at the grocery store?” 

You don’t wait for a comeback—you just flash him a small smirk and keep walking, gaze locked on the café at the end of the block. 

“Hey, wait a second,” he says, easily falling into step beside you. “You can’t just disappear again. I haven’t stopped thinking about you since Monday night. I need to know your name.” 

“Since Monday?” you glance at him, brows raised. “Wow, is this your longest relationship, then?” 

He snorts but stays at your side—clearly undeterred. “Why do you assume I’m a player?” 

“Seriously?” You give him a flat look. “Look at you.” 

He grins. “And?” 

You huff a laugh. “God, you’re a piece of work.” 

“But I’m worth it.” 

“I doubt that.” 

“Come on,” he sighs. “Just give me a shot.” 

You stop walking and turn to face him, arms folding tight across your chest. “Look. You’re hot—and you know it—but you’re also military. I have a strict rule, okay? Besides, I’m—” you pause, pulse quickening, “I’m not looking.” 

He frowns. “What does that even mean?” 

You glance down at your hand and instantly regret not wearing your ring today. Because as hot as this guy is—not exactly your type, but undeniably attractive—you just can’t do military. Bob would kill you. 

And what better way to scare someone off than with a wedding band? But no—you left it in your car. Like always. You only wear it when you need to, and usually ditch it when there’s a chance you might run into someone worth boning. Like at the grocery store the other day. Or now—even though that was clearly a mistake. 

You clear your throat. “It means thanks but no thanks. Now leave before I do something stupid.” 

He grins. “What if I want you to do something stupid?” 

“You don’t even know what stupid thing I’m talking about.” 

He shrugs. “I’m hoping it’s something along the lines of kissing me—or worse.” 

You roll your eyes again. “It’s definitely worse.” 

He opens his mouth to reply, but the shrill ring of his phone cuts in. He yanks the zipper on his pocket, pulls it out, and frowns at the screen. 

“You should get that,” you say, nodding to the phone. 

He looks up. “Wait, just—” 

“See you later, pretty boy.” 

You flash him one final smirk and turn on your heel, heading back the way you came—determined not to give him one more second to wear you down. You can just have coffee at home. 

And honestly, at this point, he’s kind of annoying. Too persistent. Too cocky. There’s something about him that feels like one giant neon warning sign—aside from the military thing. Something deeper. Weirder. Something that feels... dangerous. And not in a fun way. 

You take the first corner you reach, then the next, hoping that if you wind your way home along a complicated enough route, he won’t be able to follow you. Not that you think he would. You’re pretty sure he’s just a cocky boy—not a full-blown stalker. 

It doesn’t take long to reach your apartment block, and you’re definitely feeling a hell of a lot better than when you left—coffee or not. Sometimes it really is enough to get some fresh air. Go for a walk. Touch grass. Remind yourself the world isn’t made entirely of cardboard boxes and bubble wrap. 

You ride the elevator up to your floor and walk the hall, chewing your bottom lip as you wonder what to make for dinner. Bob usually cooks, but every now and then, you like to return the favour—not that it’s ever quite as good. 

You slide your key into the lock, turn the handle, and— 

Freeze. 

A choked moan breaks through the quiet apartment. Low, needy—completely unfiltered. 

What the fuck? 

You ease the door open, step inside, and shut it quietly behind you. Bob’s boots are by the door, his duffel bag dropped beside the dining table, and there’s a bottle of wine on the kitchen island. 

He’s home early. 

Another groan curls through the air, thick and strained, and your breath catches. 

You should make a sound. Slam the door. Jingle your keys. Do literally anything except stand here like a frozen creep. But you can’t. Because your pulse is racing, your mouth is dry, and that ache low in your belly is pulsing hot. 

Then you hear it—soft and unmistakable—a whimper, followed by a choked, “Mmmf—fuck.” 

Oh God. That’s Bob. 

You swallow hard and step forward quietly. The closer you get to his bedroom, the louder it gets. Deep, unsteady breaths. The slick, rhythmic sound of skin on skin. A low gasp, a soft curse. The tiniest creak of bedsprings beneath a body working for release. 

And holy shit, you're already wet—your panties soaked and sticking to you, no match for how goddamn horny you are. 

You stop in the hallway, standing halfway between your bedroom door and his. The right thing would be to duck into your room, slam the door, and pretend you didn’t hear a thing. 

But it’s too late. You’re too far gone. Too turned on. Your pulse is pounding, your legs feel like jelly, and you can’t pull yourself away. 

Like a fucking creep, like a goddamn pervert, you lean forward and peer through the narrow crack in his door. 

And stop breathing. 

Bob is sprawled across his bed, one leg bent, the other stretched out. His shirt is bunched up around his ribs, sweatpants shoved low on his hips—just low enough for his hand to move. 

And fuck, is it moving. 

His knuckles are tight, forearm flexing, sinew rippling beneath skin. His chest rises and falls with every shallow breath, and his head is tipped back against the pillow, damp tendrils of hair sticking to his forehead. 

His lips are parted. Brow furrowed. Glasses pushed halfway up his forehead like he forgot they were there. 

You can see the muscles in his stomach twitch every time his hand drags up the length of his cock—thick, flushed, glistening with slick—and then back down again. Controlled. Focused. Like he’s thinking about something—someone—very specific. 

He lets out a groan. Soft. Broken. And fuck, it’s... almost your name? No. No, it couldn't be. It's not. You're just imagining things. You’re horny and delirious. 

And a total perv right now, but you just can’t find the will to move. 

You watch as he bites down on his bottom lip, hips lifting from the mattress like he’s chasing something just out of reach. 

Without thinking, you slide a hand between your thighs and press two fingers against your clit. The pressure sparks a jolt of pleasure up your spine, forcing you to bite back a whimper. 

This is wrong. So wrong. You’ve never even thought about Bob like this, let alone seen him. Well—okay, maybe you’ve almost thought about it once or twice over the years, but you’ve always been able to stop yourself. Because this is Bob. Your best friend. Your sweet, kind, too-good-for-this-world best friend who— 

“Sh-Shit—hnng, oh—fuck.” 

—who looks so fucking hot right now. 

You watch his hand speed up—just a little. Grip tighter now. Surer. He’s close, you can tell. You can see it in the way his thighs start to tense, the way his hips jerk up more urgently into his fist, how his breath starts to catch and stutter like he’s barely holding on. 

You press harder against your clit, your wet panties sliding as you move your fingers in slow, torturous circles. 

His back arches slightly. His other hand fists in the sheets beside him, the tendons in his arm straining. The room is filled with wet sounds and shaky breathing and the quiet thud of the headboard tapping rhythmically against the wall. 

Then his mouth drops open. His brows pull tight. 

You draw a shaky breath—almost silent, but not quite. Not that he could hear it over the sound of his own ragged gasps. 

A long, wrecked sound slips out of him—deep in his chest, low and guttural. “F-fuck—” 

Your fingers stop moving, and you just watch. Captivated. Hungry. Mouth watering at the sight you shouldn’t be seeing. 

He strokes himself faster, chasing the edge, working right up to it with almost painful precision. His eyes squeeze shut, a flush rising over his chest, his cheeks, the tips of his ears. 

And then he’s coming. Hard. Head thrown back, neck arched, stomach flexing so tight you can see every line of muscle. His whole body locks up—frozen in pleasure—then shudders as thick ropes spill over his knuckles, striping his hand, his abs, the hem of his shirt. 

His hips twitch as he rides it out, groaning softly as aftershocks ripple through him. He slows his strokes, pumping himself through every last wave until he’s spent and breathing heavy, chest rising and falling like he’s just run ten miles. 

For a moment, he just lies there—limp and boneless. One hand still curled loosely around the base of his cock, the other pressed flat to his chest like he’s grounding himself. Sweat shines on his skin. His curls are damp. His glasses are crooked. 

He looks ruined. And completely, stupidly beautiful. 

He’s still Bob Floyd—your best friend, housemate, fake husband. But now he’s something else too. Something you can’t unsee, can’t stop wanting. And it’s making your head spin. 

You watch his eyes flutter open—and bolt. You slip into your room and ease the door shut, praying he doesn't hear the soft click behind you. Your breathing is ragged, your pulse is pounding, and you’re clenching around nothing. 

God. You need something. Now. 

You stumble toward the bed, stripping off your pants as you go, and drop onto the edge of the mattress. Then you yank open your nightstand drawer and reach all the way to the back—for the one toy you only use when you're desperate. 

Thick silicone. Eight inches. Subtle ridges and a realistically moulded head. 

Normally, it feels big in your hands. But after seeing Bob? Not even close. You’d always suspected he was packing—years of damp swim trunks and clingy grey sweatpants made it hard not to—but nothing could’ve prepared you for the reality. 

Because he’s big. Cross-your-heart and have-paramedics-on-standby kind of big. 

And God, you want it. 

With a pitiful whimper, you collapse back onto your pillows, knees falling open. You're breathing hard, eyes squeezed shut, the image of Bob—sweaty, panting, coming hard over his own stomach—burned behind your eyelids. 

You drop the toy between your thighs and glide it through your slick. You’ve never been this wet in your life—you’re sure of it. You tease your entrance, chest heaving, every nerve pulled tight—then drag it over your clit— 

And moan. Loud. Raw. Desperate. 

But you don’t stop. Not even as your face flushes hot with embarrassment. Not when the ache between your hips is too sharp, too deep to ignore. 

You push the tip in, slowly at first, and let out a trembling gasp. It’s not him—not even close—but your body doesn’t care. Not when you’re this wet. Not when your head is full of the sound of his voice, his breath, the way he groaned like he was falling apart. 

You slide it in deeper. Your hips twitch. Your fingers tremble on the base. 

Your mind paints the picture so clearly it might as well be real—Bob above you, thick and flushed, eyes dark behind his glasses. He’d be gentle at first, probably ask if you were sure, if you were okay. You’d tell him to stop being sweet, and then he’d ruin you. 

You fuck yourself harder. 

The stretch, the angle, the slick slide of it—it’s good. Better than good. But it’s not enough. You want weight. You want heat. You want Bob’s hands on your hips, his mouth at your ear, telling you you’re doing so well. 

You twist your wrist and angle the toy up, hitting just the right spot—and stars explode behind your eyes. 

“F-fuck—” 

Your orgasm hits like a freight train. Sharp and sudden. Your back arches off the bed, toes curling, walls fluttering tight around silicone. Your free hand fists the sheets. Your mouth drops open, and a broken sob of a moan punches out of you as you come. 

It rolls through you in waves. Shudders. A full-body collapse. 

You lie there for a few minutes—panting, legs still twitching, the toy slipping free as your muscles go limp. Your sheets are damp beneath you. Your chest is slick with sweat. And your brain is buzzing with images of Bob—ones you’ve never even considered until now. 

Well, shit. That’s new. 

With a heavy breath, you sit upright and grab the sticky toy. Guilt and panic twist in your stomach as you pad toward the ensuite—all the heat of the moment fading fast. 

You need a shower—a long one. With scalding hot water. And maybe a lobotomy. 

After cleaning yourself up, stripping your bed, and changing into pyjamas—it’s still early, but there’s no way in hell you’re leaving the apartment again—you finally emerge from your room. 

Somewhere between washing your hair and scrubbing the shame from your skin, you decided that pretending nothing happened is the best way to go. Because technically, nothing did. You both masturbate. You’re both adults. Sexually active ones. There’s no evidence that says you were or weren’t thinking about each other. 

Well—you know Bob wasn’t. He thought he was home alone. 

Bob would never do something as perverted as what you just did. 

But he doesn’t need to know about it. So if you act normal, then there’s no reason for him to suspect anything. Right? 

“Hey,” you call lightly as you step into the kitchen. 

Bob glances up from whatever he’s slicing with practiced ease. His cheeks are tinged pink, eyes slightly wide, and there’s the faintest trace of a smirk at the corner of his mouth. But otherwise, he looks… composed. Relaxed. 

Well. He would, after a release like that. 

“Hey,” he replies, voice even. “Didn’t hear you come home.” 

Your cheeks flare with heat, but you wave it off. “Yeah, I ran straight into the shower. Went for a run and got a bit sweaty.” 

He raises a brow, clearly amused. You don’t run. And you both know it. 

"Right," he mutters, eyes dropping back to the chopping board. 

You clear your throat and square your shoulders, determined not to let this be awkward. 

“You were home early,” you say, leaning a hip against the kitchen island. 

He nods. “Yeah. Maverick let us go early.” 

“Oh, that was nice of him.” 

Your eyes drift to the ingredients spread across the counter—chicken breasts, halved baby potatoes, fresh rosemary, a bowl of mixed greens. It’s one of his go-to dinners, the kind he could make blindfolded with one hand and still have it taste incredible. 

And in the middle of it all, a bottle of wine. 

“I was going to offer to cook tonight,” you say, reaching for the bottle. “Did you bring this home?” 

He glances up again. “Yeah. Thought you’d like it.” 

You run your eyes over the label, nodding. “Looks good. Want some?” 

He nods once, without looking up, as you turn to grab two glasses from the cupboard above the bench. Then you uncork the bottle, let it breathe for a moment, and pour two generous glasses—sliding one across to him. 

“Thanks,” he says, taking a sip. 

The kitchen feels smaller all of a sudden. The usual easy rhythm between you is strained, like you’re both circling something neither of you wants to name. 

Quiet tension stretches between you, filled only by the low hum of the fridge and the soft scrape of Bob’s knife. He doesn’t look up again, and you don’t dare look at him for too long. Instead, you swirl your wine and take slow, nervous sips until the alcohol starts to hum in your blood—and you decide to sit down. 

“I’m going to put a movie on,” you say suddenly, already turning toward the living room. “Any requests?” 

“I don’t mind,” he mutters. “Maybe something with action.” Then he drops his voice, low and half to himself—like he’s talking to the chicken. “And no sex scenes.” 

You choke on your wine, nearly tripping over nothing on your way to the lounge. 

You don’t respond. You can’t. What are you supposed to say to that? 

So you just drop onto the couch, set your glass on the coffee table, and start scrolling through streaming apps—skipping anything with even a hint of romance. 

- 

You barely speak to Bob for the next twenty-four hours—and you’re pretty sure it’s the longest you’ve ever gone without properly talking to him. 

It’s not that you’re avoiding him. Okay, maybe you’re avoiding him a little. But seriously, can you be blamed? You just saw your best friend’s huge dick—in action—and then proceeded to come so fast it was honestly kind of embarrassing. And now every time you blink, there he is again—sweaty, panting, flushed, wrecked. Fucking his own fist with your name almost on his tongue. 

Or at least, that’s what you like to imagine he was saying. 

But the worst part is the sudden, devastating realisation that Bob is hot. Not just cute. Not just objectively attractive. But actual, soul-shattering, knee-weakening, unfairly hot. 

When the hell did that happen? 

Maybe you’ve known it all along. Maybe you’ve just been ignoring it. Denying it. 

Because you’ve always known he’s good-looking. He’s tall and broad and has that stupidly nice face with kind eyes and a soft mouth he never quite knows what to do with. But you’d written him off early. Filed him under safe. Untouchable. Your best friend. Your fake husband. Too good, too sweet. Not for you. 

But now you’ve seen him. And it’s like the filter is gone. Like you’ve stepped on a landmine you didn’t even know existed and now your brain has been blown open by the truth. 

Bob Floyd is possibly the hottest man on planet Earth. 

He’s hot in a soft, devastating way. Hot in a slow-burn, bedroom-eyes, makes-you-feel-safe-then-fucks-you-stupid kind of way. The kind of hot that sneaks up on you. That lives under your skin. That ruins everything. 

And now he’s just... existing. In your shared apartment. Doing normal things. Breathing. And you’re in a constant state of barely holding it together. 

God, you’re an idiot. You need to sort yourself out—immediately—before Bob realises what a creep you’re being and everything blows up. 

But first… you have to tell your contract manager that you’re married. 

You’re awake before Bob’s alarm on Friday morning, but you don’t get out of bed. You just lie there in the quiet, listening to him move around, waiting until you hear the front door close behind him before throwing back the covers. Then you shower, make your bed, do your hair, and change into your clothes for the day. 

The smell of fresh coffee hits you the second you open your door. And sure enough, beside the pot—with a little yellow Post-it stuck to it—is your favourite mug, freshly washed. Just like every other morning. 

Made extra coffee. There’s banana bread in the fridge. See you tonight, Mrs. Floyd. ♡ 

Your heart kicks hard and heat swells through your chest. Everything feels different now. Heavier. Like you’ve stepped into some alternate version of your life where every little habit, every small kindness, means more than it used to. 

Like you’ve been half-asleep this whole time and only just woken up to the fact that your dorky, sweet, thoughtful fake husband is also... kind of perfect. 

And maybe—just maybe—you’re starting to feel different. 

Your phone pings, startling you out of your spiralling thoughts. You swallow the lump in your throat and quickly check it—a text from your contract manager asking when you’ll be on base today. 

Shit. You probably should have told Bob last night that you’d be visiting base. But instead, you hid in your room pretending to be exhausted because you didn’t trust yourself to sit next to him without doing something weird. 

You type out a quick reply to let your manager know you’ll be there around midday. Then you tuck your phone away, peel the little note off your mug, and pour an exceptionally large cup of coffee—because that ought to help your nerves. Right? 

After coffee, banana bread, half a movie you barely register, and another coffee, you decide to go for a walk. Because you’re still thinking about Bob, and you still can’t figure out exactly what it is you’re feeling. 

You do the same loop you did two days ago—same turns, same streets, same houses—before returning home with zero recollection of it because all you can think about is Bob. He’s everywhere—in your head, under your skin, stuck between your ribs. 

You try to distract yourself by cleaning the already spotless apartment, but it’s no use. So by eleven a.m., you grab your wallet and keys and head out the door. Maybe you can go for a walk and get your bearings on base before meeting up with your manager. And maybe you’ll try to ogle a few other military men so you stop thinking about the one who sleeps across the hall from you. 

At this point, you’ll try anything. 

You go through all the usual checks when you get to base—signing in at the front office, getting your visitor’s pass, a quick vehicle inspection. Then once you’re cleared, someone calls your manager to let them know you’ve arrived, and the clerk hands you a little printed map, pointing out the best place to park for your building. 

Jeannie, your contract manager, is glad you’re early—which is good. That means less time alone to spiral. 

You find the building easily, and soon enough you’re sitting in a small conference room going over the details of your commencement next week. 

“So,” Jeannie says, shuffling her papers into a neat pile, “you mentioned there was something you needed to flag before you start?” 

You nod. “Yes—um, sorry if I should’ve mentioned this earlier, but I’m married.” 

Her brows lift, as if to say and? 

“My husband is an aviator,” you add. “Here. On base.” 

“Oh,” she nods. “Right. That’s fine. Ideally, we’d have had it declared earlier, but it’s not a big deal. Since you don’t technically work together, and you're a civilian contractor, there’s no concern about rank. I’ll just get HR to send over the paperwork. You’ll both need to sign, as well as his Commanding Officer. It’d be best to get it squared away before Monday—do you know who his CO is?” 

You feel heat crawl up the back of your neck. 

“Maverick,” you reply quickly—without thinking. “Oh—sorry, I mean—” 

“It’s alright,” Jeannie says, a faint smile tugging at her lips. “I know who Maverick is.” 

You nod, pressing your lips together while she pulls out her phone and makes the call. As she speaks to whoever’s on the other end, you quickly pull out your own phone and type a text to Bob. 

‘Hey, really hoping you see this before I find you. I’m on base. Need you and Maverick to sign something. Please check your phone!’ 

Now you’ve done it. Not only are you on base without giving Bob a heads-up, but you’re about to have him formally acknowledge your fake marriage. A marriage his squadron doesn’t even know about. 

Fuck. 

“Perfect,” Jeannie says, setting her phone down. “We’ll have the forms in five. I’ll get you to read them over, then we’ll have someone escort you to Captain Mitchell’s squadron building.” 

You give her a tight smile. “Thanks, Jeannie.” 

She returns the smile and stands up, gathering her papers. “I’ll be back in a minute. Sit tight.” 

You nod, trying not to throw up the banana bread and coffee. 

“Oh,” she says, stopping halfway out the door, eyes sparkling. “A naval aviator—well done. Maverick’s squad... they’re kind of legendary.” 

You laugh softly, breath catching. “Thanks. He’s—um—he’s the best.” 

Then she’s gone. Out into the office, leaving you to sit and stew, staring at your phone, praying Bob texts back before you have to show up at his squadron building and ask him to declare your top-secret fake marriage in front of all his legendary colleagues. 

The next fifteen minutes are a blur. An HR rep shows up, talks you through the paperwork, and asks for all the details of your marriage—when, where, how—before a junior officer knocks on the door and announces he’s ready to escort you to the Dagger Squadron’s building. 

You grip the papers with shaky hands as you follow the officer through the building and out to a cart waiting by the curb. He doesn’t talk—thank God—just drives carefully across base while you sit beside him, looking like a seasick idiot on dry land. 

When the cart rolls to a stop, he glances over at you. “Here we are, ma’am.” 

You swallow hard. “Thanks. Do you—uh, do you come in, or...?” 

“No, ma’am,” he replies. “Captain Mitchell was radioed about your visit. You’re cleared to go in.” 

You nod once, breath coming in unsteady gasps as you force your feet to move. Force yourself out of the cart. Across the concrete. Toward the front entrance. 

You steel your nerves and step into the building, immediately hit by the cool blast of air. Bob always whinges about how hot the flight suits get, so it makes sense that they’d keep the buildings icy. 

There’s no chatter, no footsteps—just the low hum of ducted aircon and the faint rustle of paper. You follow the hallway toward the only open door in sight and quietly poke your head around the corner. 

At the front of the room stands a dark-haired man in a flight suit, flicking through a little notebook. He glances up almost immediately, green eyes pinning you in place. 

“Sorry,” you mutter, “I didn’t mean to interrupt—I’m looking for—” 

“Floyd,” he says with a grin—a very charming grin. “Or Mrs. Floyd, should I say?” 

Oh. This is Maverick. 

You step into the room and straighten instinctively. “Yes, sir.” 

He chuckles. “Don’t bother with the formalities. I’m Maverick. It’s a pleasure to finally meet you.” 

He crosses the room with an outstretched hand, and you shake it with tight smile. 

“Your manager called ahead, said you’d be stopping by,” he says, gesturing toward the front row of chairs. “Not sure Bob knows, though. He didn’t mention anything. They’re all at lunch right now, but I could—” 

“Actually,” you cut in, settling into the seat beside him, “Bob doesn’t know I’m here. I forgot to tell him I was coming, and I honestly didn’t think I’d be delivering the papers myself.” 

Maverick’s brows shoot up. “Oh. So he doesn’t—?” 

“Nope.” 

“Alright then.” He scrubs a hand along his jaw. “Why don’t we say you’re from HR, updating his records? Think he’ll catch on?” 

You nod. “Works for me.” 

He grins again, and you hand over the papers, pointing out the sections needing his signature. He doesn't ask questions—just nods and signs, methodical and quiet. 

Once you’ve gathered the papers back into order, he leans back in his chair and just looks at you—like you’re easier to read than a children’s book being held wide open. 

“So, how’d you and Bob meet?” 

“Through work,” you reply, keeping your tone even. “He was first stationed at Lemoore, where I was in systems support. We got along well, and one thing led to another… now we’re here.” 

Maverick nods thoughtfully, eyes gleaming. “Been a few years then?” 

“Yep.” 

“And how long have you been in love?” 

Your heart jumps and you glance up, blinking. “Uh… well, since we started dating, I guess.” 

You’re pretty sure Bob said that Maverick knew the marriage wasn’t entirely legitimate. 

Maverick lifts a brow. “Dating?” 

You nod, but it’s not convincing. 

He tilts his head. “I didn’t think you two dated. From what I gathered, the marriage is—” 

“No way.” 

Your stomach drops. Your skin prickles. The hairs on the back of your neck rise. 

That voice is familiar. Sickeningly familiar. 

“It’s you.” 

You turn your head slowly, dread pooling in your gut. 

And there he is. The guy from the grocery store—sun-kissed and smug, all lazy confidence in his flight suit as he leans one shoulder against the doorframe. A group of aviators lingers behind him, peering into the room with furrowed brows and curious eyes. 

Your stomach lurches. 

“I knew it was fate,” he says with a grin. 

“What’s fate?” one of the others pipes up. 

“Move your ass, Bagman,” a woman’s voice snaps. 

Bagman? 

Your mouth opens, but nothing comes out. Your face is on fire. You can feel it—hot and prickling, crawling down your neck and up behind your ears. You try to speak, to move—to do anything—but your body has entered fight-or-flight mode and apparently chosen freeze. 

Maverick glances between you, brow raised. “You two know each other?” 

The guy—Bagman, apparently—just chuckles. “Yeah, we’ve run into each other a few times.” 

“Hangman, move,” says a tall, moustached man, shoving his squadmate aside. 

Oh no... Hangman? 

You know Hangman. Bob’s told you about Hangman. 

Cocky Hangman and his reckless flying. 

Womaniser Hangman with his endless string of conquests. 

Pain-in-the-ass Hangman—who just so happens to be a member of the Dagger Squadron. Bob’s squad. 

Holy fuck. How could you have screwed up this badly? 

“Hangman?” you echo, your voice cracking. 

He nods, green eyes gleaming as he steps aside to let the rest of the squad through. 

The moustached man—Rooster, you recognise—frowns at you, curiosity carved into every line of his face. A woman follows close behind, scowling at Hangman—you’re guessing she’s Phoenix. Then two tall men step in, both looking confused, followed by a shorter one bringing up the rear. 

And then— 

Bob. 

He steps through the doorway— 

And freezes. 

His eyes go wide. His whole body locks up like he’s been hit with a tranquiliser dart. The colour drains from his face so fast it’s a miracle he’s still upright. 

The silence is deafening. 

His mouth opens. Closes. Opens again. Nothing comes out. 

Maverick slowly leans back in his chair. “Well, this just got interesting.” 

Hangman clasps his hands behind his back like he’s about to give a formal speech, stepping toward you with an oblivious smirk stretched across his face. 

“Phoenix and gentleman,” he starts, “I would like to introduce you all to my future wife.” 

Maverick chokes beside you. 

“A mere five days ago, I first laid eyes on this stunning woman in the grocery store. There I was, minding my own business, and boom—she appears. Like a hot, pissed-off angel, scowling at me because I interrupted her Pop-Tart selection process. And right then and there, I knew this was the woman of my dreams.” 

“You say that about every woman,” Phoenix mutters, rolling her eyes. 

Rooster smirks. “He hasn't said it about another woman since Monday, though.” 

“Exactly,” Hangman says. “Ask Coyote. This is the one. I felt it in my loins.” 

“You’re disgusting,” Phoenix sighs. 

The tallest one tilts his head. “Wait, wait, wait. Are we talking about the same woman you said was stalking you?” 

“She wasn’t stalking me,” Hangman says quickly. “That was a joke.” 

Phoenix scoffs. “It wasn’t funny.” 

“Everything I say is funny.” 

“No, it’s not.” 

“I’m a delight, and I’ll have you know—” 

“Hangman,” Coyote cuts in, raising a brow. “Maybe... shut up for once?” 

You’re still frozen in your chair, eyes locked on Bob—who hasn’t moved a single muscle since he walked in. You’re pretty sure he hasn’t blinked. You might not have either. 

Your cheeks are burning. You can feel them. But Bob—Bob is going scarlet. 

It starts in his ears, then spreads rapidly down his neck and across his cheeks. He looks like a man being slow-roasted from the inside out. His fists are clenched at his sides, shoulders stiff beneath his flight suit—and when Hangman shoots you another wink and starts to open his mouth again—you’re genuinely worried he might blow his carotid. 

He looks furious. Downright murderous. 

At first, you thought it might be at you. 

But... his dark blue eyes are locked on Hangman. 

“Tell me, sweetheart,” Hangman says, stepping even closer as his eyes drag over you without a hint of shame, “are you free for dinner, or do you prefer a brunch-with-champagne kind of thing? Because I’ll happily rearrange my entire schedule just to watch you eat a strawberry.” 

You glance sideways—just in time to catch the tick in Bob’s jaw. His gaze hasn’t moved. His whole face is red now, his chest rising and falling just a little too fast, his hands curled into fists like he’s physically restraining himself. 

And something about it—about him—pulls tight in your chest. 

Because he looks... wrecked. Quietly, furiously wrecked. 

Not embarrassed. Not confused. Not oh-God-my-squad-found-out. But furious. At Hangman. For flirting with you. 

Your stomach swoops. 

And suddenly, you can’t breathe. 

Because Bob Floyd is jealous. 

The same Bob who brings you coffee every morning. Who washes your favourite mug. Who brings you roses and wine after work, just because. Who smiled so sweetly the day he suggested this marriage, like it was the easiest thing in the world to do for you. The same Bob who hasn’t blinked since Hangman called you the woman of his dreams. 

A small voice whispers in your head—he loves you. 

And for a second, you almost believe it. 

Your heart thuds loud in your ears. Your mouth goes dry. You want to look away, to break the spell, but you can’t. Not when the truth is burning so bright between you it feels like the rest of the room has fallen away. 

He loves you. 

“Listen,” you say, voice shaky as you stand up, “Hangman, I—” 

“Call me Jake, darlin’,” he cuts in, smooth as ever with that Southern drawl. “I never did get your name, though. Wanna finally tell me what it is?” 

There’s a pause—a brief silence. A collective held breath as the room waits for you to respond. 

You swallow hard and step forward. 

“Floyd,” you say, voice firm. “My name’s Floyd.” 

Hangman’s smirk drops. His brows pull tight, confusion flickering behind his green eyes. 

There’s a gasp. A chuckle. 

“Holy shit,” Phoenix mutters. 

But none of it matters. 

Because the look on Bob’s face is enough to make your heart stop. 

His eyes are wide and locked on you like he misheard—like he can’t quite believe what he heard. His lips part. His shoulders relax. He visibly exhales—only for his breath to catch on the way back in. His gaze darts to Hangman, just briefly, then snaps straight back to you. He closes his mouth, swallows hard, and unclenches his fists. 

He looks… nervous. Unsure. Like he wants to be relieved by what you just said, but doesn’t know how. Doesn’t know what happens next. 

But you do. 

In three quick strides, you’re standing in front of him. You glance up, breath shaky, heart pounding. Your fingers curl into the collar of his flight suit—and you pull him down. 

His mouth crashes into yours, hard and hungry, and the world falls out from under you. His hands hover for half a second, like he doesn’t believe this is real—then they grip your hips, hard. Fingers digging in. Burning through the denim. 

The kiss isn’t soft. It isn’t sweet. It’s desperate. Messy. All heat and drool and pent-up longing—like months, years, of tension finally snapping loose in a single, earth-shattering moment. 

You gasp against him and he groans into your mouth, hands sliding up to your waist, pulling you flush against him like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he lets go. 

Someone whistles. Someone else mutters Jesus Christ. But none of it registers. 

You’re already gone. 

Lost in the feel of him—his mouth, his hands, the warm solid weight of him pressed tight to yours. Your hands slip into his hair, tugging just enough to drag another sound from his throat. He kisses you harder. Like he’s starving. Like he’s making up for every second he didn’t. 

When you finally break apart, you’re both breathing hard. 

Bob’s eyes are dazed. Wide. A little wild. 

“Wait,” one of the other men says—the shorter one, “Bob’s married?” 

The taller one chuckles. “Bob bagged a baddie.” 

“A baddie?” Maverick echoes, voice laced with confusion. 

“My future wife is... Bob’s wife?” Hangman says slowly. 

His friend—Coyote—snorts. “That’s not your future wife, man. That’s the mother of Bob’s children in T-minus nine months from tonight.” 

Your cheeks burn impossibly hot as you carefully untangle your limbs from Bob’s. He looks absolutely wrecked—but in a good way now. In a way that makes you want to beg Maverick to let him leave early. With you. So you can take him home and wreck him just a little more. 

Maverick clears his throat. “Well. Now that that’s all cleared up... Bob, you need to sign some paperwork to formally disclose your relationship.” 

Bob gives you a soft, dopey smile before heading over to where Maverick is. The loss of his heat leaves you feeling cold—almost empty—but you don’t have time to dwell on it because the rest of the squad immediately closes in. 

“I’m Fanboy,” the shortest one says with a brilliant grin. 

You smile and nod, still too dazed to speak. 

“Payback,” the taller one says. 

Then Phoenix steps forward. “You probably already know who I am.” 

You laugh softly, nodding again. 

“Coyote,” the guy behind her chimes in. 

“She was almost Mrs. Hangman,” Jake mutters, still sulking behind the group. “What could’ve been…” 

Coyote elbows him. “She literally never agreed to that.” 

“Details,” he sighs wistfully. 

Rooster slings an arm over your shoulder, leaning in a little. “Don’t worry about him. He’ll move on tomorrow night.” Then he flashes you a smirk. “I’m Rooster, by the way.” 

You blink up at him, wide-eyed and pink-cheeked. “These are your callsigns, right?” 

Phoenix nods, opening her mouth to reply when— 

“Okay, that’s enough,” Bob says, cutting through the group and grabbing your hand. “She has to go now.” 

“Aw, no,” Fanboy whines. “I want to get to know Mrs. Floyd.” 

“Too bad,” Bob mutters, pulling you toward the door. 

You give them all a little smile, waving over your shoulder. “Bye. It was nice to meet you all.” 

There’s a chorus of byes and teasing words, but above the noise you hear Phoenix shout, “Thank you for embarrassing Hangman!” 

You snort as Bob leads you into the hall, stopping a few feet from the door. 

“I can’t be long,” he says, a little breathless. “So we can talk at home—yeah?” 

Your stomach twists—half-giddy, half-anxious. 

You nod. “Yeah. At home. Get back to work.” 

He nods, eyes flicking between yours and your lips. There’s a taut second of silence—nothing but the sound of your shaky, shallow breaths as you stare at each other. 

Then— 

“Fuck,” he mutters, leaning in and kissing you again. 

And God, you don’t think you’ll ever get used to this—his mouth on yours. Soft but sure. Sweet but possessive. Like he’s claiming you, gently and completely. It’s nothing like you’ve ever felt before. And you don’t want to feel anyone else’s. You’d happily spend the rest of your life doing nothing but kissing Bob Floyd. 

He pulls away too quickly, and you lean after him a little—desperate for more. 

He chuckles, soft and low. “I’ll see you at home.” 

You swallow and nod. “Okay. See you at home.” 

Then he’s gone—and you’re left standing in the corridor of the squadron building, listening to his team tease him while your head spins, your heart hammers, and that ache between your legs pulses with every breath. 

- 

You don’t remember the walk back to the car. Don’t remember the drive home or climbing the stairs or unlocking the front door. It’s all a blur—just background noise to the steady thrum of want under your skin. 

Because now that you’ve had a taste of him—of his mouth, his hands, the sound he made when he kissed you like it hurt—there’s no coming back from it. 

You feel wrung out. Strung tight. One spark away from coming undone entirely. 

Bob Floyd kissed you like he meant it. Like he needed it. Like he’d been dying to. 

And now you can’t stop picturing it—his mouth trailing lower. His hands under your clothes. The way he’d sound when he groans your name against your skin. You wonder what his fingers feel like when he’s not trying to be polite. When he’s not holding back. When he’s desperate. 

God, you want him desperate. 

You want to see what happens when all that quiet control snaps. 

You want him panting and flushed, cursing under his breath as he pushes into you—slow at first, then rough, then reckless. You want to hear him fall apart. You want to make him. 

You want to pull his flight suit down and wrap your legs around his waist and feel him groan into your mouth as you whisper filthy things for only him to hear. 

You want to know if he’s loud. If he talks. If he begs. 

You want to be sore tomorrow. 

You want him sweaty and wild and undone. 

You want him to love you too. Soft and quiet. In the domestic, steady way he already does. 

But first—you want him to ruin you. 

Thoroughly. Desperately. Completely. 

After pacing the apartment for a good thirty minutes, you start busying yourself by preparing dinner—because it’s the only thing you can think to do. You decide to make spaghetti and meatballs, from scratch. Which means a good few hours of kneading dough, cutting pasta, rolling meatballs—not thinking about anything else—and simmering sauce. 

At six p.m., you get a text from Bob letting you know that he’s on his way home—and you panic. You jump in the shower, scrub yourself from head to toe, and change into the laciest pair of panties you own. No bra. Just one of Bob’s old sweatshirts and a pair of loose lounge shorts. 

Then you’re back in the kitchen, stirring the sauce, making sure it doesn’t boil, and pouring yourself a nip of whiskey. Or two. For the nerves. 

You set the table with matching plates, cloth napkins, two tall candles, and your vase of roses in the centre. The sun spills through the far window, bathing the whole open-plan living area in a warm orange glow, and then— 

You hear the lock click. And it feels like a powerline just snapped. 

You face the door, standing between the kitchen and the dining area, hands curled at your sides and heart hammering in your chest. 

He steps inside—and your breath catches. 

He’s so beautiful. And you feel stupid for not noticing it sooner. 

Tonight, there are no flowers. No wine. Just Bob—in his flight suit—cheeks pink, eyes dark, something unreadable simmering behind them. 

“Hey,” you say, a little unsteady. “Hungry?” 

He takes a deep breath, eyes flicking toward the table, then back to you. 

“Starving,” he mumbles, dropping his bag to the floor. 

You swallow hard. “I know you said we’d talk about today, so I thought I’d set the table and—” 

“Talking’ll take too much time,” he says, voice soft, just a little rough. “I think I just better show you.” 

Before you can speak—before you can even breathe—he’s moving. 

Three long strides. One hand sliding into your hair, the other curling around your waist, and his mouth is on yours. 

It’s not a kiss. It’s a claim. Hot and desperate and all teeth and tongue, like he’s been starving for you and finally gave in. You can taste the whiskey you drank earlier on his tongue, and wonder if he does too, the way his mouth groans softly against yours. 

He kisses you like a man undone. Not rushed—but hungry. Like he’s trying to get closer than your skin will allow. 

Your hands fist in the front of his flight suit, dragging him in until there’s no space left between you. His lips part yours with ease, tongue sliding against yours with a low sound in his throat that sends heat pooling between your legs. 

His grip tightens at your waist. You gasp against his mouth and he swallows it, angling your face back, pressing closer—until the edge of the table digs into your hips. 

“You taste like whiskey,” he breathes, voice hoarse, lips brushing yours. 

You nod faintly. “Took a shot… before.” 

He huffs a half-laugh, his nose nudging yours. “Why?” 

“Nervous,” you murmur, cheeks burning. 

He lets out a broken little groan, then kisses you again, harder this time—deeper. His fingers dig into your waist, anchoring you like he needs the grounding. You gasp into his mouth, gripping the front of his flight suit like it’s the only thing keeping you upright, as he crowds in, the edge of the table biting into your hips. 

His breath shudders. His forehead rests against yours for the briefest second before he says, low and wrecked, “I want you in the worst way.” 

Your stomach flips violently. Your fingers curl into the fabric of his flight suit, grounding yourself in him—in this. 

He kisses you again—slower now, but just as deep. His hands are everywhere, mapping your curves like he’s learning them, like he wants to memorise the exact feel of you under his palms. The tension is humming in the air, sparking down your spine, and when his hands slide beneath the hem of your sweatshirt to knead at the bare skin of your waist, your whole body jolts. 

Then his lips trail down—jaw, throat, collarbone—and you whimper, tilting your head to give him more. But he pauses, mouth hovering over your neck, eyes flicking to the table behind you. 

“Do you wanna put away anything that’ll break?” he murmurs, breath warm against your skin. 

You look at him—his swollen lips, his flushed cheeks, the raw need burning in his eyes—and shake your head. 

“No,” you whisper. “I don’t care.” 

That’s all he needs. 

He crashes into you again, mouth hot and hungry, pushing you back until your hands scramble for balance on the table’s edge. One of the cloth napkins slips to the floor. The candles rattle. The vase of roses wobbles precariously—but neither of you cares. 

Because nothing else matters now. 

His hands skim down your sides, then grip tight just below your ass. He leans in and kisses your jaw, your neck, your collarbone—lips dragging over skin like he can’t get enough—before he murmurs, rough and breathless, “Up.” 

You barely nod before he lifts you, strong arms sliding beneath your thighs to boost you onto the table like you weigh nothing. You scoot back instinctively, the wood cool under your skin, and his hands follow—pressing your knees apart as he steps between them, eyes burning. 

“You have no idea, do you?” he says, voice low and awed. “How long I’ve wanted this. How long I’ve wanted you.” 

You open your mouth, but nothing comes out. There’s no time. He’s already kissing you again, deeper this time, messier, until you’re dizzy from it—until a wine glass tips behind you and crashes to the floor. 

You flinch. He doesn’t. 

“Leave it,” he mutters, lips brushing yours. 

Then he drops to his knees. 

Your breath catches as his hands glide down your bare legs. He looks up at you like he’s about to pray—and maybe he is. Then one hand trails back up your thigh, slow and reverent, until his fingers hook beneath your panties and shorts and ease them down—so gently it feels like a sin. 

“Been thinkin’ about this for years,” he says softly, almost to himself. “Thought about it the second I first saw you.” 

His hands urge your legs wider. 

And then his mouth is on you. 

You gasp, eyes fluttering shut, head tipping back as heat blooms low and fast. He’s slow at first—teasing, licking—then deeper, hungrier. Like he’s starving. Like he’s waited forever for this moment. He moans against you like you’re the sweetest thing he’s ever tasted—and it sends a jolt straight through your core. 

He murmurs sweet, filthy things between licks—how good you taste, how soft you are, how bad he wants you to fall apart just for him. His glasses sit crooked on his nose, fogged at the edges, barely hanging on as he stares up at you with those wide, hungry eyes. His cheeks are slick with your arousal, his mouth wet and shining with it—and God, it’s the hottest thing you’ve ever seen.  

“You’re so wet,” he groans, voice muffled and wrecked. “Can’t believe this is mine. You’re mine, aren’t you?” 

And something about the way he says it makes your chest ache. It’s not just the heat or the moment—he needs to hear it. Needs to know that you’re his. That you belong to him. 

Your fingers sink into his hair, trembling. “Yes.” 

“Say it again,” he breathes. 

“Yours,” you gasp, legs shaking. 

“That’s right,” he says, mouth back on you, tongue pressing firm and flat. “That’s my girl.” 

Your back arches. Your fingers tighten in his hair, nails scraping just a little, and he groans—low and wrecked—like he loves it. Like your pleasure is the only thing keeping him alive. 

He keeps licking, firm and slow, then fast and relentless. A rhythm just for you. His tongue circles your clit, flicks it, presses flat and purposeful, then sucks softly—just enough to make your hips jerk. Your thighs tremble around his shoulders, your whole body coiling tighter and tighter, every nerve strung like wire. 

“Bob—” you gasp, hips tilting forward, chasing more, needing more. 

His hands curl under your thighs, anchoring you, holding you open like you’re precious—like he’s worshipping. His mouth never stops. He sucks, licks, flicks, groans, whispers your name like a prayer between filthy praises. And it’s too much. It’s not enough. 

The pressure builds like fire in your belly. Your legs start to shake. You feel it spike—sharp and blinding. 

You’re right there—right at the edge—and then he wraps his lips around your clit and sucks, just hard enough. 

White-hot pleasure rips through you. Your body jerks, a strangled cry catching in your throat as you come apart against his mouth—shuddering, gasping, twitching, every muscle tightening then breaking. 

And he doesn’t stop. 

He licks you through it, slow and steady, his tongue gentle now but insistent, teasing more from you even as your whole body trembles. You’re whimpering, breathless and wrung out, your body slack and oversensitive—but not sated. Not even close. 

“Bob,” you whisper, voice ragged. “Baby.” 

Your hands reach for him, tugging at the collar of his flight suit, urging him up. He rises slowly, eyes never leaving yours—flushed and panting, his face slick with your arousal. His glasses are fogged and crooked, and you slide them gently from his nose, setting them aside before cupping his flushed cheeks. 

He looks wrecked. Worshipful. Dark eyes devouring you like you’re the only thing he’s ever wanted. 

“You still want—” he starts, voice hoarse. 

“I need you,” you breathe, cutting him off. “Now.” 

That’s all it takes. His hands fly to his zipper, clumsy and urgent as he peels himself out of the flight suit—shoulders, chest, hips—until he’s stepping out of it completely. His undershirt goes next, flung aside without a thought. 

You pull your sweatshirt over your head and toss it away. Nothing underneath. Nothing between you. 

He stares. 

For a moment, he just drinks you in, chest heaving, eyes glazed with disbelief and hunger. “Jesus Christ,” he mutters, voice low and reverent. “You’re so—fuck—” 

You don’t give him time to finish. You reach for him, pull him closer. He steps between your thighs, still in his briefs, and his mouth finds your breasts—soft, wet kisses and open-mouthed licks, tongue flicking over one nipple before sucking it into his mouth. 

Your head drops back with a soft cry, fingers tangling in his hair again as heat coils sharp and fast inside you. His cock grinds against your soaked core, separated only by thin cotton, and you feel the sheer size of him even through the fabric. 

“Fuck,” you gasp. “Take them off.” 

But your hands are already moving—slipping between you, tugging at the band of his briefs. You shove them down, and he helps, kicking them away—and then he’s bare, hot, and hard and impossibly thick. 

Your breath stutters. 

Your fingers wrap around him, shaky and reverent—and you can’t even close them all the way. Your mouth goes dry. Your whole body tightens. 

“Oh my god, Bob,” you whisper. 

He leans in close, forehead against yours, his breath hot and ragged. 

“I know,” he murmurs, voice raw and tender. “But you can take it. I know you can. You’re so fucking ready for me, sweetheart.” 

And you are—dripping onto the table, slick and aching and pulsing with want. You shift your hips, lining him up, desperate to feel him. Every inch of your body is on fire, begging for the stretch, the pressure, the fullness. 

He reaches down, one hand on your thigh, the other guiding himself to your entrance—and his tip just barely nudges against you, slick and hot. 

Your breath hitches. 

Your eyes meet his—wide, pleading. 

“Please,” you whisper. “I need you.” 

He groans—deep and guttural—and begins to push in. 

You gasp as the tip breaches you—hot and thick and already stretching you more than you thought possible. 

“Oh fuck,” you whisper, clinging to his shoulders. “You’re so big—” 

“I’ve got you,” he murmurs, lips brushing your temple, breath shuddering. “We’ll go slow.” 

And he does—inch by agonising inch, letting you adjust. Letting your body yield to him. 

Your nails dig into his back as you breathe through it, chest rising and falling with every trembling inhale. The stretch burns, pressure building low and tight, but it’s good. It’s so good. Too good. 

He’s panting against your neck, forehead pressed to your skin. “So tight, baby,” he groans. “You feel like fucking heaven.” 

He pauses, buried only halfway, chest heaving. You can feel him throbbing inside you, feel every twitch, every inch still waiting to sink deeper. 

“Can I keep going?” he asks, voice wrecked. 

You nod quickly—too quickly. “Please, Bobby. Need all of you.” 

He kisses you—slow and deep—and presses in again. 

You moan into his mouth, high and breathless, clenching around him as he sinks deeper, deeper still, the fullness dizzying. Your thighs tremble around his waist. Your whole body shudders. 

“Almost there,” he whispers. “Just a little more. You’re taking me so fucking well.” 

And finally—finally—his hips press flush to yours. 

You both freeze. 

The air between you stills, hot and heavy. You can feel your pulse in your throat. Between your legs. Everywhere. He’s completely inside of you—thick and deep and overwhelming—and you’ve never felt so full in your life. 

You cling to him, fingers digging into his arms, heart pounding out of control. 

And then it hits you. 

The feeling. The weight of it. The way your body holds him like it was always meant to. The way your chest aches with something so fierce and raw it knocks the breath from your lungs. 

“I love you,” you whisper—it slips out like a secret you’ve kept too long. “Oh my god, I love you.” 

He goes still—completely still. 

Your chest tightens. For one agonising second, you think maybe you’ve ruined it. 

But then— 

He looks at you like you’ve just handed him the whole damn world. 

“I love you so fucking much,” he breathes. 

And then his hips draw back—and snap forward, hard. 

You both cry out. 

Your head drops back. His name spills from your lips in a broken moan. It’s too much and not enough all at once—him, everywhere, holding you, filling you, claiming you in the deepest, most perfect way. 

His hands grip your waist like he’s afraid you’ll disappear. Like he needs to anchor himself inside you. And all you can do is hold on—eyes wide, chest split open, heart bared—because this? This is everything. 

He is everything. 

Your gasp tears through the air the second he thrusts in again, a raw, desperate sound as your back arches and your nails drag across his shoulders. The stretch is relentless, searing, addictive. You’ve never felt anything like it—so full, so deep, like he’s carved out space inside you and claimed it all for himself. 

“Jesus,” he groans, head falling to your shoulder. “You feel—fuck—you feel unreal.” 

The table jerks under you as he pulls back, just an inch, then sinks in again. Slow. Measured. But it still punches the breath from your lungs. You can feel every inch of him, every thick pulse of his cock dragging against your walls, and it’s almost too much. Almost. 

But you don’t want almost. You want all of him. Ruin and worship. Love and filth. 

“Don’t stop,” you whisper, voice trembling. “Bob, please—don’t stop.” 

His mouth finds your throat, your jaw, your lips—kissing like a man gone feral. Like he needs you to breathe. One hand fists in your hair, the other gripping your thigh, pushing it up, opening you wider. The next thrust is harder. The table rattles. A plate clatters to the floor. 

“Gonna break the fucking table,” he mutters into your skin, almost in awe, like he can’t believe this is real. His voice is wrecked—low and ragged—completely undone. 

“Let it break,” you choke out. “Just don’t you dare stop.” 

He growls—growls—and his pace picks up. The sound of skin on skin is loud, messy, perfect. His pelvis slaps yours, the rhythm brutal and sweet all at once. Your slick coats him, soaking the tops of your thighs, dripping onto the damn table, and still—it’s not enough. You want more. You want everything. 

“Touch me,” you beg, voice breaking. “Bob, I—please—” 

His hand drops between your bodies instantly, fingers finding your clit like he was born knowing where to touch you. He rubs tight, filthy circles, and your vision whites out. Your head falls back. A loud moan rips from your chest. 

“That’s it,” he pants, watching your face like he’s memorising it. “Come on. Let me feel you. Let me have it.” 

The table shudders with every thrust. Something else crashes to the floor, but you barely register it over the thunder of your own heartbeat and the filthy, perfect sounds of him fucking you. 

His cock drags deep, perfect pressure against every spot inside you. And that heat—God, that unbearable, beautiful heat—builds fast. Sharp and coiled, like lightning in your spine. 

“Close,” you gasp. “I’m—I’m so close—” 

“I’ve got you,” he murmurs, kissing the edge of your mouth, then your cheek, then your temple. “Always got you.” 

He’s getting close. You can feel it—his rhythm falters, his breathing shatters. And then his arms wrap tight around you, strong and shaking, and he murmurs into your hair, “Lay back for me, baby—just like that, I’ve got you.” 

He eases you down against the table—one hand cradling the back of your head, the other gripping your thigh. The wood is cool against your spine, but his body follows, hot and heavy and trembling as he slides back in, deeper than before. A new angle. A devastating one. 

Your mouth falls open in a silent moan as he bottoms out—so deep it feels like he’s pressing inside your stomach. And then you feel it—his hand trailing down to your lower belly, palm flattening gently just above your pelvis. 

“Feel that?” he rasps. “That’s me, baby. Right here.” 

You nod frantically, eyes glassy. “Bob—fuck—please—don’t stop—” 

“I’m not stopping,” he swears, voice low and cracked. “Not until I feel you fall apart around me. Not until I know you’re mine.” 

Your body arches, legs trembling, hips chasing his thrusts. His cock hits that spot over and over again, rubbing just right, the pressure building like a storm. His fingers return to your clit—slick and practiced—and that’s all it takes. 

The vase topples. Water spills across the table, soaking the cloth, flooding under your shoulders—but you hardly notice. All you can feel is him. All you can hear is your name on his lips, the slap of skin, the scrape of the table legs against the tile. 

“Come with me,” he grits, forehead against yours. “Right now. Let go for me—come on—” 

The coil inside you snaps. Your second orgasm tears through you like a live wire, white-hot and all-consuming. You cry out—shaking, clenching, blinded by heat. And a heartbeat later, he follows—spilling inside you with a hoarse, broken moan, his hips stuttering, his whole body seizing with it. 

The stove beeps. There’s a pop. Then a low whoosh. 

Flames flicker—and the smoke alarm blares. 

You both freeze—panting, sweating, still locked together—then slowly dissolve into breathless, messy laughter. He doesn’t move. Just leans in, presses a kiss to your damp forehead, and murmurs against your skin, “I love you.” Then another, softer kiss to your lips. “So much.” 

He pulls out—slow, careful—and helps you sit up. You glance over at the little fire crackling in the pot on the stove, eyes going wide. 

“Shit,” you breathe, still dazed. “We—We should fix that.” 

“Yeah,” he sighs, like it physically pains him to let you go. “Yeah, we should.” 

Stark naked, skin slick with sweat, and cum still dribbling down your sore thighs, you hurry into the kitchen. Bob is right behind you, sliding his glasses back on as he grabs a dish towel and tosses it in the sink. You try not to stare—try not to drink in the sight of him standing there like some Michelangelo sculpture come to life—but it’s useless. The way the light catches his bare skin, the way his muscles flex as he soaks the towel until it’s nothing but a dripping rag—it’s impossible not to look. 

When he turns, cheeks pink, lips glossy, eyes glazed—he smirks. Bob Floyd actually smirks. 

“What are you looking at?” he asks, voice rough and teasing. 

You bite your lip, drop your gaze, then drag it back up, slow and deliberate. “Just my hot as fuck husband.” 

His blush deepens, and it makes you giggle. That man just fucked you so good your knees are shaking, but this—a compliment—makes him blush? 

“Watch out,” he murmurs, wringing out the towel. 

You step aside as he lifts the pot lid and smothers the flames. Then he checks the oven, flicks off the stove, and turns back to you, smoke alarm still blaring overhead like it’s part of your own personal soundtrack. 

“I’m sorry,” you say, even as a grin tugs at your lips. “Want to get takeout?” 

He shakes his head. “I think I’d rather have something else.” 

Before you can blink—or even breathe—his hands are on you, sliding under your thighs and lifting you effortlessly until you’re perched on the cold kitchen counter. The marble bites into your skin, but you don’t care. Your legs wrap instinctively around his waist, your slick core pressing to the heat of his stomach. Your bodies flush together, skin igniting where you touch. 

You card your fingers through his damp hair, eyes locking on his behind smudged glasses. “I have to tell you something,” you admit, butterflies swirling fiercely in your stomach. 

His brows pull together. “What is it?” 

You swallow. “I—um, I saw you the other day. When you thought you were home alone... jerking off.” 

His frown fades, but his face stays carefully blank—too blank. Not scandalised. Not surprised. Just watching you. 

Then he nods. “I thought so.” 

You blink. “You’re not creeped out?” 

“No,” he says simply, shaking his head. 

“Even though I made myself cum after watching you?” 

His laugh is soft, low. His breath ghosts across your skin as he ducks his head, hiding his smile in the curve of your shoulder. “I’m not creeped out.” 

His lips brush your neck. “There are things I want to tell you too,” he murmurs, then leans back, eyes piercing. “But first…” His hands tighten on your hips. “Let’s see how much love we can make.” 

Then he’s on you again—lips, tongue, teeth, hands—everywhere. He kisses like he’s starving, touches like he’s claiming. And though you’re aching to hear what he has to say, to dig into all that’s just erupted between you… right now, none of that matters. 

Because Bob Floyd—your best friend, your fake husband, your everything—is about to ruin you all over again. 

And you’re going to let him. Happily. Absolutely. Again. And again. And again. 

Reuben blinks, his smile faltering as his brow creases. “Nice to see you too, Phoenix.” 

She heads back to the couch, Reuben trailing behind. 

“Why’d you knock?” she asks. “It’s always open.” 

“Wasn’t the other day.” 

You sit up straighter, rolling your eyes. “That’s because it was two a.m. and I was home alone—sleeping.” 

Natasha drops onto the couch, a little closer to you than before to make room for Reuben. “Do we seriously not have boundaries anymore?” she asks him. “What could you possibly need at two in the morning?” 

He plucks the popcorn bowl off the table and settles it in his lap. “Fanboy really wanted to watch The Princess Bride, but Netflix logged us out and we couldn’t remember the password.” 

You lean across Natasha for a handful of popcorn. “Then get your own Netflix account, you fucking freeloaders.” 

Reuben gives you a wounded look. “Okay, rude.” 

You roll your eyes again and flop back against the couch, shoving a handful of popcorn into your mouth. 

“What’s got your panties in a twist?” he asks, peering at you from Natasha’s other side. 

Natasha snorts but keeps her eyes on the TV. 

“Nothing,” you mutter. “My panties are perfectly untwisted.” 

Reuben chuckles and shifts his gaze to the screen. “Then maybe someone should twist them up—get some of that tension out.” 

You flip him off without even glancing his way, your scowl still locked on the TV. He just laughs again, and Natasha shoots you a sidelong, knowing smirk. 

Twenty minutes later—and after Reuben has all but annihilated the popcorn—the front door swings open and Mickey breezes in, making a beeline for the fridge. 

“Have you guys eaten?” he calls out. “Because I’m starving. I skipped lunch and Mav still kept me back.” He grabs a beer and spins to face the living room. “Isn’t that, like, illegal? Something about duty of care? I’m about to pass out, and it wasn’t even my fault I got held back. Hangman was the one mouthing off—I just told him where to stick it. But no, now Mav’s all professional, like he’s a real CO with a stick up his ass. Honestly? I liked him better before.” 

He yanks open a drawer, fishes out the bottle opener, and cracks the beer. “Anyway,” he says, glancing up at the three of you, “pizza?” 

A long beat of silence stretches through the apartment as you all stare at him. 

“Jesus Christ, Mick,” Reuben mutters. “Take a fucking breath.” 

Mickey just shrugs, heading into the living room. “What?” 

He drops onto the floor—figuring the couch is already squishy enough—and sets his beer on the coffee table before reaching for the remote. 

“No one’s watching this, right?” he asks—not that it matters. 

He doesn’t wait for a response—just clicks a few buttons and starts scrolling through Netflix. Frustration simmers under your skin, because yes, you were watching that, but you bite your tongue. You know you’re in a bad mood, and it’s not worth taking it out on your friends. No matter how irritating they can be. 

He finally lands on The Princess Bride and makes a satisfied little hum as he hits play. Then he tosses the remote back onto the table, picks up his beer, and leans back against the couch—his elbow jabbing your knee in the process. Your glass, balanced loosely on your leg, sloshes and spills cold liquid onto your lap. 

“Whoops,” Mickey says, glancing back at you. “My bad.” 

“Uh oh,” Natasha mutters, scooting slightly away from you. 

“Seriously, Mickey?” you snap, eyes narrowing. “Could you not act like a clumsy lapdog for five fucking seconds?” 

His eyes go wide at your tone. 

“How the hell did you even get into the navy?” you bite, rising from the couch. “You’ve got the spatial awareness of a drunk oaf and the grace of a newborn deer on ice.” 

You storm into the kitchen, slam your half-empty glass on the counter, and tear off a wad of paper towels. 

“Very descriptive insults,” Reuben mutters. 

Natasha lets out a dry laugh. “Yeah, that’s how you know she’s in a mood.” 

“Why?” Mickey asks, cautiously glancing toward you. 

You shoot him a glare over the kitchen island, dabbing paper towel at the top of your thigh. 

“Bob didn’t talk to her today,” Natasha says. “Like, at all.” 

“Ohhh,” Reuben and Mickey sigh in unison, the sound laced with realisation. 

You toss the damp towel into the sink before turning toward the fridge and yanking it open, bottles rattling. 

“To be fair,” Reuben offers, “you two were on different drills today. He probably just didn’t get the chance.” 

You whirl around, beer in hand, glare sharp. “He asked Phoenix if she wanted to go for a run tomorrow morning—while I was standing right there.” 

You shut the fridge with more force than necessary, then yank open the cutlery drawer and grab the bottle opener. 

“Oh yeah,” Mickey adds. “He asked me too. Wants to do the Coronado Island Loop.” 

You pop the cap off your beer and let it clatter to the floor. “Great. That’s great. Thanks, Mick. Love knowing I was the only one not invited.” 

Natasha sighs, her eyes following you as you trudge back toward the lounge. “I told you—he probably just didn’t think you were interested. When have you ever wanted to go running?” 

Reuben nods. “Yeah, you hate when Mav makes us run laps. You’re always the first to complain.” 

You flop down into your spot and take a long pull from your beer, eyes on the screen. “Yeah, well,” you mutter, “he could’ve asked.” 

“You could’ve spoken up,” Natasha points out. 

You roll your eyes. “Yeah, and invite myself to something I deliberately wasn’t invited to? No thanks.” 

Mickey shakes his head. “Bob wouldn’t leave you out on purpose. He’s too nice.” 

“Exactly,” Reuben says. “It’s Bob. He probably just got awkward about it.” 

You scowl and gesture to Natasha. “He asked Phoenix.” 

“Yeah, but that’s Phoenix,” Mickey says. “They’re crammed together in the cockpit almost all day, every day. She doesn’t make him nervous.” 

You scoff and sink further into the couch. “I do not make him nervous.” 

Natasha sighs again. “Yes. You do. I’ve told you before.” 

“And I don’t believe you,” you say, despite the warmth creeping into your cheeks. “You’re always saying Bob has a thing for me, but I don’t see it. Wouldn’t he actually talk to me if he liked me?” 

“It’s Bob,” Reuben repeats. “He’s not like the rest of us.” 

“Exactly,” Natasha says. “He’s polite and respectful. Way better than the rest.” 

Mickey turns from the TV, shooting her a wounded look. “Ouch.” 

Reuben shrugs. “She’s right. That’s why we can’t tease him about it. We can’t even ask him if he likes you—though we’re pretty sure.” 

You roll your eyes. “How can you be sure when he’s never admitted it?” 

“Oh, it’s so obvious,” Mickey says with a giggle. “He gets all googly-eyed whenever you’re around.” 

You shoot him a sceptical look, brows furrowed. “I don’t see it.” 

“Well, of course he’s not going to let you catch him staring,” Reuben says, a smirk tugging at his lips. “He’s a gentleman.” 

“Yeah, and he’s not stupid,” Natasha adds. 

“But whenever you’re not paying attention,” Mickey continues, “his eyes are glued to you, like a magnet.” 

You roll your eyes, determined to seem unconvinced, even though you can feel the warmth rising in your cheeks. 

“Oh, and every time you’re brought up in conversation,” Reuben says, “he’s locked in.” 

“Unless we’re talking about you and another guy,” Natasha adds with a knowing look “Then he gets all huffy and weird.” 

You snort a laugh before taking another sip of your beer. 

“Why don’t you just ask him out?” Mickey suggests. “Put us all out of our misery. Bob will stop being so awkward, and you’ll stop being so—” He stops when you shoot him a glare. 

“So what, Mick?” 

He turns his gaze back to the TV, muttering, “Moody.” 

You scoff. “Yeah, okay. So, I’m just supposed to believe you guys when I haven’t actually seen any of these so-called signs myself?” 

Reuben and Mickey nod, but Natasha just watches. 

“I’m not doing that,” you say flatly. “I’m not asking him out just to be humiliated.” 

The conversation dies as you turn your attention back to the movie, taking another generous sip of beer. Mickey pulls out his phone to order pizza, and Reuben heads to the fridge for another round of beers. 

You keep your eyes locked on the TV, even though you’re barely watching. Instead, your mind is replaying the day, wondering if you missed the part where it was ‘so obvious’ that Bob has a crush on you. 

It’s hard not to agree with Reuben when he says, ‘It’s Bob,’ because it just is. He’s nice, considerate, raised to respect women and the navy. He’s the perfect officer and the perfect gentleman, and that’s half the reason you’re so damn attracted to him. A gorgeous guy with manners and respect to spare? Yes, please. 

But, God, sometimes you wish he was just a little more basic. A little more in touch with his primal side, instead of always using the higher-functioning part of his brain that most guys don’t even know exists. You’ve never even heard Bob say a woman is attractive, let alone spew some of the caveman shit that comes out of Jake’s mouth. 

And yeah, sure, you could ask him out. He might even say yes, just to be polite. But you don’t want to put that kind of pressure on him or the squad. Him dating you out of pity would be worse than flat-out rejection. 

An hour later, full of pizza and halfway through your fourth beer, you’re curled up with your head on Natasha's shoulder while The Ugly Truth plays on the TV—Mickey’s latest pick. 

“Man, what’s with you and romantic comedies?” Reuben asks, nose wrinkling as he watches Katherine Heigl flail on-screen. 

Mickey shrugs. “Don’t judge. Maybe I’m feeling a little lonely lately.” 

“Aww, Mick,” you coo, voice dripping mock-sympathy. “Better get used to it. You’re going to be alone forever.” 

His head snaps toward you, a scowl forming. “Okay, Miss-I-Refuse-To-Ask-Out-A-Guy-Who’s-Clearly-Into-Me-Because-I’m-Terrified-of-Rejection.” 

A smirk tugs at your mouth. “That was way too long to sting.” 

“Whatever.” He rolls his eyes. “You’re mean when you’re not getting laid.” 

“Hey!” you gasp. “How do you know I’m not?” 

There’s a beat—a static moment where you realise you’ve just fucked up—before they all burst out laughing. And even you can’t help joining in, despite the embarrassed flush crawling across your chest. 

Then suddenly, Natasha jerks upright, knocking your head off her shoulder. Her laughter halts as she stares wide-eyed at the screen, lips parted in a gasp. “Holy shit. I have an idea.” 

“An idea?” Reuben echoes, brows lifting. 

“Yes!” She turns to you, eyes sparkling with mischief. “I know how we’re going to get Bob to admit it.” 

Mickey swivels on the floor to face her. “Admit what?” 

Reuben rolls his eyes. “That he likes Sunny. Duh.” 

“Oh.” Mickey glances your way, then back at Natasha. “How?” 

“He’s only human, right?” she says, and both boys nod. “It’s obvious he likes her—he’s just too damn respectful. He probably thinks she’s out of her league. Or he’s worried about dating someone in the squad. But deep down? He’s still a guy. He has the same thoughts, the same... tendencies. He’s just better at hiding them.” 

Mickey snorts. “Oh yeah. If the way he looks at Sunny in a bikini is anything to go by, he’s definitely got those thoughts.” 

You shoot him a glare. “Don’t be gross.” 

“No, he’s right,” Natasha says quickly. “I hate it, but he’s right. Every time we’re at the beach and you’re half-naked, he looks like he’s barely holding it together.” 

You try to keep your face neutral, but your heart is thudding too fast against your ribs. 

“Wait,” Reuben says, leaning forward. “I think you’re onto something. Like when she squeezes into the booth at the bar and hovers over his lap for a second—he looks like he’s about to combust.” 

“Exactly!” Natasha exclaims. “That’s it. That’s what we need to do—we need to make him snap.” 

You narrow your eyes, ignoring the spark of adrenaline beginning to curl in your gut. “Okay... but how?” 

Natasha turns toward you, her eyes wide and full of focus. The same look she wears just before take-off. “You need to... tease him. Really make him suffer.” 

Mickey’s grin turns wicked. “Oh, this could work.” 

Your brow lifts. “Tease him how?” 

“Tempt him,” Reuben says, matching Mickey’s grin. “Push every button. Get close. Make him want you so badly he can’t hide it anymore.” 

You snort. “So, seduce him?” 

“Worse,” Natasha says. “You’re going to give this man the worst case of blue balls in naval history.” 

Both Mickey and Reuben flinch. 

“He’s going to end up in the hospital with a permanent boner,” Natasha adds, mischief blazing in her eyes. “Crying. On. His. Knees.” 

“Bob’s a good man,” Reuben says solemnly. “He’s respectful. Polite. Sensible. And we’re gonna have to break him.” 

“We?” you repeat, pulse racing. 

“Exactly,” Natasha nods. “If this were any other guy, you could get it done in a day. But Bob? Bob’s built different. If we want to unleash his inner caveman? It’s going to take a team.” 

Your stomach flips, anticipation stirring beneath your skin. 

“It won’t be easy,” Mickey says, his smirk returning. “But it will be fun.” 

“Sunny,” Reuben says, locking eyes with you. “Are you in or are you out?” 

That spark of adrenaline snaps through you like a live wire. 

You nod. “Okay. I’m in.” 

- 

The plan is simple. Straightforward. One objective. Everyone's clear on it. It’s been mapped out and set into motion—now all you have to do is play your part. Which is probably why your heart is hammering against your sternum like a damn war drum. 

“I don’t know, Nat,” you mutter as the two of you walk across the crunchy morning grass. “This feels wrong.” 

“What does?” she asks. “The thong or the plan?” 

You roll your eyes. “Both.” 

“Well, suck it up. There’s no backing down now.” 

You squeeze your eyes shut and take a deep breath. Then you release it and reel yourself in. She’s right. You can’t be a chicken forever—and it’s not like you’re doing anything overtly humiliating. Besides, you’ve got a team at your back, and they’re not going to let you crash and burn. 

Last night, Natasha had texted Bob to let him know she was inviting you on the morning run. He’d replied with a simple thumbs up—something you found a little rude, but the boys insisted he only sends that when he doesn’t know what else to say. Which, apparently, is a good sign. 

This morning, you’d dug deep into your underwear drawer for a lacy black thong you bought a few years ago—back when you were more optimistic about your sex life. You pulled it on, despite the discomfort, and borrowed a pair of light blue workout tights from Natasha. Yep, that’s a black thong under pale blue, skin-tight leggings. 

“Without being creepy,” Mickey says from a few paces behind, “the plan is looking really good from back here.” 

You shoot him a scowl over your shoulder as Reuben smacks his arm, even though he’s wearing the same mischievous grin. 

The four of you wait at a picnic table in the park where you’d agreed to meet, and it doesn’t take long before you spot Bob walking across the grass—dark grey sweats and an oversized U.S. Navy hoodie, his hands tucked firmly into the front pocket. Quite possibly the most innocent, basic outfit he could’ve worn—a ridiculous contrast to yours—and yet you still find yourself thinking wildly inappropriate thoughts. 

About what’s under those sweats. About how good they’d look on your bedroom floor. 

Even the soft smile on his lips as he approaches makes you want to scream. How is one man such pure, soft boyfriend material... yet still manages to awaken your most primal instincts? It doesn’t make any sense. 

“Hey,” he says, eyes skimming over each of you before settling on Natasha. “We ready?” 

Natasha nods, and the five of you start walking off the grass toward the footpath before breaking into a jog. She and Bob take the lead while you hang back, with Reuben and Mickey flanking you like a private escort. Exactly as planned. You might be trying to fluster Bob, but you don’t need half of Coronado getting a look at your underwear—hence the two-man protection detail. 

Two kilometres later, you all stop for a quick stretch. Bob wanders off toward a water fountain, and you seize the opportunity to move up beside Natasha, placing yourself at the front of the group. Again—exactly according to plan. 

When Bob returns and joins in on Reuben and Mickey’s conversation, you and Natasha shuffle a little closer. She props one foot up on the bench, leaning into the stretch as she gives a subtle nod—the signal to begin. 

You let out a shaky breath, then slip on your best cool-and-confident facade. 

“I’m never doing this again,” you say to Nat—loud enough for the boys to hear. 

“I’m just gonna get a quick drink,” Reuben announces, conveniently cutting off their conversation. Right on cue. 

Mickey busies himself with stretching, leaving Bob to ‘accidentally’ overhear what comes next. 

“What?” Natasha asks. “Running? I told you you’d hate it.” 

“No,” you reply, pretending to lower your voice—even though you don’t. “Wearing a fucking thong.” 

She snorts, the laugh surprisingly genuine. Either she’s a fantastic actress, or she’s thoroughly enjoying herself. 

“Why are you wearing a thong?” 

You roll your eyes, falling deeper into the role. “Because I forgot to do my laundry and it was all I had left.” 

She snickers. “Well, have fun on the next eight kilometres.” 

“Oh yeah,” you sigh, “can’t wait.” 

You glance casually over your shoulder—and bingo. Bob’s face is bright red. His lips are slightly parted. And he’s blatantly staring at your ass like it’s the final clue to finding the national treasure—and Nicholas Cage is depending on him. 

Beside him, Mickey looks like he’s about to lose it. 

“Ready to keep going?” Reuben asks, walking back up—perfect timing. 

Everyone nods, and Bob clears his throat, licking his lips quickly. “Yep. Let’s go.” 

You and Natasha take off first, keeping yourselves in the lead. 

Every few minutes, you glance back—and without fail, Bob is staring. Each time, it sends your heart skittering, your cheeks heating, and your thoughts wandering into very unholy territory. 

Maybe your friends have been right all along. Maybe he does like you. Maybe this will actually work. 

By the seventh kilometre—with only three more to go—Bob looks like he’s hanging by a thread. He ditched his hoodie about two k’s ago, tying it around his waist. His hair his clinging to his forehead, damp with sweat, and his glasses are fogging up slightly near the bridge of his nose. 

You glance over your shoulder and give him a small smile. His lips pop open and he immediately averts his eyes, focusing instead on the pavement beneath his feet. You turn back, grinning to yourself, and that’s when he picks up his pace and jogs past both you and Natasha. 

Natasha nearly bursts out laughing, but she smacks a hand to her face, pretending to wipe the sweat from her upper lip. She shoots you a sideways look and a smirk—and the two of you push forward to flank Bob, jogging on either side of him. 

“Hey,” Natasha says, more than a little breathless. “You trying to make this a competition?” 

Bob shakes his head, eyes locked on the path ahead. “Nope. Just staying focused.” 

“What’s so distracting back there?” she asks, fighting a smirk. 

“Is Fanboy being a pest?” you add, giving yourself a layer of plausible deniability—just in case he starts to suspect anything. 

Bob’s gaze flicks to you, then drops briefly to your chest before snapping forward again. “Yeah,” he says, voice uneven. “He’s breathing like Darth Vader.” 

“Hey!” Mickey calls from behind. “I’m not deaf!” 

The five of you share a short, breathless laugh before settling into a comfortable silence. You’re thoroughly exhausted now and decide to give Bob a break for the last few kilometres—merciful, maybe, but also strategic. 

Soon enough, the group slows to a walk as the café marking the end of your run comes into view. 

“Thank God,” Mickey gasps. “I’m starving.” 

“You’re always hungry,” you mutter, shooting him a flat look. 

The café is busier than expected, and you’re about to start crafting a subtle excuse to avoid going in when Reuben steps up behind you and unzips his jacket. 

“Cover your ass up, Sunny,” he says, smirking. “For fuck’s sake.” 

You try—and fail—to suppress your grin as he hands you the jacket. You roll your eyes and tie it around your waist, grateful for the cover. 

Once you’re feeling a little more decent, the group heads inside to order breakfast and find a table out back on the patio. The food and coffee arrive quickly, and soon everyone is digging in, quiet with post-run hunger. Though judging by how often Bob’s eyes keep darting toward you, his appetite might not be entirely food-related. 

“So,” Mickey says through a mouthful of bacon, “are we finishing the Star Wars marathon this weekend, or what?” 

Bob perks up instantly, eyes going bright, the usual stormy blue softening into something more sky-coloured. “Yes. Tomorrow night?” 

Reuben frowns. “But that’s Sunday.” 

“Mav gave us Monday off,” Natasha chimes in. “Weekend rotation, remember?” 

“Oh, right.” Reuben nods. “Yeah, I’m in.” 

“How many are left?” Natasha asks. 

“Six,” Mickey replies. “Not including spin-offs.” 

“We’re not getting through six in one night,” you point out. “We’ll be lucky to finish the prequels.” 

“Unless…” he says, his eyes gleaming with mischief as they flick between everyone at the table, “we had a sleepover.” 

You snort into your coffee before taking a sip, expecting someone—probably Natasha or Reuben—to shut the idea down. But instead, their faces light up with the same devious smirk that Mickey is wearing. 

“We could,” Natasha says casually. “I think it’d be fun.” 

Bob blinks at her. “You do?” 

She nods. “Yeah. Why not? We could play some drinking games and not worry about getting home.” 

“Drinking games!” Reuben echoes with excitement. “You’re a genius, Phoenix.” 

With the way their eyes keep bouncing between you and Bob, it’s clear now: they’re scheming again. Plotting the next phase of Operation Bob's Blue Balls—and your pulse is already quickening with anticipation. 

“We could do it at my place,” Bob offers, earnest as ever. “I’ve got a spare room. Plenty of space.” 

Reuben grins. “What a great idea, Bob.” 

Bob glances around at his grinning friends, the smile on his face tinged with uncertainty. He has no clue what he’s just agreed to. 

- 

“Did you pack sexy PJs?” Natasha asks, her fingers drumming against the steering wheel. 

You roll your eyes. “I don’t own any sexy PJs.” 

She shoots you a sly smirk before her gaze flicks back to the road, her silence thick with something unspoken—as if she already has a plan to remedy your lack of Victoria’s Secret-worthy sleepwear. 

Bob’s apartment isn’t far from yours. In fact, none of you live all that far from each other, but tonight, the distance doesn’t seem to matter. No—the real reason for tonight’s sleepover is something far more sinister. 

You know you’re the last to arrive, not just from the cars parked along the street, but from the group chat where Mickey has been demanding you hurry up so he can order dinner. Your heart beats in your throat as you ride the elevator up, and the ding when it reaches Bob’s level startles you more than it should. 

Natasha’s smirk stays plastered on her face until she knocks on the door, and the second it swings open, with Bob standing there, she’s all business. 

“Hey,” she says casually, walking past him like she’s been here a thousand times. 

A stab of jealousy twists in your stomach—completely unwarranted but sharp nonetheless. Has Natasha been here a lot? 

“Hi,” you mutter, offering Bob a small smile as you follow Nat inside. 

There’s a chorus of hellos from the squad scattered around the living room. Bradley lounges across the two-seater couch furthest from the door, and Mickey is sprawled in a bean bag beside him, grinning like a kid in a candy store. Jake and Javy are tangled together on one end of the three-seater couch, probably having just finished fighting over the remote. And then there’s Reuben, sitting in the middle, with Natasha plopping down beside him. 

“Guess I’ll take the floor,” you mutter, dropping your bag beside the pile of everyone else’s stuff. 

“That’s alright,” Jake says with his usual cocky grin, “You can sit on Bobby’s lap for a bit of comfort.” 

Heat floods your cheeks, but you refuse to let him see the effect of his words. Instead, you roll your eyes and flip him off, then plop down onto the makeshift nest of cushions and blankets on the floor. 

Bob reappears from the kitchen with another round of beers, while Mickey takes orders for dinner. Then Bob settles down beside you, his arm brushing yours just enough to send a sparks crackling across your skin. A moment later, Jake hits play on The Phantom Menace, and the room settles into a comfortable, albeit charged, quiet. 

It doesn’t take long before Jake groans that he’s bored, and Reuben’s eyes immediately flick toward Natasha—like they’d both seen this coming from a mile away. 

“We could play a game,” Mickey offers, all too innocently. 

“Yes,” Jake grins, already invested. “Let’s play a game.” 

“What game?” Javy asks. 

Reuben opens his mouth, but Jake beats him to it. “Truth or Dare, obviously.” 

Natasha snorts and slaps a hand over her mouth, but not before you catch it. That was exactly what Reuben had been about to suggest—and Jake is walking right into whatever scheme they’ve cooked up. 

“How old are you?” Bradley asks Jake, brows furrowing. 

“Not as old as you, Grandpa,” Jake fires back. “But you could at least pretend to enjoy fun.” 

Bradley rolls his eyes but shrugs. “Fine.” 

Everyone else falls in line, shifting around until you’ve all formed a lopsided circle on the floor, your back half-angled toward the movie. Jake claps his hands together like the ringmaster of a circus—which might not be far off from what this night is about to become. 

“Alright. If you’re a chicken and won’t answer the truth or do the dare, you drink. Simple. I’ll go first.” He zeroes in on Bob—poor, unsuspecting Bob, who clearly just wanted to enjoy some Star Wars in peace. “Bob. Truth or Dare?” 

“Truth,” Bob says, almost too quickly. 

Jake leans forward with a shit-eating grin. “Who would you rather go on a date with—Phoenix or Sunny?” 

You choke on nothing, smothering the sound behind your hand and pretending it’s just a casual cough. 

Heat blooms across Bob’s cheeks and starts creeping up to the tips of his ears. He glances your way—just for a beat—then over at Natasha, and your stomach knots. Is he seriously having to think about this? Have your friends been totally misreading Bob this whole time? 

Then, after a moment of hesitation, Bob simply lifts his beer and takes a long sip. 

Jake groans. “Ugh, lame.” 

“Don’t worry, Bob,” Javy says with a laugh. “That was a trap. There was no right answer.” 

Bob chuckles—a low, rough sound right next to you that sends goosebumps up your arms. “I know,” he says, voice deceptively casual. Then he shifts his gaze toward Mickey. “Fanboy. Truth or Dare?” 

Mickey’s face lights up. “Dare.” 

Bob smiles—and for the first time tonight, it’s almost a smirk. There’s something sharp beneath the usual softness, and it makes your stomach flip. 

“Text the last person you hooked up with ‘thinking about you’—no context. And you can't reply until tomorrow.” 

Mickey’s grin drops. “What the fuck, man?” 

Bob just shrugs, raising his beer like it’s a toast. “You picked dare.” Then he brings the bottle to his lips and takes a generous swig. 

And holy shit—you might actually combust from the sight alone. Bob being just a little cocky. Bob utterly destroying Mickey with zero remorse. You know there’s a darker edge beneath that quiet, boy-next-door act. You know he’s got a mean streak. And God, you want to find it. Pull it out of him and ask—beg—for him to do things you can’t even say out loud. 

The group erupts into cackles as Mickey reluctantly pulls out his phone, Reuben peering over his shoulder to make sure he follows through. 

“There,” Mickey mutters, tossing the phone face-down on the floor. “You better watch your back.” 

But Bob doesn’t flinch. He just sits there, calm and collected, with that damn smirk still tugging at the corner of his mouth. 

When you finally tear your gaze away from him, you find Mickey’s eyes locked on you—an evil grin stretched across his face. “Sunny,” he says, voice smooth as silk. “Truth or Dare?” 

You steel your nerves, unsure of what’s coming but already sensing the trap. “Dare,” you reply, trying to keep your voice steady. 

Mickey’s grin widens, tipping his head forward like some sinister villain—and you just walked straight into his web. “Google a dirty line from Fifty Shades of Grey... and whisper it slowly in Bob’s ear.” 

Jake snorts, his face twisted with amusement, and the rest of the group follows—dissolving into fits of laughter. All but Bob, who’s already choking on his beer, turning an even deeper shade of red before you’ve even touched your phone. 

You blink, eyes going wide. “Are you serious?” 

“Oh, I’m very serious,” Mickey replies, practically vibrating with excitement. “And no laughing. You have to sell it.” 

You lock eyes with Mickey, your death-glare sharp as your hands shake slightly while you pick up your phone. Then, you reluctantly tap the search bar and type in ‘dirty line from Fifty Shades of Grey.’ Before you realize what’s happening, Natasha leans over your shoulder. 

“Ooh,” she giggles, pointing at the screen. “That one.” 

You glance up at Bob, your expression a mix of apology and warning. He looks much less confident than before, his lips parted, cheeks flushed, blue eyes wide behind his glasses. His throat bobs as he swallows, and a small part of you—one that feels dangerous—stirs with excitement. 

The room falls into eerie silence, and you realize that Jake has paused the movie. All eyes are on you as you shuffle closer to Bob, getting onto your knees beside him. You plant one hand on his thigh to steady yourself, and you feel the muscles in his leg twitch at your touch. 

His breath hitches, his whole body going rigid. 

You lean in close, your lips barely brushing the shell of his ear as you murmur, “I want your hands on me. Your mouth. I want to feel you everywhere until I forget my own name.” 

A beat of silence stretches, and then Bob exhales sharply, his hand tightening around his beer bottle as if it’s the only thing keeping him tethered to Earth. 

“Jesus Christ,” Jake mutters under his breath. 

“Holy shit,” Reuben says, breaking into laughter. 

Mickey is howling, pounding his fist against the beanbag. “Worth it! So worth it!” 

You slowly pull back, biting back a grin as you settle back into your spot like nothing happened. Bob, however, is still stuck in the mental tailspin you just launched him into, blinking hard and adjusting his glasses like he needs a whole system reset. 

You meet his eyes, and for the briefest second, you see it—buried beneath the shock and heat—that glint of hunger. 

God help you, you're not making it out of tonight alive. 

The game moves on, but you can’t quiet your mind. You’re stuck on the way Bob’s thigh had felt beneath your palm, the way the muscles shifted under your touch. You can’t stop replaying the brush of your lips near his ear, the hitch in his breath, or the way he’d smelled—clean, warm, intoxicating. You don’t just want to fuck this man—you want to ruin him. You want him panting and wrecked, bruised and breathless, oversensitive and spent. There are things you want to ask of him that would guarantee you a one-way ticket to hell. But if he said yes—if he gave you those things—it’d be worth it. 

You’ve never wanted a man the way you want him, and it’s starting to feel like a genuine threat to your well-being. 

“Bob,” Natasha says, her voice snapping you back to reality, “Truth or Dare?” 

You’re not sure how many turns you’ve missed, but Bradley and Reuben seem to have swapped shirts, and there’s a bottle of tequila on the table that definitely wasn’t there earlier. 

“Dare,” Bob replies, seemingly recovered from your whispered indecency. 

Natasha grins. “I dare you to pick someone in this room to do a body shot off of—excluding me.” 

Your heart stutters at the last part. Did she say that because she thought he’d pick her? Would he have? Out of comfort, knowing it wouldn’t mean anything—or for some other reason? 

You shake the thought off quickly and join the group’s laughter, mentally scolding yourself for the jealous spiral. 

“Seriously, Phoenix?” Bob sighs, his brows knit. 

She just shrugs, laughing. “You picked dare.” 

He tips his head back and groans, giving you a perfect view of the long line of his throat, the sharp bob of his Adam’s apple as he swallows. 

“Come on, man,” Jake chuckles, “There’s only one clear choice.” 

Your cheeks flush as Jake nods toward you, green eyes sparkling like he’s the one about to do the dare. 

“As if you’re not going to pick Sunny,” Javy adds, watching as Bob’s eyes slowly scan the room. 

Then his gaze lands on you—soft, but laced with something heavier. Something simmering. 

He licks his lips, and you can’t stop yourself from imagining them on your skin. Imagining his tongue dragging over your body, slow and deliberate. The salt from your collarbone, your abdomen… or maybe lower—right above the waistband of your pants. Would he use the glass? Or would he press his mouth to your stomach, lips sealing around your navel, tongue lapping up the tequila while you tremble beneath him? 

Then the lime—between your lips, waiting for him. His mouth brushing yours as he leans in, breath mingling, tasting more than just the fruit. You imagine the sharp burst of citrus, the tease of contact, tequila heat still slick on his tongue. He’d bite down, lips grazing yours, and it would wreck you more than any kiss ever could. 

“Hangman,” Bob says suddenly, his gaze locked on the man across the circle—who now looks a lot less smug and a lot more stunned. 

Jake’s brows shoot up. “Me?” 

The room erupts into laughter. Bradley throws his head back, already fumbling for his phone to record whatever chaos is about to unfold. Mickey nearly falls over, gripping the bean bag for dear life, and Javy is doubled over, laughing so hard he can’t catch a breath. 

“Why would you do this to me?” Jake gasps, eyes wide. 

“You said there was only one clear option,” Bob replies evenly, the ghost of a smirk tugging at his mouth. “I agree.” 

“You bitch,” Jake mutters. 

“Oh, this is so much better than what I thought was going to happen,” Natasha says. “Shirt off, Bagman. Let’s go.” 

“This could be considered assault,” Jake mutters as he sits forward on the couch. 

“Then press charges,” Bradley says, half-choking on a laugh. “But let him finish first.” 

Natasha bolts to the kitchen for lime and salt, and the rest of the group scrambles to clear space on the lounge like they’re prepping for surgery. Jake peels off his shirt with the theatrics of a martyr, glaring at each of his cackling friends. 

Bob, meanwhile, looks cool as ever—far more composed than Jake. And maybe that’s the point. Picking you would’ve set the room on fire. Picking someone else would’ve gotten laughs. But picking Hangman? That’s just cruel and perfect—and from the slow curl of a smirk on Bob’s lips, he knows it. 

“Let’s go, Seresin,” Natasha says, reappearing with lime in one hand, salt in the other. 

Jake lies back with exaggerated misery, like a man about to be sacrificed at the altar. “I swear to God, Floyd, if you do anything weird with your mouth-” 

“I won’t,” Bob says, calm and unbothered. “Unless you want me to.” 

Your stomach somersaults. He didn’t even look at you—but somehow, it still feels like the line was meant for you. Like he knows exactly what he does to you, without even trying. 

Bob Floyd is fucking smooth when he wants to be. 

The room falls eerily quiet as Bob kneels beside the couch, one hand braced on the cushion beneath Jake’s body, the other holding the tequila bottle. He looks serene—like he’s preparing for a sacred ritual rather than licking salt off another man’s chest. 

“This is happening,” Mickey whispers, wide-eyed. “This is actually happening.” 

“Focus, Bob,” Natasha says solemnly, holding the shot glass as he pours the tequila. “We believe in you.” 

Bob sets the bottle down and leans toward Jake slowly, both hands now braced on the couch as he lowers his head to the other man’s chest. The room is absolutely silent, save for the soft rustle of fabric and the charged hush of everyone holding their breath. 

Jake stares straight up, completely stiff. “Don’t look at me while you do it.” 

“I’m not,” Bob says, deadpan. 

He dips his head and licks the salt clean off Jake’s skin. Jake jerks like he’s been hit with a defibrillator. 

“Oh my God,” Javy whispers, clutching his chest. “This is the best thing I’ve ever witnessed.” 

Natasha hands Bob the shot, and he tosses it back like he’s sampling a fine whiskey. Then he turns to the lime Natasha has jammed between Jake’s clenched teeth. 

“Don’t you dare,” Jake warns. 

“I’m just following instructions,” Bob replies calmly, and leans in. 

There’s a ridiculous half-second where it looks like they’re about to kiss—and everyone knows it. You bite your fist to keep from bursting out laughing… or something else entirely. Because Bob? Cool as ice. Smooth as ever. He doesn’t even flinch as his mouth brushes Jake’s, teeth clamping down on the lime and tugging it free. 

Jake makes a choked sound halfway between outrage and existential crisis. 

Then the room explodes. 

Bradley nearly falls off the lounge, still recording, laughter shaking his whole body. Natasha collapses into Javy’s lap, practically wheezing. Mickey is making noises like he’s being exorcised, and you’re on the brink of tears, shoulders shaking with laughter as Bob calmly returns to his seat, lime in hand, mouth twisted slightly at the tartness. 

Jake bolts upright, wiping his mouth. “I need therapy.” 

Bob frowns. “You needed therapy before that.” 

“Yeah,” Jake spits, yanking his shirt back on. “Well, now I need more.” 

You’re not sure you’ve ever felt it before—and you definitely don’t plan on voicing it—but right now, you are incredibly fucking jealous of Jake Seresin. 

It takes a while, but eventually the group settles down and the game fizzles out—mostly thanks to Jake’s relentless sulking. Not long after, Mickey gets a notification that the food is nearly delivered, and everyone jumps into action to clear the table and grab what’s needed for dinner. 

Less than ten minutes later, you’re all crowded around the coffee table, shovelling Chinese food into your mouths and stealing bites off each other’s plates. Jake’s sour mood has mostly vanished, and everyone is focused on the final battle of the movie playing out on-screen. 

By the time the credits start rolling, most of the food is gone. You and Natasha start carting plates, bowls, and empty containers into the kitchen while the guys finish polishing off their meals, scraping the last of the food off their plates and into their mouths.  

“Did I mention I brought dessert?” Reuben pipes up, eyeing you as you stack a few plates in one hand. 

You raise a brow. “Are you about to make a gross joke?” 

“No,” he laughs, shaking his head. “You know Barb, down the hall?” 

“Neighbour Barb with the yappy chihuahua?” 

He nods. “Yeah. She bakes, like… the most amazing stuff.” 

You narrow your eyes, plates now balanced in both hands. “Do I even want to know how you know this?” 

Mickey answers for him, talking around a mouthful of Mongolian beef. “Because we’re nice to our neighbours.” 

You give him a disgusted look before turning back to Reuben. “Okay. Get to the point.” 

He grins, a smug twist playing at the corner of his mouth. “She made a huge batch of cream pies—I mean, puffs. So she brought some over, and I brought them here. They’re to die for.” 

Your eyes widen almost imperceptibly—but Reuben catches it, and you can see the spark of amusement flash across his face. 

“Have you ever had a cream pie, Sunny?” Mickey asks, beaming up at you with sauce smeared on his face. 

Jake and Javy snort, and behind you—you swear you hear Bob snicker. 

“Yes, Mick,” you bite out. “I’ve had a cream puff.” 

You turn sharply back toward the kitchen, but not before catching the small smirk on Bob’s lips, his cheeks pink as he spoons another mouthful of kung pao chicken into his mouth. 

“That’s not what I asked!” Mickey calls after you, giggling like a grade-schooler. 

You roll your eyes and drop the plates by the sink, where Natasha and Bradley are already washing up. 

“Lookin’ a little red there, Floyd,” Reuben teases, his voice carrying from the living room to the kitchen. 

It’s the chicken,” Bob replies quickly—but there’s something in his voice that makes a stupid, lovesick grin spread across your face. 

Once everything is washed up and everyone has returned to the living room, Jake hits play on the next film. You’re back on the floor, this time with your back pressed to the couch beneath Natasha, who’s curled up with her legs tucked beneath her, leaving you space to lean. Bob is further away now, sprawled on his back across a fluffy blanket, a cluster of pillows beneath his head, hands folded neatly over his stomach. 

You try to keep your eyes on the screen—it really shouldn’t be that hard with both Hayden Christensen and Ewan McGregor to enjoy—but your gaze keeps drifting to Bob. He looks so content, so cute, his lips tipped into a soft half-smile and his blue eyes sparkling behind his glasses. There’s something about him that turns your brain to absolute mush, and you still can’t figure out what. 

Maybe it’s the dichotomy of him. How sweet and quiet he is—some might even say shy, but you know better. He’s just overwhelmingly nice, with a pretty face to match. And yet, you have to remind yourself that this man is in the navy. He’s not spineless—in fact, he’s the total opposite. He’s sharp and quick-witted, strong both mentally and physically. There’s not a single thing about him that’s weak, yet he lets people assume otherwise. 

Maybe it’s confidence. The kind that doesn’t need to be loud. He doesn’t care what people think or say. Not that he isn’t awkward sometimes—he definitely can be—but that’s more about being introverted. He doesn’t need to show off or run his mouth like Jake. He doesn’t need to fly like an idiot to prove himself. He’s just Bob. He knows who he is, and he’s not apologetic about it. 

What is it they call that? 

Oh yeah… big dick energy. 

Your eyes drift down his torso, lingering briefly on his hands—the way his long fingers are laced together—before continuing down to the waistband of his dark blue joggers. There’s a bulge in his lap. A notable one. And a slight outline continuing down the left leg of his pants… 

Wait. That’s like… kind of huge. 

A hard nudge to your shoulder startles you, and you whip around to see Natasha staring at you. Her eyes are wide, her lips pulled into a smirk—half disbelieving, half smug. 

Stop staring, she mouths. 

You press your lips together to hold back a laugh, a little giddy from your fourth—or maybe fifth—beer. Your face feels warm, and you know if you keep looking at Nat, you’ll start laughing, so you quickly turn back to the movie. 

“Okay,” Mickey pipes up, scrambling out of the beanbag and to his feet, “who wants cream puffs?” 

“Only if you serve them warm and full,” Jake shoots back. 

The room erupts—half groans, half childish laughter. Mickey just snorts and disappears into the kitchen, Reuben trailing behind him. A few minutes later, they return, each holding a heaping plate stacked with warm, golden cream puffs. 

“Fair warning,” Reuben says, setting one down on the table, “these things are insane. Like... dangerously good.” 

You grab one without hesitation—soft, golden, still warm to the touch. It’s dusted in powdered sugar and practically bursting with cream. You bite into it and—holy hell—the taste explodes in your mouth. Sweet. Rich. Ridiculously creamy. You moan without meaning to, eyes fluttering shut. 

“Oh, wow,” you say around a mouthful. “That’s... actually insane.” 

The group hums and laughs in agreement, but you barely notice. You take another bite—bigger this time—and it squishes a little too easily in your hand. Cream oozes out the side, trailing down your chin and, with an audible plop, lands squarely between your breasts. 

“Oh, shit,” you mutter, trying to swipe the cream away—but all you manage to do is smear it further. 

There’s a beat of silence, and even the movie playing in the background seems to go quiet. 

“Jesus Christ,” Reuben says, somewhere between impressed and scandalised. “You sure you don’t need a minute alone with that thing?” 

Laughter rumbles around you, and only when you look up do you realise how provocative that just was—the heat in your cheeks deepening. But then your eyes catch on Bob. 

He’s not laughing. He’s not even blinking. 

The lazy smile he wore earlier? Gone. He’s sitting upright now, shoulders tense, jaw clenched. His gaze is locked on you like he forgot what movie is playing, what day it is—hell, maybe even his own name. 

“Floyd?” Mickey nudges his leg with a foot. “You good?” 

Bob jolts slightly, as if waking from a trance. He coughs, shifts, and yanks the blanket from the floor to cover his lap—too quickly to be casual. 

“They, uh...” he clears his throat, voice rough. “They look really good.” 

Your stomach swoops as he leans forward, still holding the blanket tight in place, and reaches for a cream puff from the plate right in front of you—still avoiding your eyes entirely. 

Natasha leans in from behind, her voice low. “You are killing him.” 

You press your lips together to hide your grin, eyes flicking back to Bob—who’s now doing everything in his power not to look in your direction. 

The cream puffs disappear in what has to be a record amount of time. You’re pretty sure you watched Javy inhale at least four, and there was an unnecessarily loud argument between Mickey and Bradley over the last one, which ended in a begrudging decision to split it. 

The rest of the movie plays out without incident, and afterward, everyone decides to change into their PJs for the final film of the night. You’re honestly surprised everyone has made it to movie number three, but you’re not complaining. 

The boys start rummaging through their bags, swapping out jeans for boxers or stretchy pajama pants while Natasha grabs her bag and disappears into the bathroom. You keep your eyes glued to your phone screen to avoid catching a glimpse of something you definitely don’t want to see—because these boys? They have no shame. 

“You can change in my room if you want,” Bob offers. 

You glance up, making sure to keep your eyes fixed on him, because just a little to the left is where Jake is still mid-change. 

“Yeah?” 

Bob nods, a small smile tugging at his lips as he gestures down the short hallway past the kitchen. “It’s the door just after the bathroom.” 

“Thanks,” you mutter, pushing to your feet and grabbing your bag as you slip past the others—now teasing Mickey about his choice of boxers. 

The door is open just a crack, and your heart thuds a little harder than it should as you ease it the rest of the way. The smell hits first—clean and warm, with a twist of vanilla that makes you want to wrap yourself in it and never leave. 

You flick on the light and shut the door behind you, dropping your bag to the floor. You know you should just get changed, but… you can’t help it. You’ve only been to Bob’s apartment a couple times before—once to help him move in (because of course the whole squad helped), and once with Natasha to pick him up before a night out. But never in here. Never in his room. 

It’s almost unusually tidy, but that’s navy life for you. His bed is made neatly, topped with a soft baby blue duvet, coordinated beige and cream pillows, and a throw blanket folded at the foot. It’s a little faded and looks handmade, like something passed down through generations. 

On one side of the room, a bookshelf houses a quiet little collection of well-loved paperbacks, a few aviation manuals, and a line of model planes—some pristine and precise, others clearly glued together by a much younger version of him. A framed photo of a beaming, pint-sized Bob in oversized glasses sits on the dresser, nestled between a small baseball trophy and a display of navy challenge coins. 

A pair of worn sneakers sits neatly by the door, and his uniform jacket hangs off the closet handle, the door slightly ajar. The name tag catches just enough light to pull your eyes toward it. Everything about the room feels like him—modest, thoughtful, quietly proud. It’s the kind of unintentional intimacy that makes you feel like you’ve slipped behind the curtain and gotten a glimpse of the real Bob. 

And somehow… that makes your chest ache. It’s just a room. But it feels so much like him—like you could curl up in here with him for hours, doing nothing but talking and dreaming. Getting lost in each other. Letting the rest of the world wait. And then, later, getting tangled together. Soft kisses, whispered pleas, gentle moans—slow and unhurried, learning one another’s bodies until you know each other better than you know yourselves. 

You shake your head hard and take a breath. You’ve already been in here too long. Pull it together. 

You crouch beside your bag and pull out your pajamas—soft lounge shorts and a matching long-sleeved shirt. It’s nothing special, but a step up from your usual: an old, food-stained navy tee and nothing but underwear. 

You change quickly and shove your clothes into your bag before leaving the room. The lounge room has quieted down, everyone now back in their seats—except for Mickey and Bob, who are in the kitchen grabbing another round of drinks. 

Jake hits play as soon as they return, and everyone settles in again. There’s less chatter now, probably because of how late it’s gotten. Bradley is almost definitely asleep, eyes half-shut on the two-seater, while Mickey is having the time of his life seeing how many of Bradley’s fingers he can get stuck in the top of his beer bottle. 

Natasha is curled up behind you, her head resting on Reuben’s shoulder, and his blinks are getting longer and slower by the second. Jake is surprisingly alert and invested in the film, but Javy looks like his head might lull back at any moment. And Bob—Bob is still wide awake, his eyes sparkling with interest as he watches the screen. 

Halfway through the film, Mickey pushes to his feet and offers another round of drinks, prompting a few sleepy murmurs of ‘yes’ from the others. 

“I’ll help,” you offer, stretching as you rise from the floor and follow him into the kitchen. 

You open the fridge and start pulling out beers while Mickey pops the tops off. But when you close the fridge and turn back around, you spot Reuben—now suddenly very awake—watching Mickey with intent. He’s wearing that little smirk that always means trouble, clearly trying to telepathically communicate something to his WSO. 

Your brow furrows as you glance between them, trying to decode the silent exchange. Mickey looks equally confused for a second... but then realisation dawns and a wicked grin curls onto his face. 

He turns to you and mutters, “Sorry about this.” But he doesn’t sound even remotely apologetic. 

Your frown deepens. “What are you-” 

But you don’t get to finish the question before he starts shaking the beer bottle in his hand. 

“Mick—!” you cry, just as he pops the top off and sprays you with beer. 

You shriek, throwing your hands in front of your face like that’ll somehow stop the onslaught. But it doesn’t. You’re soaked. 

“What the hell, Fanboy?” Reuben calls from the living room, as if this wasn’t entirely his doing. 

“Mickey!” you shout, dropping your arms and glaring at him. 

“Whoops,” he says with a grin. “My bad.” 

Natasha snorts and smacks a hand over her mouth. “Sorry. It’s not funny.” 

“Wow, Fanboy,” Jake pipes up, the smirk in his voice unmistakable. “Is that the first time you’ve made a girl wet?” 

Mickey glares—or tries to. He’s way too pleased with himself for it to land properly. 

“Hey, Floyd,” Reuben calls, “you got any spare clothes for Sunny?” 

Bob is already looking at you, lips parted and cheeks flushed. He swallows hard before turning to Reuben and nodding. “Yeah, of course.” Then he stands, eyes flicking back to you. “Do you want to shower?” 

Mickey gasps, scandalised. “Robert Floyd, are you propositioning her?” 

Bob’s blush deepens, colouring his neck and the tips of his ears, but he doesn’t look particularly ashamed. He looks… flushed. Hot. Close to unravelling. His glare cuts back to Mickey, sharper than usual, a little too dark to be playful. And then his gaze shifts back to you—specifically, your chest. 

You follow his line of sight and immediately wrap an arm around yourself. Your nipples are pebbled beneath your shirt, the damp fabric clinging in all the worst ways. Or the best—if you ask Bob Floyd. 

“Yes,” you say tightly. “A shower would be good.” 

The room dissolves into quiet laughter as you follow Bob down the hall. He slips into his room for a moment, then returns with a folded towel and some clothes stacked neatly on top. 

“Here,” he says, offering them to you. “Take as long as you want. You can use whatever’s in there. Not that there’s much.” 

He dips his head—blush still firmly in place—and heads back to the living room. 

You stare after him for a second, dumbfounded. He got embarrassed about his lack of shower products? That’s what embarrassed him? Not the full-body, post-beer-shower eye-fucking he just gave you? 

You close the bathroom door behind you and lean against it, exhaling hard. You’re buzzing. Overstimulated. Untouched and on fire. You feel like you’re being edged and then abandoned, left to squirm. You’re so sensitive it hurts. Bob is teasing you just as much as you’re teasing him—those glances, the heat behind his eyes, the way his mouth hangs open like he wants to say something but never does. 

You might’ve thought you were playing a game, but Bob Floyd is about to kill you without even realising it. 

You strip quickly, trying not to dwell on the fact that you’re naked in Bob’s apartment. You keep the water on the cooler side—a half-hearted attempt to wash away the heat still simmering under your skin. But it doesn’t help. You shower fast and step out even faster, wrapping yourself in the towel Bob gave you. It’s fluffy, soft, and smells just like him—which makes that spot deep behind your hipbones ache. 

You dry off in record time, then turn to the small pile of clothes on the vanity—Bob’s clothes. Your hands tremble slightly as you lift the satin boxers, dark blue with little white stars, and slide them up your legs. Then the shirt: a worn white tee with a faded Star Wars logo across the chest. 

His scent wraps around you the second you slide it over your head—oversized and impossibly soft against your warm skin. You try not to focus on the rasp of cotton against your nipples. God, if he ever actually touches you, you might just combust. 

You take a deep breath, trying to calm the fire burning low in your belly, then scoop up your beer-soaked clothes and open the bathroom door—steam spilling into the hallway as you step out. 

"Finally," Mickey says, popping up in front of you like he’s been waiting, holding out a plastic bag. 

You blink. “What?” 

“For your clothes,” he says simply. 

“Oh.” You take it and shove the damp material inside. 

His gaze dips—just for a beat—before sliding back up. Then he grins, gives you a cheeky wink, and turns back toward the lounge room. You follow, every eye lifting to you the second you reappear. Warmth floods your cheeks. You’re in Bob’s clothes. Bob's boxers. Bob's shirt. 

“Can we play the movie now?” Jake whines, oblivious to the tension humming through the room. “It was just getting good.” 

You nod, unable to speak, your gaze already locked with Bob’s. 

His eyes rake down your body, slow and deliberate. He takes in the curve of your neck, the slope of your shoulder, the hang of his shirt against your chest. His gaze catches there, as if he can see straight through the fabric, then continues its journey down to the hem. The shorts are barely visible beneath the shirt, and judging by the heat in his eyes, he might be wondering why you're wearing pants at all. 

You shift under the weight of his stare, hyper-aware of every inch of fabric against your skin—of how suddenly hot the room feels. Jake presses play, but no one is watching the screen. Every pair of eyes bounces between you and Bob, waiting—expecting—something to happen. 

Bob looks wrecked. His hands are clenched at his sides, knuckles white, jaw tight. Like he has to physically hold himself back. 

Natasha clears her throat, startling you more than it should. You tear your gaze away and flash her a sheepish smile before finally forcing yourself to move, padding back to your spot on the floor. 

Even then, you can feel Bob’s eyes tracking every step. 

The rest of the movie plays out in near silence, broken only by the soft snoring that eventually starts up from Bradley and Javy. It takes a while for you to settle, but you finally curl up on the floor with a pillow hugged to your chest, watching Anakin fall apart on-screen and become Darth Vader. 

Jake is the only one still fully invested in the film. Even Bob seems distracted now, his eyes flicking toward you more often than the TV. He shifts in place, uncomfortable, dragging the blanket higher across his lap and holding it like a lifeline. You try not to smirk. 

You think you know what might be going on under there… but you’re not about to assume. It couldn't possibly be just because you’re wearing his clothes. 

…Right? 

Eventually, the credits start rolling and everyone begins to stir. 

“Where am I sleeping?” Mickey asks, already eyeing Bob like he’s got plans. 

Bob shrugs. “Wherever. There’s the couches and a couple beds in the spare room, but someone’ll have to sleep with me.” 

“I think Rooster’s good here,” Jake says, glancing at the man awkwardly passed out on the two-seater couch. “I’ll take this one.” 

“I’ll sleep with you, Bobby,” Javy says through a yawn, stretching so wide his joints pop. 

“Damn it,” Mickey mutters as he walks past, bumping your shoulder with his. “Missed opportunity.” 

You roll your eyes but can’t help feeling a twinge of disappointment. You know damn well you wouldn’t get any sleep next to Bob—not when he smells like that, looks like that, and keeps looking at you the way he does. So it’s probably for the best, but still, the thought lingers. 

Everyone takes turns brushing their teeth and shuffling off to bed. You end up in the fold-out bed with Natasha in the spare room, while Reuben and Mickey claim the air mattress on the floor. Apparently, there’s no escaping these boys—not even for one night. 

Mumbled goodnights fade into rustling fabric and shifting limbs, then finally, silence. 

Too much silence. 

You lie on your back, eyes on the ceiling, thoughts screaming through your head like they’re in a race. You should be tired—your body aches—but your brain refuses to shut up. You toss the blanket off, overheated, but even with the cooler air, your skin feels flushed. You roll to your side, careful not to jostle Natasha on the creaky mattress, but nothing helps. 

You glance down at the boys, both snoring with their mouths open, and finally sigh. Swinging your legs off the bed, you wriggle out of Bob’s shorts, thinking maybe it’ll help. You don’t usually sleep in pants anyway. 

It doesn’t. 

Ten minutes later, you quietly slip off the bed and tiptoe toward the door, easing it open with practiced care to avoid the squeaky hinges. Then you turn down the hallway, barefoot and warm-skinned, and pad into the kitchen. 

The hem of Bob’s shirt brushes against your bare thighs, stoking the fire already simmering between them as you stop in front of the fridge and pull the door open. A cool flood of light spills across the kitchen tiles. You grab a bottle of water and twist off the cap, stepping back and tipping it to your lips. But the cold rush does nothing to cool the heat thrumming beneath your skin. 

“You always walk around other people’s places half naked?” 

You choke, almost spilling water down your chin as you turn toward the voice—that low, raspy sound that makes your skin prickle and your spine snap straight. 

Bob stands at the edge of the kitchen, leaning casually against the far counter—but there’s nothing relaxed about the way he holds himself. In the dim glow of the fridge light, he looks almost ethereal. His eyes are sharp, lit with something that borders on pain—hunger, maybe, or full-blown starvation—and his arms are crossed over his bare chest. 

Yeah. Bob Floyd is shirtless. 

You register a flicker of jealousy for Javy—the man who gets to sleep next to this—but you don’t let yourself linger on it. Not when Bob is standing right there in nothing but a pair of loose boxers, the fabric doing nothing to hide the impressive shape beneath. 

You don’t know if it’s because he’s a little turned on or just blessed, but damn. 

“You okay?” he asks, though it doesn’t sound like a real question—because he already knows the answer. 

No. No, you’re not. 

You clear your throat, dragging your eyes back up to his. “Yeah, I—uh-” 

Your words falter when his gaze drops to your legs. There’s something almost reverent in the way he looks at you—like he’s trying to memorise every inch. His eyes drag slowly up your bare thighs, pausing at the hem of his shirt before gliding over your waist and stopping at your chest, where your nipples are clearly outlined beneath the thin cotton. 

The heat of his stare burns hotter than any touch. 

“Couldn’t sleep?” he asks, voice quiet, like he’s just making conversation. Like he has no idea what he’s doing to you. 

He pushes off the counter and walks straight toward you—slow, but sure. He stops right in front of the fridge, close enough that if you moved even a breath closer, you’d feel your nipples graze his skin. 

You take a step back—barely. Just enough to let him slip past you. 

He nods slightly—a silent thanks—and ducks into the fridge for his own water. When he shuts the door, the kitchen is plunged into darkness, save for dim moonlight filtering in from the far windows—but you can still see him. His outline, the dips and curves of his lean torso, the tilt of his head as he tips the bottle back and drinks. 

You watch his throat move with every swallow, your lips parting slightly, craving his skin on your tongue. You don’t move. You don’t breathe. You just stand there, watching. 

When he finishes, he turns to the sink and drops the empty bottle in before bracing both hands against the bench. His chin dips toward his chest, and you see the rise and fall of his shoulders as he exhales—hard. 

Before you can stop yourself, your feet carry you forward until you’re beside him, your bare arm brushing against his. You place your own bottle in the sink, then turn toward him and lean your hip against the counter. 

“Bob,” you whisper. 

Every sound in the apartment feels louder now—the faint snores, the creak of the floorboards, your own heartbeat thrumming in your ears. 

He looks at you, only turning his head, not his body. “Don’t—” he says softly. “Don’t say my name like that.” 

You frown, sliding your hand over his. His grip tightens on the bench like he’s anchoring himself. 

“Like what?” you ask softly. 

“Like you want me,” he murmurs. His voice is thick—rough around the edges like it’s been scraped raw. Like he's holding something back with every laboured breath. 

You press closer, your chest against his arm. The contact is electric. Your skin separated only by a whisper of cotton—his cotton. 

“Bob,” you breathe, a little desperate now. 

He exhales sharply and drops his gaze to the sink again, like something there might help him. “This isn’t…” His jaw flexes. “We can’t do this.” 

“Do what?” you ask, playing innocent, even as your fingers trail lightly up his arm. 

You can feel your chest rising and falling faster than it should, your breasts pressing against his arm like some wanton, starry-eyed girl. But you can’t bring yourself to step away. Every inch of you is on fire, every nerve ending singed and tingling. You want him to turn around and take you—bend you over the counter and make you scream his name. Who gives a fuck who’s listening... or watching. You just want Bob. You want him to know how much you want him, how deeply you need him. How desperate he makes you without even trying. 

“Do you have any idea,” he whispers, finally turning to face you fully, “what you do to me?” 

You feel it—hard and thick—pressing against your lower belly. There’s no mistaking it now. 

“Bob…” Your voice is a sigh, wrecked and begging. 

He catches your wrist, his grip firm, nearly bruising. His eyes are wild as they search your face—from your eyes to your lips, down to your chest, and back again—like he’s torn between reason and ruin. 

You hold still. Waiting. Daring. Wanting him to snap. 

But then... he’s gone—his warmth, his scent, the burning look in his eyes. All of it, gone in a breath. 

“Goodnight,” he mutters, so low you barely hear it before the soft click of his bedroom door… and then the snap of the lock. 

You’re left standing there, chest heaving, skin burning. Your eyes sting with unshed tears, and your mind is a mess. What the fuck just happened? Your panties are damp, and your chest aches like you've been torn in two. You want to cry, but you also want to break down his door. How dare he build you up like that? Look at you like that, talk to you like that—and then just walk away. 

It takes several minutes before you can move, your legs shaky, your mind racing. You stumble back to the spare room, collapse into bed, and stare at the ceiling, flat on your back—Bob’s shirt clinging to your skin. 

You don’t sleep. Not at all. 

- 

“He what?” Natasha’s eyes go impossibly wide. “And then he just—he left?” 

You nod slowly, keeping your eyes fixed on your lunch. The mess hall is loud enough to muffle your conversation—one you should’ve had yesterday but couldn’t summon the strength for. So here you are, in the middle of the hall, with the boys a couple tables over, surrounded by lieutenants you don’t know—blissfully unaware of your current crisis. 

“Yeah,” you sigh, stabbing at another piece of pasta you don’t plan to eat. 

You haven’t eaten much in the last twenty-four hours—not since the run-in with Bob. Everything feels bland now, drained of colour and taste, too dull to bother with. Anything that isn’t Bob just feels lacking, and you're starting to worry that one moment—one heated, breathless moment—has completely ruined you. 

“That’s insane,” Natasha mutters. “That’s so... not Bob. How could he be so—I don’t know... rude? I just—I have no words.” 

You shrug one shoulder. “It wasn’t rude. He just seemed... confused, I guess. And I don’t blame him. If I’m not what he wants, then-” 

“Stop right there,” Mickey interrupts, sliding into the chair beside you. 

Reuben drops into the seat next to Natasha, eyeing your tray of food. 

“Sorry,” he says, reaching across the table to steal your apple. “We couldn’t get away any faster.” 

You glance past Mickey, down the row of tables, and catch Bob’s eyes on you—just for a second—before he quickly looks away. Bradley, Jake, and Javy are still deep in conversation with the other guys, oblivious. Bob seems to be the only one noticing Reuben and Mickey’s absence. 

“Start again,” Mickey says. “From the beginning. We knew something happened.” 

Natasha snorts around a mouthful of pasta, and you sigh, knowing there’s no point arguing. They’d get it out of you one way or another. 

Twenty minutes later, when you finally finish recapping the story for the second time, Natasha taps her watch and nods toward the exit. “We better get back before Mav, or he’ll keep us late tonight.” 

Mickey’s brows are nearly touching as he processes everything you’ve said. “What does he mean, ‘you can’t do this’? He clearly wanted to—so why didn’t he?” 

You pick up your tray and follow Natasha toward the return station. “Your guess is as good as mine.” 

“I mean,” Reuben says, brows furrowed, “you said he was... at attention, right?” 

You blow a half-hearted laugh through your nose. “Yeah.” 

“So he definitely wanted to,” he says as the four of you exit the mess hall. “I just can’t think of why he wouldn’t go for it.” 

“I think it’s because you’re in the same squad,” Natasha offers. “He’s probably worried it’ll get weird—or worse, if it doesn’t work out.” 

You roll your eyes as you cross the hot concrete, heading back to the hangar. “But we’re both adults. Why can’t he just sack up and fuck me, and we’ll worry about the consequences later?” 

Your voice comes out louder than you meant, and you don’t miss the odd looks a few passing officers send your way. 

Reuben chuckles. “Maybe you should just say that to him.” 

“No,” Natasha says, turning toward you with a mischievous glint in her eye. “I’ve got a better idea. Call it Plan B or whatever, but now... we’re bringing out the big guns.” 

“So Sunny pressing her tits against him wasn’t the big guns?” Mickey quips with a grin. 

You smack him lightly across the chest before looking back to Natasha. “I doubt anything will work at this point, but... I’m curious. What’s the idea?” 

“How’s your gag reflex?” she asks, tilting her head thoughtfully. 

You rear back, eyebrows raised—and both Reuben and Mickey choke on laughter. 

Natasha sighs, rolling her eyes. “Not like that. I mean you’re going to need a strong stomach and a Juilliard degree to pull this off.” 

You frown, slowing just slightly as the hangar looms into view. “Okay...” 

She straightens up and faces forward, a proud smirk tugging at her mouth and her chin tilted high. “We’re going to make Bob jealous.” 

- 

Out of Mickey and Reuben, you all collectively decided that Reuben was the more convincing option. Not that you don’t think Mickey’s gorgeous—you do, and so does he—but his acting skills are questionable at best. You at least have a little more faith in Reuben’s ability to fake flirt without making it weird. 

The plan is simple. Convince Bob that he’s lost his shot—or that he’s just about to. Make it clear you’re happy to move on. If he wants you... well, now he’s going to have to fight for it. Because tempting him wasn’t enough—apparently—you need to dig deeper. Tap into something primal and pull it to the surface. Exploit what lingers under the skin of every man: jealousy and competition. 

You’re going to make this a game he can’t afford to lose. 

“You ready for Phase Two?” Natasha asks as you cross the base, the sun still barely above the horizon. 

You take a deep breath of fresh morning air. “Let’s do it.” 

She and Mickey take off ahead of you and Reuben to arrive in the training room first. It’s a known fact that Bob is always ridiculously early—so you know he’ll already be there. You hang back with Reuben, rehashing the plan and trying to get used to flirting with him without cracking up. 

At exactly ten past six, Natasha texts you to give the green light—no doubt having casually pointed out to Bob that you’re not with her, which you always are. 

“What if he doesn’t care?” you ask Reuben softly as you climb the stairs. 

He rolls his eyes like you’ve said something utterly insane. “He’ll care, trust me. He might be Bob, but he’s still a guy. And he’s obviously down bad for you—just needs a little push.” 

You snort. “Little?” 

Reuben chuckles. “Okay, more than a little. It’s Bob.” 

You laugh too, quietly, and then steel yourself as you reach the door—slipping on your game face. You glance at Reuben, catching the smirk tugging at his mouth. 

Then you both nod. It’s show time. 

“So, you’re saying eye contact makes it better?” he asks as you step through the door, voice pitched perfectly. 

You nod, casual but with a hint of something else. “Yep. A thousand times better. And bonus points if you know where to put your hands.” 

He raises a brow, lips twitching. “Where do I put my hands?” 

You giggle, soft and flirty, pausing a few steps into the room. “How about I show you later?” 

His grin breaks loose. “Promise?” 

“Promise.” 

You head toward the rows of seats, sliding into your usual behind Natasha—not missing the way Bob’s gaze locks onto you like he’s been caught mid-thought. His head swivels as Reuben sits beside you instead of next to Mickey. 

“See,” Reuben says, leaning in a little, “all these years I thought speed was the key. But you’re saying it’s finesse?” 

“Oh, definitely finesse,” you say, holding his eyes. “Go too hard and too fast, and it’s just... messy. Sloppy. Unimpressive.” 

Reuben licks his lips, his eyes flicking sideways to Bob—just for a second. “So, you’re offering me private lessons?” 

You lower your voice slightly, knowing it’s still perfectly audible to the rest of the room. “Depends. Can you follow instruction without getting too flustered?” 

Reuben’s grin sharpens. “I don’t fluster, sweetheart. I excel under pressure.” 

You pause, your pulse a little too quick—partly from Bob’s stare, which he’s not even trying to hide now, and partly from the fact that yeah, it’s been a while. And if this whole plan does blow up in your face... well, Reuben doesn’t seem like the worst option for a little stress relief. 

You fight down a laugh at the idea and finally drag your gaze toward the front of the room. Bob—just one row ahead—snaps his eyes forward like he’s been caught eavesdropping, but the bright red of his cheeks, the tight set of his shoulders, and the way his jaw flexes say it all. He’s tense. He’s listening. And he’s absolutely not okay. 

A moment later, Maverick strolls in, completely oblivious to the emotional warfare brewing right beneath his nose. 

The rest of the week passes in much the same way. Each evening, you regroup with your friends to scheme and strategize, brainstorming new antics to pull off the next day. Nothing over-the-top—just enough to catch Bob’s eye. 

On Wednesday, you get Reuben to help you into your flight suit. You both time it perfectly: he exits the locker room just ahead of Bob, and you appear a second later, flashing a flirty grin before asking sweetly for his help. You giggle and call him a sweetheart while Bob nearly trips over his own feet, glancing back with a clenched jaw and a look that could burn a hole through steel. 

Thursday morning, Reuben brings you a coffee—exactly how you like it—straight to the briefing room. You proclaim, not so quietly, that he’s giving total boyfriend material before he drops into the seat beside you and you both giggle over a (completely fabricated) inside joke. 

That afternoon, during a short break between drills and the next briefing, he offers you a bite of his protein bar. You take it right from his hand, licking your lips and throwing him an innocent little wink before sauntering off like it’s nothing. 

By Friday, Natasha warns you that the others are starting to notice. But you’re in too deep to pull back now—not when Bob looks like he’s about to unravel. He’s been tighter than ever, watching you like a hawk, eyes dark and stormy instead of their usual calm denim blue. You’re close. So close. And honestly? You’re kind of having a little too much fun. 

That afternoon, during post-flight checks, Reuben sidles up behind you under the guise of pointing out something ‘mechanical’ on your jet. You’re not actually doing anything with it, but that doesn’t stop him from standing unnecessarily close, guiding your hand with his as he gestures toward something supposedly critical. The two of you are seconds from cracking up, but Bob doesn’t know that. Bob, from all the way across the hangar, looks frozen—eyes locked, breath held, jaw tight—as Reuben presses flush against your back. 

Natasha really shouldn’t be enjoying this as much as she is, but honestly? She can’t help it. It’s too damn entertaining. 

“Hey,” she says, nodding at Bob as she approaches. “You good?” 

He blinks, then turns his sharp gaze on her, jaw tight. “Yeah.” 

She snorts. “That was very convincing.” 

He rolls his eyes and turns robotically back to the maintenance logs he’d been filling out. 

Natasha glances at the paperwork, noting the hard press of his pen and the uneven ticks and crosses—some scribbled over multiple times—down the checkbox column. 

“Wow,” she mutters, raising a brow. “You sure you earned your pen licence? Or should you still be on pencils?” 

Bob’s blue eyes flick up, darker than usual beneath his furrowed brow. “Ha. Ha.” 

“Okay,” she says, biting back the laugh rising in her throat. “So, bad day?” 

“Bad week,” Bob grumbles. 

Natasha nods slowly. “Well, hey, why don’t we fix that by hitting up The Hard Deck tonight?” 

He snaps the logbook shut and tucks the pen into his pocket. “Pass.” 

“Oh, come on,” she sighs. “It might make you feel better.” 

His eyes flick toward you again, watching as you and Reuben dissolve into giggles beside your jet. 

“I doubt it.” 

“Sunny’ll be there,” Natasha says, her voice light and teasing. 

Bob doesn’t respond. Just keeps packing up his things—every motion a little too sharp, a little too fast. 

Natasha exhales. “Come on, dude. Just come for one drink—it doesn’t have to be beer. Blow off some steam. If you hate it, you can bail early. But it won’t be the same without you.” 

He takes a breath and closes his eyes for a beat before letting it out slow. “Fine. One drink.” 

Natasha grins, her eyes sparkling even in the dimming light of the hangar. “Perfect.” 

Later that night, Natasha drives the four of you—Reuben and Mickey included—to the bar. Everyone else agreed to meet there, and she insisted on driving so you could have a few drinks. Not just to loosen up for another round of torturing poor Bob, but to actually let loose a little. She can tell this whole thing is winding you up, and she figures a few beers and a night with friends might help ease the tension—and the guilt—and maybe even the gnawing fear that this whole plan could blow up in your face. 

“Nat, are you sure this dress isn’t too short?” you ask, holding the hem down against the curve of your ass as you follow her toward the main entry door. “I haven’t worn it in years.” 

“There’s no such thing as too short,” Mickey says, deadpan. 

You roll your eyes and step inside, into the warm glow of golden lighting and the low hum of half-drunk conversation. You let go of your dress now that there’s no breeze threatening to lift it, and try to relax, even with the strange sensation of bare legs in public. You’re used to flight suits, not feeling this on display. 

“Ready to put on your best performance yet?” Reuben murmurs, slinging an arm over your shoulder. 

You take a deep breath, feeling it rattle faintly in your chest. “Let’s do this thing.” 

Natasha shoots you a wink over her shoulder, already striding confidently across the bar, her gaze locked on the usual booth where the rest of your friends are waiting. 

There’s a chorus of greetings as the four of you approach, and you all grin and wave, waiting as Bradley, Jake, Javy, and Bob shuffle around to make room. Natasha pointedly takes the spot beside Bob, with Mickey sliding in next to her. You claim the seat beside Jake—which puts Reuben on your other side. Just as planned. 

It’s a little squishy, but after so many nights like this, none of you really notice. Except Bob. He’s noticed tonight. His eyes are locked on the way your side is pressed to Reuben’s, his arm is slung casually over the back of the booth, fingers just barely grazing your shoulder. 

“He looks like he wants to kill me,” Reuben whispers in your ear, low enough that you can barely hear him over the chatter of the bar. “Pretend I said something funny. Laugh like you’ve got a secret.” 

You blink slowly, resisting the urge to roll your eyes, and let out a soft giggle as you lean toward him just a little. 

“You’re a pretty good actress,” he mutters before pulling back slightly. 

You glance up at him through your lashes, feeling more at ease with the close proximity after the past week. Then you straighten your spine and lean in, your lips grazing his jaw as you whisper in his ear. 

“You’re annoying.” 

He chuckles quietly, though you know he really wants to snort and smack you on the shoulder. You’re both enjoying this just a little too much, getting a kick out of your undercover roles. 

When you turn back to the rest of the group, Natasha is very deliberately not looking at you—and you know it’s because she’ll laugh if she does. Mickey, on the other hand, is watching with wide eyes, as is Javy. Jake and Bradley are still arguing about something on your other side, and Bob… Bob still looks like he’s ready to commit first-degree murder. 

“Drink?” Reuben asks after a beat, his smile smooth. 

You nod. “Absolutely. I’ll help you.” 

You both stand and offer a round to the rest of the table, most of whom accept—which makes it less suspicious that you’re going together. At the bar, you make sure to stand just a little closer than necessary as he orders a round of the usual from Penny. 

“Are you sure we’re not pushing it?” you ask, your voice laced with quiet worry. 

Reuben shakes his head. “Nah, not yet.” 

You frown. “Yet?” 

“He’ll snap one way or another,” he says, leaning casually against the bar. “He’ll either lose it and blow up over something totally unrelated—and that’s when we’ll know we’ve gone too far. Or he’ll wake the fuck up and fight for what he wants.” 

You open your mouth to voice another concern, but Penny is already sliding the tray of drinks across the bar. Reuben thanks her with an easy smile as you grab the two beers that didn’t fit, flashing her your own grateful grin before following him back to the table. 

When you set the beers down, you feel the neckline of your dress slip just a little lower. Your eyes flick up to see if anyone’s noticed—and of course… Bob. His gaze is dark and locked on your chest, clearly able to see right down your dress. He doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t even try to look away. He just stares. 

But then he blinks and glances aside, not flustered or ashamed—just determined not to meet your eyes. 

You straighten up and clear your throat. “I’m just going to duck to the bathroom.” 

Then you turn and begin weaving your way through the bar, desperate for a moment to yourself—even though you haven’t been here that long—and to check that you don’t look completely ridiculous in the dress Natasha convinced you to wear. 

You take your time in the stall, then rinse your hands under the cool water for a little longer than necessary. When you glance at your reflection in the full-length mirror, you’re surprised—and a little impressed. Because damn… you do look good. Maybe this dress deserves to see the light of day more often. And if Bob’s stare is anything to go by, it’s definitely not a bad idea. 

You take a deep breath before pushing open the bathroom door, ready to continue your little charade—but you barely make it a few steps before someone blocks your path. You blink and stumble, stopping short before you run right into him. 

You sigh when you realise who it is, that cocky smirk etched across his face. “What do you want, Hangman?” 

“I want to know what’s going on.” 

Your pulse spikes, but you do your best to keep your expression calm. “What do you mean?” 

“Between you and Payback,” he says, narrowing his green eyes. “Because I know that’s not real.” 

Your breath catches—too quickly—giving you away as your gaze flicks to the side. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” 

He rolls his eyes and leans in slightly, keeping the conversation low and private in the hum of the bar. “Don’t try to gaslight me, Sunny. I’m not an idiot. I know Phoenix is in on it—because of course she is—and Fanboy too, judging by the way he giggles every time you and Payback so much as look at each other.” He quirks a brow, daring you to challenge him. “The only reason Coyote hasn’t said anything is because he’s too polite, and Rooster hasn’t noticed because he’s too wrapped up in his own shit.” 

You cross your arms and narrow your eyes, matching his bravado. “You missed one.” 

He frowns. “What?” 

“You listed all the members of the squad… except one.” 

“Right,” he chuckles dryly. “Bob. That’s the funny thing, because ever since we got to this island, you’ve been starry-eyed over Floyd, and he’s either too clueless to notice or too stupid to ask you out.” He pauses, letting it sink in, then leans just a bit closer. “Which is exactly why I’m not buying whatever you and Payback have been trying to sell this past week.” 

You stare at each other for a beat, both stubborn and scowling, waiting for the other to fold first. 

Then you sigh. “Okay, fine. But you have to swear yourself to secrecy.” 

His smirk stretches into a full grin. “I knew it.” 

“Swear it.” 

“Okay, okay,” he says, holding up a hand. “I swear. I won’t even tell Coyote, and my pillow won’t hear a thing about it.” 

You nod. “Good. Now come over and pretend to pick a song so this doesn’t look suspicious.” 

You grab his wrist and tug him toward the jukebox, leaning over it and pretending to scroll through options while you give him a quick summary of Operation Bob’s Blue Balls—leaving out a few of the more... intimate details. 

“So there,” you finish. “It’s underhanded and immature, but that’s what’s going on.” 

His expression barely shifts the entire time, just the usual entertained glint in his eye and that ever-present smirk. 

“Underhanded and immature?” he says. “I’m surprised I wasn’t in on this sooner.” 

You roll your eyes. 

“I want in.” 

You blink, brow furrowed. “What?” 

“I want to help,” he says, plainly. 

You narrow your eyes, sceptical. “Why?” 

He sighs and braces one hand on the jukebox, leaning in like he’s about to reveal some classified information. “Believe it or not, I’m not the worst guy in the world. I have a few ideas, and I think you two would be cute together.” He pauses, then adds in a quieter voice, “Besides, I’ve been going through a bit of a dry spell, and I figure helping other people get laid might buy me some good karma.” 

You snort softly as he pulls back, his cheeks faintly pink. 

“Alright,” you say. “You can help. But nothing obvious and nothing stupid. The last thing I need is Bob figuring this out and hating me for it.” 

He rolls his eyes, that signature smirk firmly back in place. “Bob could never hate you. But I’ll be subtle.” 

“Good.” You glance past his shoulder toward the booth across the bar. “We better get back before they get suspicious.” 

“Wait,” he stops you with a hand on your shoulder. “One more question.” 

You raise your brows, prompting him to go on. 

“When you fantasise about Bob, is he the top or the bottom? Because I just think you should manage your expectations—ow!” 

He winces, rubbing the spot on his chest where you smacked him, watching you with a wounded look as you shove past with an exasperated sigh. 

Great. Now Hangman is involved... 

You spend the rest of the night practically glued to Reuben’s side, as planned. But now you’re a little on edge. You keep half an ear tuned to Jake’s voice, waiting to see when he might strike—and what he might say when he does. You trust him not to blow the whole thing, but you’re more than a little nervous about what his version of ‘helping’ might actually look like. 

“Another drink?” Reuben asks, just as you finish the last of your third beer. 

You nod, a bit too eagerly. “Yes, please. Maybe something stronger this time.” 

He chuckles and slides out of the booth, offering his hand. You take it, letting him guide you up toward the bar. You’re so wrapped up in your thoughts that you barely register the feel of his hand slipping from yours and settling at the small of your back, his thumb rubbing slow, comforting circles there. 

But Bob notices. 

And Jake notices Bob noticing—taking special joy in the way Bob’s hand tightens around his bottle of Coke, knuckles going white. 

Jake clears his throat and casts a glance toward the bar, leaning forward slightly. “They’re cute, don’t you think?” 

There’s a beat of silence as Bob swallows—hard—and Natasha just blinks, clearly trying to catch up. Then the lightbulb goes off, and a wicked grin stretches across her lips. 

“Yeah,” she says, her eyes following Jake’s. “I think they’d make a good couple.” 

Bob snorts. Actually snorts. But he keeps his gaze fixed on the label he’s been picking at on his bottle. 

Natasha arches a brow. “Something funny?” 

Bob shakes his head. “No.” 

“Really?” Jake presses, grinning. “Could’ve sworn you just laughed, Floyd.” 

“It wasn’t a laugh,” Bob mutters. “More of a… breath.” 

“Oh, a breath,” Natasha echoes, clearly amused. “Because it sounded suspiciously like judgment.” 

“Or jealousy,” Jake adds, leaning back with a smug grin. 

Bob’s gaze flicks to the bar—and to you—then just as quickly snaps away. “I don’t care who she dates.” 

Natasha hums, fighting a smirk as she lifts her beer to her lips, “Didn’t say you did.” 

Shortly after you and Reuben return to the table, giggling like idiots, Bob leaves. He mutters something about not feeling well and ducks out before even saying a proper goodbye. Part of you feels wrecked with guilt—but another part… is quietly hopeful. Because Bob isn’t like this. He’s good at regulating his emotions, even better at staying calm under pressure—he’s a fighter pilot, for God’s sake. But this? This is different. He’s never stormed out on the brink of losing control. Sure, he can get a little frustrated sometimes, maybe throw a snarky comment—usually at Jake when he pushes too far—but that’s as far as it goes. 

If you didn’t know any better, you’d say he’s starting to unravel… 

You spend most of the next day on the couch with the aircon blasting, while Natasha works through some paperwork at the kitchen table. It’s too hot to go outside, and you’re too distracted to do anything that requires even an ounce of brainpower. So instead, you let your mind rot with cartoons, obsessively checking your phone for signs of life in the group chat. 

“I can’t believe Hangman is in on this now,” Natasha mutters, not even glancing up from her papers. 

You sigh and roll from your side onto your back, staring up at the ceiling. “I can’t believe he hasn’t cracked yet. If the roles were reversed, I’d be like a feral cat in heat by now.” 

She snorts and lifts her head, flashing you an amused smirk. “You were already like a feral cat in heat for that man. Hence this whole situation.” 

You laugh softly. “Yeah, not wrong.” 

Your head drops to the side as you half-watch the TV screen, until the apartment door swings open with a dramatic gust of air. 

“I hate to say it,” Mickey says as he breezes in, eyes wide, “but the man is a genius.” 

Reuben follows close behind, and then Jake—grinning like he just solved world peace. 

“Oh, God,” Natasha mutters. “They’re multiplying.” 

“I don’t know why you didn’t come to me sooner,” Jake says, strolling toward the couch. “I’m the king of seduction.” 

You sit up, curling into the corner to make room for Reuben and Jake as Mickey heads straight for the fridge. 

“I wouldn’t go that far,” you mutter, narrowing your eyes at him. 

“Just wait until you hear the plan,” Reuben says, practically buzzing. “It’s perfect.” 

Intrigued now, Natasha gathers her papers into one neat pile and joins you on the lounge. “Alright, Bagman. Let’s hear it.” 

Jake’s eyes sparkle with mischief as he settles in beside Reuben. “Tomorrow, we’re going to the beach.” 

“You’re already way off,” you cut in. “Bob won’t agree to hang out again. Not after last night.” 

Natasha nods. “She’s right. He needs to cool off before we wind him up again.” 

“Absolutely not,” Jake snaps, brow furrowed. “You need to strike while the iron’s hot. You need to push his fucking limits.” 

Mickey appears from the kitchen, a bag of pretzels already open in his hand. 

Natasha frowns. “Okay, but how? He won’t agree to go if he thinks Sunny and Payback will be there.” 

Jake grins. “Which is exactly why he’s going to think they won’t be there.” 

“You want us to lie?” you ask. 

He gives you a flat look. “After all this emotional warfare, now you’re drawing the line at lying?” 

You shrink back slightly. “I guess not.” 

“Exactly.” He leans forward, elbows braced on his knees, hands clasped. “So—I’ll pitch the idea in the group chat. Sunny, you reply immediately that you’re busy—before Bob gets a chance to decline. Then Payback says something vague, like he might come or might not. That way, it looks like low numbers. And if Bob says no, the rest of us can guilt-trip him into coming. Which he will, as long as he thinks you’re not going to be there.” 

Natasha tilts her head. “So... she will be there though?” 

“Yes,” Jake says. “Just not right away. Give him time to relax, have some fun. We’ll play games—I’ll rile everyone up and get that competitive energy going.” 

Everyone nods along, faces weirdly serious, like this is some highly classified mission briefing. 

“Then, you two show up together,” Jake continues, gesturing to you and Reuben. “It’ll throw Bob off, but we won’t give him a chance to leave. We’ll keep the games going. Something with contact. You need to get right up in his space. Go all in. Because then... you’re going to knock him off his feet.” 

“Literally,” Mickey mumbles, chewing a mouthful of pretzels. 

You frown. “What?” 

“Bump into him,” Jake says. “Literally knock him over. Skin-to-skin contact. I’ve seen the way he looks at you in a swimsuit—it’s borderline pornographic. Touching him? It’ll fry what’s left of his self-control. And then, when there’s a moment—just a second where you could apologise for being too competitive or whatever... you’re going to say something that makes him snap.” 

You lean in, heart pounding now. “What am I going to say?” 

- 

The sun is high and brutal in the sky, and you’re already sweating—even though you’re still sitting in Reuben’s car with the aircon blasting. 

“Do you really think this is going to work?” you ask, nervously bouncing your knee. 

Reuben snorts. “If it doesn’t, the man isn’t human.” 

“I feel bad,” you mutter, eyes scanning the stretch of gold sand through the windshield. 

“You won’t feel bad when you finally see what’s in his pants,” Reuben says, barely paying attention as he scrolls through his phone. 

Your eyes go wide and your head whips toward him. “So it is huge? I wasn’t just imagining that?” 

He chuckles and looks up. “Oh yeah, he’s big. Like... big big. I remember the first time in the locker room—no one’s trying to look, obviously, that’s just not the vibe—but... damn. We couldn’t not look. Then everyone lost it. I think Hangman nearly cried.” 

You press your lips together, trying to hold back a grin, but it’s no use—your cheeks are on fire, and your whole face feels like it's bright red. 

“Damn,” you murmur, turning your gaze back to the front as your heart slams against your ribs. 

Reuben laughs again, then cuts the engine, killing the aircon. “Alright. Pull yourself together. It’s go time.” 

You climb out of the car and immediately wince at the lick of heat curling across your skin. It’s blistering—almost hostile—but at least you’re at the beach. Worst-case scenario? You’ll drown yourself in the ocean. Just walk into the surf and keep going. No one would blame you. 

“Relax,” Reuben says, sliding a hand into yours like this is nothing. “This is going to work. Hangman might be insane, but I’m pretty sure it’s because he’s an evil genius.” 

You roll your eyes, exhale hard, then square your shoulders and lift your chin. 

You let Reuben lead you onto the sand, legs already working overtime to stay steady in the heat-softened grains. You can hear the chaos before you see it. Shouts and thuds echo over the sand as your friends tumble and crash around in a messy game of what looks like overgrown keepy-uppies. 

“No hands!” Javy yells, just as Mickey swats the ball to avoid a direct hit to the face. 

“Damn it, Fanboy!” Jake shouts. “You’re giving away points.” 

Mickey drops his hands to his knees, panting. “Can we play literally any other game? I hate this.” 

“You only hate it ‘cause you suck at it,” Natasha says, catching the ball like it’s second nature and bringing the game to a halt. 

You swear you can see Mickey roll his eyes from here. You and Reuben are still on approach, trudging through the soft sand, unnoticed—so far. 

“What about football?” Jake offers, tossing the round ball aside and already pulling a proper football from their pile of gear. “Dog-fight football?” 

“Three versus three?” Javy asks, sceptical. 

“What about four v. four?” Reuben calls, hand cupped to amplify his voice. 

Everyone turns, and there’s a beat of stillness as they clock you. Then Natasha flashes a wide grin beneath her sunglasses, and Jake’s face lights up like a very satisfied evil villain—his plan falling perfectly into place. 

“Well, if it ain’t Sunny and Payback!” he calls, spinning the football lazily in one hand. “You two done playing your own games already?” 

You ignore the jab and focus on not rolling your ankle in the damn sand. At the pile of bags, you stop to drop your stuff and hesitate at the button of your shorts. 

Jake’s eyes are practically gleaming. “How about a swim to cool off first?” 

Reuben strips his shirt with a single tug. “You read my mind, Seresin.” 

The guys—already in their swim trunks—bolt for the water, crashing into the surf in a chaotic stampede. Natasha peels off her shirt and shorts, shoots you a wink, and strolls in after them like she owns the ocean. 

Reuben doesn’t say anything before he leaves you, but he gives a barely-there nod—directed past your shoulder. 

You don’t need to turn around to know who it’s aimed at. 

Bob’s still standing where he was when the game fizzled out, statuesque. His hair is tousled and his lips parted just enough to make your stomach flip. You’re at least ten feet away, but you can see the rise and fall of his chest—too fast, too hard. But he’s not out of breath. He’s not flustered. 

He’s furious. 

And those blue eyes? Laser-locked on you. His entire focus narrowed like a sniper sight. Not a blink. Not a breath wasted on anyone but you. 

You swallow and force your body into motion, unbuttoning your shorts and shimmying out of them before pulling your loose shirt over your head. You drop your clothes on Natasha’s pile and turn toward the water, steady on the lumpy sand. 

And then you hit the firm part—wet, packed, perfect footing—and you dig in. Hips swaying, deliberate and lethal. 

You don’t need to look back. You can feel the heat of his stare on every inch of exposed skin. It’s scorching. Possessive. Almost punishing. Like if he could touch you right now, he’d brand you. 

Hangman might be a genius after all. 

You hit the water with a sigh, not even hesitating before diving beneath a wave before it can knock you off your feet. It’s the perfect temperature—delicious against your too-hot skin. 

You dive under the next wave, cool saltwater rushing over your body, and come up laughing as you slick your hair back. Natasha is standing beside you, arms outstretched as the water laps at her waist, her eyes fixed on the shore. 

You wade closer, smirking. “Did you see his face?” you ask breathlessly, heart still pounding from the walk down the beach—or maybe from the way Bob had looked at you like he was plotting your murder. “I thought he was going to spontaneously combust.” 

She doesn’t answer. Just keeps staring past you. 

You frown as her jaw goes slack and her brows creep up, sunglasses slipping down her nose as she stares at something on the shore—expression caught somewhere between shock and awe. 

You freeze. “What?” 

She still doesn’t speak—just tips her chin the slightest bit, silently gesturing toward whatever has her stunned. 

You twist around. 

And promptly forget how to breathe. 

Bob Floyd is pulling his shirt over his head. 

Bob Floyd, the man who never takes his shirt off. The man who wears it in the ocean and somehow isn’t bothered by the soaking wet material clinging to his body like a second skin. 

And holy shit. 

It’s glorious. 

Sure, you’ve seen him shirtless before. Once. That night. But that was in the dark—his body tense, your mind scrambled, neither of you thinking clearly enough to appreciate what was right in front of you. 

But in the light of day? 

Alabaster skin. Broad shoulders. Deep-cut abs like he walked straight off the set of a Marvel movie. Lean muscle rippling across his chest and arms in a way that feels criminal on someone so quiet and careful. Droplets of sweat cling to his torso like even the heat doesn’t want to let him go. 

The sudden silence behind you confirms it—everyone else is staring too. 

You blink, dumbfounded, mouth dry. “That’s illegal.” 

Natasha huffs out a laugh like she’s short-circuiting. “I mean, I knew he was strong but—wow.” 

You swallow. Hard. “I think I’m going to pass out.” 

Your eyes follow him as he drops his shirt and turns toward the water, cutting through the waves like they’re nothing. He doesn’t glance at any of you. Just keeps his gaze locked on the horizon, jaw set tight, his body moving with single-minded purpose. 

Before you can say something—or even blink—a surge of water smacks you in the face. 

But it’s not a wave. 

You cough and splutter, wiping the salt from your eyes and checking to make sure your sunglasses are still intact. When your vision clears, Jake is standing right in front of you. 

“Wipe the drool off your chin,” he says, deadpan. “You’re supposed to be teasing him.” 

You narrow your eyes, resisting the urge to shove him aside and keep watching Bob. “How did all of you know how cut that man is and not tell me?” 

Jake blinks, thrown for a beat, then grins like the devil. “Wait—you’re mad because we didn’t tell you how ripped Bob is?” 

You nod, arms crossing tight over your chest. “Correct.” 

He lets out a disbelieving chuckle, shaking his head. “Well if that’s got you steamed, you’re gonna be beside yourself when you find out he’s got a massive-” 

“I know,” you cut in smoothly, a wicked smirk curling at your lips. “Payback told me.” 

Jake gapes at you, brows knitting—but before he can get another word out, you shove his shoulder and send him sprawling into the water. 

When he resurfaces, sputtering and grinning, he points at you like a man on a mission—then lunges. 

You squeal, laughing as he barrels toward you, sending up waves in every direction. The two of you splash around like kids, Jake playing it up—grabbing you, poking at your sides, both of you pretending to wrestle. All for show. Because you both know Bob is watching. 

Eventually, the others join in, playful chaos erupting around you. And before long, you’re panting and breathless, dragging yourself back to shore, your cheeks and chest aching from laughter. 

Everyone settles for a few minutes, drinking from their water bottles and trying to knock water from their ears. But then Jake stands up, football in hand and a wicked smirk on his lips, ready to commence Operation Bob’s Blue Balls – Phase Three: Straddle and Conquer. 

“All right, I’ll pick teams,” he announces. 

Normally, this would cause an uproar. But since most of you are in on the plan, everyone just nods in agreement. 

“Phoenix, Payback, Bob,” he says. “You’re with me. The rest of you are on Rooster’s team.” 

You narrow your eyes and cock your hip—it would seem strange if you didn’t challenge Jake just a little. “Why are you two always team captains?” 

He winks. “Because we’re the best.” 

You roll your eyes and turn away, joining the huddle with your teammates as Bradley and Javy argue over what your game plan should be. 

After a few minutes of strategizing, the game kicks off. You’ve never loved dog-fight football—not like some of the others—mostly because it can get a little rough. But today… it’s more than just a game. It’s a full-blown performance. 

You hang back for a bit, letting Jake and Bradley rile each other up and fire up their teams. Bob is still shirtless, which is a tactical advantage he isn’t even aware of—because every time he has the ball, every time he runs or blocks or is just generally in your line of sight, your knees wobble. 

You’ve nearly forgotten what you’re supposed to be doing when Reuben jumps in front of you and snags the ball before you can—thrown by a very disappointed-looking Javy. 

“Getting tired, Sunny?” Reuben teases, his grin smug. “I’m just getting started.” 

Right. The plan. Flirting. Banter. Teasing Bob. 

You step closer, slowing the game down a touch as you stretch onto your toes and drop your voice—but not too low. “Tired? Please. I’m still waiting for you to make me sweat.” 

There’s a beat where you worry Reuben might break, might laugh—high on adrenaline and endorphins. 

But then Jake hollers, “Cut it out, you two! Save the dirty talk for the bedroom!” 

And the game is back on. 

The sun beats down mercilessly, making every flexed muscle shine, every drop of sweat slide in slow, glistening trails. The sand is hot beneath your feet, but it’s nothing compared to the heat building as you and Reuben turn the game into one of Bob’s personal nightmares. 

You dart to the left, brushing past Reuben with a smug grin, your fingertips dragging across his chest like you’re checking his heart rate. 

“C’mon, hotshot,” you tease. “You could try a little harder.” 

He laughs—low and amused—but gives chase, throwing a hand around your waist as you pivot. It’s all too easy to make it look a little too intimate, a little too tight. He lifts you off the ground to ‘block’ your goal and your head falls back in a laugh that’s just shy of indecent. 

And Bob sees everything. 

You feel it—his stare like hot coals dragged across your skin. When you glance up between plays, he’s standing at the edge of the group, jaw tight, shoulders tense, hands flexing like they’re ready to throw a punch. His eyes follow your every move like he’s marking a target, and if looks could kill, Reuben would already be six feet under. 

You catch a toss, and Reuben crashes into you to intercept, spinning you both until you fall together into the sand. You land side by side, giggling like idiots—some might even say lovesick idiots. 

He pushes up first and grins down at you, tipping his head suggestively. “Need a hand?” 

“Oh, I don’t mind being on my back,” you say sweetly, just loud enough for everyone to hear. 

You take Reuben’s hand and let him haul you off the ground, pulling you into his body just a little more than necessary. 

“Damn, Sunny,” Jake calls from the other side of the makeshift field. “Takin’ a few hits today. Hope it doesn’t affect your game.” 

You scoff, rolling your eyes dramatically as you dust sand off your body like everyone else paid to watch. “You know I like it rough, Hangman.” 

There’s a chorus of oohs and a whistle from Mickey, laughter rippling through the group. 

Except Bob, of course. He’s suddenly very interested in the sand, eyes locked on the ground—even though his rigid posture is telling you everything you need to know. 

The game revs up again, and after a few scuffles, you snag the ball off a fumbled toss and break into a sprint, cutting across the sand with laser focus. Reuben’s behind you, winded, and the others are tangled up with the second ball—leaving only one person standing in your way. 

Bob. 

“Stop her!” Jake shouts, too far behind to intercept. 

Bob plants his feet like he’s ready to block—muscles tensing, arms coiled. It’s almost enough to distract you. But you’re feeling competitive. A little reckless. And you’re seconds from a goal. 

He hesitates when your eyes lock, just long enough for your wicked grin to register as you blow past him and skid to a halt—well over the line. 

Your team erupts into cheers behind you, and you throw your hands up, chest heaving as you catch your breath. When you turn back around, he’s still watching you—eyes wide. 

You flash him a slow smile as you walk past, brushing close enough to feel the heat rolling off his skin. 

“Don’t worry, Lieutenant,” you murmur. “I’ll go easy on you next time.” 

After a breather and a drink of water, everyone lines up for another play. Jake and Bradley drop the footballs into the sand, crouched and ready. Jake turns his head your way and gives you a subtle nod. 

This is it. 

Your heart thunders behind your ribs as you sprint and block and laugh along with the others. The competition hasn’t cooled—everyone is still hungry. Even Bob has snapped into focus, finally playing like it matters instead of just standing there watching. 

And for a moment, it is just fun. No schemes, no strategy. Just friends, shouting and stumbling and laughing too hard to score. 

But then the ball is in your hands again—and it’s time. 

Bob is on defence—Jake made sure of that. You just have to get past him again. Or at least… make it look like you’re trying. 

You tear forward. Jake is already behind you, Natasha lunges and misses by a breath, and Reuben very dramatically wipes out in the sand. 

It’s just Bob now. 

He sets his stance, head tipped down in focus. He’s going to stop you this time. Poor thing. He has no idea that’s exactly the plan. 

You charge, feet kicking up sand, heart in your throat. His eyes widen just a second before you collide—your body slamming into his with just enough force to topple you both. 

The ball flies from your hand as you hit the sand hard, clutching at whatever you can—his shoulders, his arms, solid and warm beneath your grip. You spit sand from your mouth and sit up fast—only to freeze, breath caught in your throat. 

You’re straddling him. Hips locked against his. Chest heaving. His hands on your waist. 

You don’t move. 

You’re both panting. The air between you buzzes like static, and everywhere your skin touches his feels sunburnt and alive. His blue eyes are locked on yours—wild and stunned. Bright enough to drown in. 

Your chest rises and falls with ragged breath, but you stay put. 

“Does this count?” you ask, voice low and rough with adrenaline. 

His lips are parted, soft and pink, breath coming in short bursts. His curls are wild, tangled with sand, and his glasses—crooked from the fall—are still somehow on. He looks wrecked. Shattered. Like you’ve stolen every coherent thought out of his head. His gaze flickers—searching your face, desperate not to meet your eyes. 

You lean in just a little. 

“If anyone else looked at me like that, I’d probably kiss them,” you murmur, squeezing your thighs around his waist. Then you bring your mouth dangerously close to his ear. “But we can’t do that... right?” 

His breath catches—and his eyes finally snap to yours. 

They’re wide and stormy now, brows drawn tight. He doesn’t breathe. He just looks. His mouth parts a little further, and you can see it all happening behind his eyes—every thought, every realisation. 

Everything falls into place—the flirting, the giggling, the deliberate touches, the stolen glances. All of it. You’ve been baiting him. This whole time. 

Before you can say anything else—before you can blink or breathe— 

He snaps. 

He flips you, smooth and fast, moving your body like you weigh nothing. Suddenly, you’re on your back, pressed into the sand, and he’s the one on top—straddling you, his weight holding you down. 

And the look in his eyes could burn the sky. 

He leans in, gaze sweeping over your face—your lips, your eyes, the pulse at your throat. He watches it thrum, just for a second. 

You’re frozen beneath him. Every nerve on fire. Every inch of your body sparking. Your lungs are screaming for air, but you don’t know how to breathe. You can’t think. You can barely feel anything except him. 

His breath ghosts your lips as he whispers, “Oh, you’re in trouble now.” 

And then he kisses you. 

Hard. 

It’s not careful. It’s not sweet. It’s months of tension and stolen glances and aching want—every second of restraint finally unravelling in a dizzy, reckless crash. His mouth claims yours like he’s starving, like he’s waited too long and can’t wait another second. 

His chest presses into yours, slick with sweat and dusted with sand, and you arch into it with a gasp. He groans against your mouth, a low, broken sound that feels like fire in your veins. You can feel every inch of him—solid and hot and so hard against your hip, unmistakable and unignorable. 

You shift beneath him, dragging your leg up around his waist, just enough to tease. His breath hitches, and then he’s kissing you deeper, hungrier, like the noise you just pulled from him unspooled something he can’t reel back in. 

You claw at his back—muscles tense and trembling under your fingers—trying to pull him closer when there’s no space left between you. The kiss turns feverish, tongues sliding, lips parting in desperate sync. You’re panting into each other’s mouths, completely lost. 

There’s sand in your hair, in your mouth, sticking to your sweat-slick skin, but none of it matters. All that matters is the way he moves against you, the way he feels—like every bit of control he’d been clinging to has shattered. 

When he finally tears his mouth from yours, he doesn’t go far. His forehead drops to yours, both of you gasping. He’s pink-cheeked and wide-eyed, lips swollen, pupils blown. 

“Jesus Christ,” he mutters, voice wrecked, “you’re gonna kill me.” 

And the way he says it—like a confession, like a prayer—makes you want to do it all over again. 

“YES!" Mickey shouts, loud enough for all of North Island to hear. 

Your friends erupt into cheers and screams, laughter lacing their gleeful proclamations as they jump and dance just a few feet away. 

“Well, fuck me,” Jake drawls. “That was the hottest thing I’ve ever seen.” 

You both slowly—reluctantly—turn your heads toward the noise. 

“I can’t believe it worked,” Reuben mutters, grinning wide, eyes sparkling. “Phase Three actually worked.” 

You’re still pinned beneath Bob as they all close in, every face lit up with smug satisfaction. 

“You named it?” Bob asks, closing his eyes as his cheeks somehow grow even hotter. 

“Oh yeah,” Mickey says, beaming with pride. “Operation Bob’s Blue Balls. Phase One was the run and the sleepover. Phase Two, Reuben. And this—” he gestures wildly at the two of you tangled in the sand, “this is Phase Three: Straddle and Conquer.” 

Bob makes a noise. Somewhere between a strangled groan and a whispered prayer for death. 

“You planned this?” he rasps, forehead dropping against yours again like he might just burrow into the sand and disappear. 

Reuben shrugs, all innocence. “Worked like a charm.” 

“Honestly,” Natasha adds, “we were starting to think you’d never get there. So… you’re welcome.” 

You bury your face in Bob’s shoulder, mortified. He’s burning up beneath your hands—still—and breathing like he just ran a mile with you on his back. 

Jake snickers. “Glad we could help you two get laid.” 

“We haven’t—!” Bob blurts, redder than a stop sign. 

You slap a hand over his mouth, grinning wickedly now despite the embarrassment. “Yet.” 

There’s a beat—a millisecond of silence—before they all burst out laughing again. 

Mickey curls over, clutching his stomach. Reuben walks away, cackling with his head tipped back. Natasha mutters, “Jesus Christ,” but she’s definitely smirking, and Jake claps his hands once as he says, “God bless the U.S. Navy.” 

Bob drops his face into the crook of your neck and groans again, muffled, “I hate all of you.” 

“Even me?” you ask, voice soft and teasing. 

He lifts his head, chuckling softly. “No. But for all that? You’re definitely still in trouble.” 

You lick your lips. “There’s no place I’d rather be.” 

He sighs like you’re actively trying to kill him, then sits up and pushes to his feet—only to glance down at the massive bulge in his shorts, which looks borderline painful. 

“Shit.” 

You scramble up after him, stepping in close and pressing your body to his, barely able to contain your giggles as you shield him from the rest of the beach. 

“Need a minute?” you tease, laughter lacing every word. 

His eyes flash—dark, hungry. “You and I are gonna need more than a minute to deal with this.” 

Heat floods your face and pools between your legs, thick and insistent. 

“But,” he says, glancing toward the water, “I’m just gonna go for a quick swim.” 

You nod, eyes wide and dreamy, watching him from beneath your lashes like an absolute idiot in love. 

And he looks at you like you hung the sun. Like you’re everything. It’s enough to make your heart stutter and your pulse race. He has no business being this beautiful—this sinful—a perfect contradiction of sweetness and respect, with just enough hunger in him, just enough darkness, that you know you’ll be walking funny tomorrow. 

And probably for the next few weeks while you learn how to handle his massive dick. 

“Don’t look at me like that,” he mutters, a shy smile curling his lips. “You’re making it worse.” 

Your jaw drops. “It gets bigger?” 

He laughs, then leans in to press a kiss to your open mouth—chaste, but lingering. Like it physically pains him to pull away. But he does. And when he flashes you that boyish smile—equal parts sexy and shy—it knocks the breath out of you. 

Then he turns and jogs toward the water. 

It takes you more than a minute to remember how to move—how to function—but eventually, you manage to drag yourself back to the others, who are still laughing and chatting like the beach hasn’t just tilted sideways. 

Natasha passes you your water bottle. “What’s Bob doing?” 

You glance over your shoulder, catching sight of him ducking under a wave. A smile tugs at your lips. 

“Cooling off.” 

You really thought by now he'd have stopped surrounding himself with people who didn't appreciate him. It was becoming a rather disappointing pattern.

Did she even know his name? Or did she only know the title whispered behind closed doors? Did she know he disliked people touching his tailored suits? That he'd always adjusted his left cufflink before the right? That he took his whiskey neat, but only after particularly tedious meetings?

No.

Of course she didn't.

Why would she?

Because if she had, she would've known better than to drape herself all over him like she belonged there.

You sighed, swirling the wine in your glass as your gaze remained fixed on the darkened balcony across the street.

Even from here, you could make out unfamiliar fingers lingering against the front of his suit.

The glow of your phone reflected across the rim of your glass.

He always did have a habit of making things harder than they needed to be.

And unfortunately for him, you had always been very good at correcting bad habits.

Unknown Number: I don’t like people touching things that are MINE. Remove her hands before I remove them myself.

James: Then come remove them yourself.

Unknown Number: You’ll find that I really hate repeating myself, James.

REMOVE. THEM. NOW.

I assure you your little friend won’t like what will follow because YOU failed to listen.

James: And you’ll find I’m getting quite bored of your little games.

Where’s your originality?

It’s disappointing, really.

Read.

He stared at his phone a moment longer, willing the tiny word beneath his message to dissolve into three familiar dots.

It never did.

He hated that he noticed, hated even more that he cared.

He had genuinely thought tonight might be the night you finally showed yourself, another piece of you, another glimpse behind the curtain.

Disappointing.

What was even more disappointing were the hands still tracing the front of his tailored suit, fingers skimming over his chest as soft promises for the rest of the evening drifted past his ears.

He heard every word.

He simply didn't care.

His attention remained fixed on the silent screen in his hand.

Where were you?

As the minutes ticked by, the screen remained dark, and somehow, that bothered him more than it should have.

With a quiet sigh, Bucky finally pulled away.

The woman beside him looked up, confusion crossing her features as he gently removed her hands from his suit.

“Sorry, sweetheart,” he murmured. “Not tonight. You've got to go.”

Her expression shifted immediately. “What?” she scoffed. “But you invited me here.”

Bucky glanced toward the phone now resting on the table, “and now I’m uninviting you.”

She stared at him, clearly offended, but Bucky had already turned away.

His mind was somewhere else.

It had been somewhere else all night.

It was late into the night when your response finally came through, the notification cutting through the silence of the room.

Unknown Number: You look better alone.

Attached was a photo; grainy, dark, taken from an angle that should've been impossible. Him, alone in his bed, the soft glow of his screen illuminating his features.

James: You should come join me.

Unknown Number: I like the view instead.

James: Coward.

The three dots appeared, disappeared, and appeared again.

The weight of his presence stalked you from behind—unseen, but undeniable. The almost inaudible crunch of leaves. A shift in the air. That creeping prickle along your spine that told you that he’s close.

Bucky had given you a five-minute head start. It was a mercy. Time enough to let your pulse spike, to feel the adrenaline kick into your bloodstream. Not fear—never fear. This was anticipation, sharpened to a razor’s edge. Because you had asked for this. Planned it, begged for it. Every line, every rule, every dark little detail etched in the safety of shared trust.

He would chase. You would run.

And when he caught you… you were his.

You ducked beneath a low-hanging branch, stumbling over roots slick with moss. Your breath came in short, frantic bursts, chest heaving as sweat kissed your skin. The air felt electric, every sound amplified—every rustle, every breeze, every bird gone silent.

Then— A sound. Too heavy. Too close. Intentional.

You twisted mid-step, eyes wide, just in time to catch a blur of movement before something crashed into you, full force.

Not something. Someone.

You hit the ground hard, bark and soil tearing at your skin, the wind knocked from your lungs in a startled gasp. But even before you could react, you knew. His weight settled over you—solid, hot, commanding. Breath brushed your ear. A metal hand wrapped around your wrist and dragged it over your head, pinning it into the dirt. His other hand found your waist, gripping hard, keeping you still.

“Got you,” Bucky growled, his voice ragged and low, more breath than sound.

The sound of him went straight to your core.

You squirmed beneath him—reflex, instinct, desire. “You said five minutes,” you panted.

He leaned down, mouth brushing the edge of your jaw. “You had four.”

A breathless laugh escaped you, cut short the moment his hand slid up and curled around your throat. Not tight. Not yet. Just enough to anchor you. Enough to make your breath catch.

His other hand traced down the torn side seam of your dress, slow, deliberate. Fingertips dragging fire across your skin. His touch was reverent and rough all at once, equal parts worship and promise.

“Look at you,” he muttered, voice thick with hunger. “Mouth open like you’re already fucked.”

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t. He didn’t want you to.

Instead, he kissed you—if it could be called that. It was teeth and tongue and breathless desperation. His stubble burned your chin. His mouth stole the air from your lungs. It was a claiming, not a kiss. And when he pulled away, you were already dizzy.

“Get up,” he said roughly.

Your brows furrowed. “What—?”

He didn’t wait. Didn’t explain. Just hauled you to your feet and spun you around so your chest hit the nearest tree trunk with a thud. His hand flattened between your shoulder blades, pressing you forward, and you barely caught yourself before your knees gave out.

Then you felt him.

His cock, already hard, already leaking pressed hot and heavy against your ass through his pants. He rutted against you once, slow and deliberate, making sure you felt it. The power. The possession.

“You made me chase you,” he murmured, lips grazing the shell of your ear. “You made me earn this. You think I’m just gonna take it easy on you now?”

His teeth scraped your neck, and your head dropped forward against the bark with a shudder.

“I’m gonna take my time,” he growled, fingers already hiking your dress up around your hips, exposing your thighs to the night air. “And you’re gonna take everything I give you.”

Your breath hitched as rough bark scraped against your chest, grounding you. The tree was unyielding, but so was he—pressed flush behind you like a furnace, all sharp heat and coiled restraint on the verge of snapping. You barely had time to catch up before his hands were on you—gripping, dragging, claiming. One curled possessively around your hip. The other fisted the neckline of your ruined dress.

And tore.

The sound of fabric splitting echoed in the dark like a gasp. Cold air kissed your bare skin, sending a shudder through you—part from the chill, mostly from the anticipation. The dress fell in tatters around your waist, exposing your breasts to the open night.

Bucky made a low, guttural sound behind you. “Fuck,” he rasped, voice strained and rough with hunger. “You’re so fucking perfect.”

You didn’t answer. Couldn’t. You were too busy shaking as he dropped to his knees behind you, slow and heavy, like a man worshiping at an altar. His metal fingers dug into your thighs, spreading them apart with forceful ease until you had no choice but to brace yourself against the tree.

Then—his mouth.

A single, filthy lick dragged up your center, and your whole body jolted like you’d been shocked. You cried out, loud and unfiltered, legs already trembling.

His breath hitched against you, rough and heavy, sending vibrations through your core that made your legs tremble.

And then he devoured you.

His tongue was relentless—sloppy, fast, desperate. Every stroke made your knees weaken, every flick against your clit sent stars dancing behind your eyes. He sucked, licked, teased, and when he pushed a metal finger into your dripping heat, you almost collapsed.

“Bucky—fuck, please—”

He didn’t stop. Just added a second finger, thrusting deep, curling up until your thighs started to quake. His other hand held your ass in place, keeping you pinned as you instinctively tried to pull away from the overwhelming pleasure.

“Too much,” you gasped. “I—I can’t—”

But he didn’t stop. Not until he chose to.

But when he finally pulled back, your whine of protest was almost pitiful.

He stood, chest rising fast. You could feel the tension rolling off him in waves—his breathing uneven, hands rough now as they grabbed your hips again.

His voice was a low snarl against your ear. “You think you get to come?”

Your whole body clenched, heat rushing to your core like you hadn’t just been on the edge of release.

“You ran,” he continued, biting down on your shoulder. “You teased me. And now you think you get to fall apart without permission?”

You whimpered. “Please…”

He grabbed your jaw, tilting your face toward his. “You begged for this. Remember?”

You nodded weakly.

“Said you wanted to be used.”

Then you felt it. The thick, hot weight of his cock nudging against your entrance—bare, leaking, ready.

“Then take it.”

He slammed into you with a single, brutal thrust.

Your scream tore through the woods, raw and involuntary. There was no gentleness. No easing in. Just the full length of him stretching you, filling you, splitting you open as your breath hitched and your eyes fluttered shut.

He didn’t pause. Didn’t let you adjust. Just snapped his hips into yours, over and over, fucking you hard enough to make your body jerk forward against the tree.

His grip bruised. His rhythm was punishing.

“Fuck, you feel good,” he groaned. “Tight little cunt—jesus—meant for this.”

Every thrust forced a choked moan from your lips, your forehead scraping against the bark. His metal hand snaked around to grab your breast, pinching your nipple between cold fingers until you sobbed.

“Say it,” he demanded. “Tell me who you belong to.”

“You—Bucky, you.”

His mouth found your neck, biting hard, and that was it. You shattered. The orgasm hit you like a freight train—violent, sharp, sudden. You cry out as you clenched around him, body going rigid, stars bursting behind your eyes.

But he didn’t stop.

He kept fucking you through it, deep and fast, chasing his own release. You were limp, barely holding yourself upright, when he finally slammed into you one last time with a grunt, his cock pulsing as he filled you. Warmth spread between your thighs, dripping down as your muscles twitched.

And then, for a long moment—silence.

Only his breathing. Only yours. The wind through the trees.

He stayed pressed to you, his chest against your back, forehead resting on your shoulder. When he finally moved, it wasn’t rough. It was careful.

He pulled out slowly as you whimpered. His hands smoothed over your waist, then wrapped around you, holding you upright.

“You okay, sweetheart?” he murmured softly, lips brushing your skin. You nodded, too dazed to speak.

“Still with me?” A hum was all you could manage.

He didn’t move at first. Just stayed close, breath still ragged against your neck, one hand on your waist like he was grounding himself with the feel of you.

The heat of him clung to your skin, everywhere, your chest, your thighs, the slick mess between your legs. Your pulse hadn’t steadied yet, and neither had his.

His forehead came to rest against your shoulder. “You okay?” he murmured.

You nodded, your voice slow and slurred. “Yeah. Just… give me a second.”

He didn’t rush you. Just waited. His hands softened where they held you—no more grip, no pressure. Only presence. Only warmth.

“I didn’t go too far?” he asked after a pause, quieter now. Like he needed to hear it.

“No,” you said softly, eyes closed. “You didn’t.”

He let out a slow breath, tension finally slipping out of his frame. Behind you, he shifted carefully, pulling out with a gentleness that made your breath catch. The stretch still ached, your thighs trembling from exertion, and the cool night air wrapped around the places he’d left warm and ruined.

You pressed a hand to the tree, steadying yourself.

“Come here,” he said gently, and when he turned you around, you didn’t resist.

Your legs were unsteady, but he was solid. You let yourself fall into him, cheek to his chest, breath still shallow. He held you with one arm wrapped around your waist, the other cradling the back of your neck. His chest rose and fell beneath your face in a steady rhythm, anchoring you.

It was quiet for a moment. Then, without letting go, he said, “So… I take it that worked for you.”

A soft laugh escaped you, hoarse and tired. “That was insane.”

“You sure?” His tone was light, but you felt the nerves under it. “Didn’t think I was gonna find you that fast.”

“You nearly tackled me.”

“You said run,” he said, lips brushing the side of your head. “I took that personally.”

You smiled, breath catching slightly. “You were scarily good at that. Honestly.”

His fingers threaded gently through your hair, grounding you. “You weren’t exactly innocent either. All wide-eyed and breathless. The dress helped.”

You huffed a laugh. “Told you it’d rip.”

“And I said I wouldn’t tear it.” “You absolutely tore it.”

He grinned into your hair. “I’ll buy you another one.”

You nodded, letting silence settle again, warm between your bodies. Then, softer, he asked, “You really okay?”

“Yeah,” you said, and this time you met his eyes. “I liked it.”

His expression shifted—something softer in the lines of his face, something quieter. “Good,” he said, brushing a kiss to your temple. “Because I didn’t know how to stop once I had you.”

The confession hit low in your chest, but not in a bad way. It settled deep.

“I know,” you said.

For a while, you just stood there. Breathing. Letting the night move around you while everything inside you slowed.

Eventually, he shifted. “Come on,” he murmured. “Let’s go inside. Get you cleaned up.”

You blinked, then grimaced. “My legs feel like jelly.”

“I’ll carry you,” he offered, already crouching.

“You don’t have to—”

But he didn’t let you finish. Just swept you up without effort, arms secure beneath your legs and back. You looped your arms around his neck and let your head rest on his shoulder as he started the walk back through the woods.

The world was still and dark around you. The crunch of leaves beneath his boots was steady, the rhythm of it soothing. His chest rose and fell beneath your cheek, and his grip on you never wavered. It was careful. Thoughtful. Safe.

After a while, you brushed your fingers along the line of his jaw. “Thanks for doing this,” you murmured.

He glanced down at you. “For what? Nearly fucking you into a tree?”

You let out a tired exhale, half a laugh. “For making it feel real. And then making it feel safe again.”

His eyes softened, and he didn’t hesitate. “You never weren’t.”

You nodded, eyes closing. You knew that, but still, it meant something to hear it out loud.

The compund's lights came into view, glowing soft and golden through the trees. He shifted you slightly in his arms, settling your weight.

“I’ll run you a bath,” he said. “You want food?” You groaned. “God, yes.”

He smirked. “Didn’t know primal play gave you an appetite.”

“It’s the trauma,” you deadpanned, and he laughed, a real one, low and warm and full.

You smiled, the sound vibrating against your skin.

“Next time,” you murmured, voice already slipping toward sleep, “you better give me more than five minutes.”

He huffed. “You barely lasted four.” You smirked, eyes still closed. “Didn’t say I didn’t enjoy it.”

His hand moved in slow circles along your back. “Yeah? Because I’d do it again. However you want.”

You just nodded, the edge of sleep tugging at you now, soft and easy. “Just like that,” you whispered. “Don’t change a thing.”

He pressed a kiss to your hair, steady and certain. “Wasn’t planning to.”

a/n: i hope you guys enjoyed it! i love you all, and please stay safe out there!

Bucky hadn’t slept. The apartment looked exactly the same as it had hours ago, and the morning light did nothing to ease the headache brewing behind his eyes. The couch was still pushed too far back. The laptop still sat on the coffee table. Like the room had frozen on purpose just to piss him off. He paced back and forth across the living room, metal fingers flexing and unflexing like they had nowhere to go. He’d started pacing sometime around dawn and apparently his body had decided that was the only motion it was capable of now. He couldn’t sit. Couldn’t stand still. Felt like if he stopped moving, he’d have to actually think. Every time he stopped moving, he could hear your voice from last night. Please, James. Please. “Get a grip, Barnes,” he muttered under his breath, though the empty room just swallowed the words, leaving them hanging weak and useless like everything else he'd said and did lately. The phone was still on the table. He hadn’t touched it since the block went through. Hadn’t had the guts to flip it over and look at the blank space again. He’d stared at the ceiling for hours instead, replaying everything until it turned into one long loop he couldn’t escape. You were gone. And you had every right to be. That didn’t stop the panic clawing up his throat. By five in the morning he couldn’t take it anymore. He needed to see something, anything, that proved you still existed outside of the mess he’d made. Needed to know you hadn’t vanished off the planet the second you vanished from him. So he did the stupid thing. He made a new account. New email. New username. Even new password, for God knows why. He wouldn’t remember it in an hour anyway. Saved it to apple passwords. As the confirmation page loaded, this made him a very pathetic stalker, the kind of guy who deserved to be laughed at, and he still clicked subscribe anyway. He subscribed again before he could talk himself out of it, the familiar profile picture popping up like a punch to the chest. Just the same teasing little glimpse of skin and shadow that had wrecked him from the beginning. His eyes went straight to the activity log. Last seen: 9:14 p.m.

Hours ago. Before everything. Nothing. No new posts. No stories. No updates. Not even a note. There was nothing to show you’d even touched the account since the call ended. “Come on, sweetheart,” he whispered to it, like you could somehow hear him through the website. “Just… be okay. Please be okay.” He refreshed the page. Then again. Then a third time like that would magically change the answer. But it was still nothing. A fucked up feeling settled in his stomach. He closed the laptop harder than he meant to. There was one place he knew you had to be. One place he could actually see you with his own eyes instead of hunting ghosts on a screen. The hospital. Internship shifts didn’t pause for heartbreak. They didn’t care if you’d slept or cried or sworn off men forever. You’d be there because you were responsible and you took your job too seriously to call in sick over a broken heart. He grabbed his jacket off the back of the chair and was out the door in under five minutes. The bike ride across the city barely registered. Just traffic lights and potholes and the cold needling into his cheeks while his brain ran in circles. He rode like he was chasing something he might never catch again, By the time the hospital came into view, his heart was pounding for an entirely different reason. Please be there. Please don’t hate me. Killing the engine, hejust sat for a moment, trying to get his breathing under control. Everything felt the exact same as it did a month ago. Everything except the fact that you were hurting this time, the reason being him. Bucky scanned the room the second he walked in. He didn’t have to look long. You were at the nurses’ station. The sight of you hit him so hard he had to stop moving. You looked… exhausted. This wasn’t your usual kind of tiredness. The one with with messy hair and a lazy smile after a long shift. This was different. Your shoulders were slumped. The usual brightness in your face was muted, like someone had turned the volume down on you overnight. He hated that he knew the difference. Hated that he’d memorized your tired smiles and now he was looking at the version that had nothing left behind it. You looked like you hadn’t slept at all. Guilt punched him square in the chest. That was his fault. Every last bit of it. For a second he thought about turning around and leaving. About walking right back out the doors and sparing you the shock of seeing him. But he just wouldn’t be a coward anymore. Forcing his feet to move, he took steps in your direction. You didn’t notice him at first. You were flipping through a chart, biting the inside of your cheek in that familiar little way you did when you were concentrating. He remembered thinking it was cute the first time he saw it. He remembered a lot of things now that made his stomach twist. He was halfway across the lobby when you finally glanced up. Your eyes landed on him. And you smiled. The same polite, easy smile you’d given him the very first day. The kind of smile you gave patients because that was your job, because you were good at it. It felt like a knife between his ribs. That smile wasn’t for him anymore. For Bucky-the-patient, sure, but not for the Bucky-or-James who'd lied his way into this mess. “Bucky,” you waved him over like he was just another familiar face in your day. His heart did something painful. You didn’t know.

Of course you didn’t know.

He walked up to the counter on legs that felt way too heavy for his body. Up close he could see the details he’d missed from a distance — the faint redness of your conjunctiva, the way you kept blinking like they were dry, the way your fingers trembled just a little when you set the chart down. “Hey— didn’t expect to see you. You okay?” Your voice sounded normal. Friendly. Tired, but normal. The words stuck a bit, because how do you say you're here to beg forgiveness in a lobby? It nearly killed him. Already slipping into that automatic caretaker mode he’d watched you use a dozen times, you asked, “need to see the doctor?” Same gentle voice. The one he’d gotten way too attached to. Attached like a fool, now it just underscored how much he'd ruined. He shook his head, suddenly aware of how ridiculous he must look standing there. You didn’t seem to mind though. Or if you did, you hid it well, professional as always. “No… I’m not here for that.” You tilted your head, confused but still smiling. “Oh. Paperwork or something? Follow-up appointment?” “I’m here to see you.” Jesus Christ, that sounded so fucking stupid out loud he wanted to punch himself in the throat just to keep him from speaking. Your brows knit together in confusion. “Me?” “Yeah,” his voice had fallen down a few octaves. “You.” There was a beat where you just looked at him, clearly trying to figure out what he meant. He could practically see the thoughts lining up behind your eyes — confusion, curiosity, the professional part of you searching for a reason that made sense. He took a breath he didn’t feel ready for. He didn’t plan to say it. Didn’t even think it. The word just slipped out like muscle memory. “Sweetheart—” The second the word left his mouth, everything changed. He saw it happen in real time. Your smile faltered. Just a tiny crack at first, like a hairline fracture. Your eyes focused on him in a way they never had before. Recognition crept in slowly, horribly slowly. Slow enough to torture him as it dawned. He watched the moment the pieces clicked together. The voice. The nickname. The way he said it.

Your face went blank. “Wait. No— no, that’s not—” He reached for you on instinct, hands hovering uselessly in the space between your bodies. “Baby—” “James?” your voice trembled on the single word. “Yeah, babydoll. It’s me. James. Bucky.” Words tumbling out, hoping they'd bridge the gap but knowing they wouldn't. What else was there, really? Nothing that fixed this. All the air seemed to disappear out of the room. You stared at him like you were trying to wake up from a bad dream and he refused to fade. Emotion crossed your face in waves. Waves he wished he could stop, but he'd started them. Disbelief hitting youfirst, like surely this was a joke; then understanding sinking in, and finally betrayal washing over. Your eyes filled with tears so fast it stole the breath out of his lungs. Panic surged inside him, “hey, baby, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. Please… can we talk? Just let me explain—” He reached out and gently gripped your arms before he could stop himself, desperate to keep you from slipping away. You flinched like his touch burned. “Don’t… Just don’t.” “Please, sweetheart—” “Don’t… call me that.” The words were soft, but they hit harder than anything else. People were starting to look now. A few curious glances from nurses and visitors who didn’t understand the storm brewing in front of them. You didn’t seem to notice. Tears spilled over, tracking silently down your cheeks, and you didn’t even try to wipe them away. “All this time,” you breathed, more to yourself than to him. “All this time it was you.” “Yeah, and I know how bad that sounds. I know. But I can explain everything, I swear—”

“You lied to me.” Your voice wobbled on the last word like it didn’t want to come out. Four simple words. They were a slap to his face. Bucky’s hands dropped from your arms. “I know. And I hate myself for it. I never meant for it to go this far. I never meant to hurt you.” Your laugh was small and broken. “Well, congratulations. You did.” Every ounce of exhaustion you’d been carrying seemed to rise to the surface at once. Your shoulders shook, whether from anger or hurt he couldn’t tell. “I trusted you… I told you things I’ve never told anyone. I let you see me. I begged you to see you. And you just— you were standing right in front of me the whole time.” The memory of that plea flashed behind his eyes and he felt sick all over again. “I wanted to tell you. I did. I swear I did. I just— I didn’t know how to start.” “So you thought hiding was better?” you shot back, finally finding your anger. “You thought letting me feel stupid and used was better?” “No… God, no.” You wiped at your cheeks with the back of your hand, furious at the tears that wouldn’t stop coming. “I feel like an idiot,” you admitted in a low voice. “Like a— like a complete, pathetic idiot.” “Don’t— don’t say that. None of this is on you.” “Isn’t it?” you asked, looking at him like you didn’t recognize him at all. “Because it feels pretty on me right now.” He opened his mouth, but nothing came out that didn’t sound weak and useless. The world refused to pause for either of you. A phone rang somewhere. Someone laughed down the hall. Your whole world had narrowed to the man in front of you. “I need you to let me explain,” he tried again, softer this time. “Please. Just give me five minutes. That’s all I’m asking.” For a split second he thought you might actually consider it. Then your expression hardened. “No.” The word was firm this time, stronger than the first. “No,” you repeated, taking a shaky step back from him. “I… just don’t want to hear it.” “Sweetheart—” “Stop calling me that,” you snapped. First time he’d seen you do this, and he’s the reason. “Okay. I’m sorry.”

You stared at him for a long moment, like you were memorizing a stranger who used to feel safe. “I have to get back to work,” you said finally, the professional mask sliding back into place with visible effort. “Please don’t walk away,” he begged before he could stop himself. He knew you’d walk away. Didn’t matter. He was still going to follow you. Had to. Explaining was the only plan he had, and it wasn’t even a good one. There was never a version of this morning where he would have just stood there and let you disappear down the hallway like a stranger. His feet moved before his brain had fully caught up. You walked fast. Faster than he’d ever seen you walk before. Like you were late for something important instead of just trying to outrun him. You didn’t look back once. Not even a glance over your shoulder to see if he was still there. But he was.

He stayed a few steps behind at first, close enough to keep you in sight but not close enough to touch. He didn’t trust himself to touch you again. Not after the way you’d flinched like his hands had burned. That kept replaying worse than anything else. Worse than the yelling he’d expected. Worse than silence. The hallway opened up into another nurses’ station, busier than the first one. You slipped behind the counter like it was a shield and he hovered awkwardly on the other side, suddenly aware of how out of place he must look. Big guy in a leather jacket, looming where he didn’t belong, eyes glued to an intern who clearly wanted nothing to do with him. Great. Fantastic. Perfect. He watched you pick up a chart with hands that still weren’t quite steady. Watched you focus very hard on anything that wasn’t him. Watched the way your jaw tightened when you realized he wasn’t leaving. He felt about like he was sixteen years old and hopeless. “I just— I just need a minute. Please.”. You pretended to read something on the paper in front of you, but he could tell you weren’t really seeing it. Your eyes kept skimming the same line over and over again. “I’m not trying to make a scene.” He kept his voice low on purpose. “I swear I’m not. I just… I need to talk to you. Just for a minute.” You inhaled slowly through your nose like you were counting to ten. “Bucky… James— whoever you are,” you spoke without looking at him, voice tight and professional in a way that hurt more than yelling would have. “I’m at work.” “I know.”

“I have patients. Shit… you know what? Even if I didn’t, I don’t wanna talk now.”

“I—”

“Surely you must understand why this isn’t the time?”

He opened his mouth to argue and then closed it again because, yeah, he did understand. He understood too well. You were trying to hold yourself together in a place where falling apart wasn’t allowed. Still, he couldn’t make himself back off.

A nurse at the station glanced between the two of you, picking up on the tension. She had probably seen a hundred versions of this exact situation. Concern flickered across her expression as she leaned a little closer to you. “Hey, hon, you okay over here?” You finally looked up then, and Bucky hated the way you forced a small smile onto your face. “I’m fine, Dana, it’s just… a misunderstanding.” Dana didn’t look convinced at all. Her gaze flicked to Bucky, taking him in with that assessing, protective nurse stare. “Need me to call security?” she asked you quietly, like he wasn’t standing right there. That was what he was to you now. Not James. Not the guy you’d poured your heart out to at three in the morning. Just some man making you uncomfortable at work. For a split second he thought you might say yes. He even braced himself for it. But you shook your head. “No,” came your voice softly. “It’s okay.”

Hope flared in his chest so fast it almost hurt. You didn’t want security. You didn’t want him dragged away. That had to mean something. It had to mean you didn’t completely hate him. Maybe you still cared enough to— “He’ll go away on his own,” you added, still not looking at him. The hope died just as quickly as it had bloomed. “Alright,” Dana squeezed your arm briefly. “I’ll be right here if you need me.” Bucky swallowed around the lump in his throat as she walked a few steps away, leaving the two of you alone again in the middle of a room that suddenly felt way too small. He’ll go away on his own. You’d said it like a fact. Like he was a problem you were waiting out. Like he was already fading from your life and you just needed a little patience until it was official. He hated how much that hurt. “I’m not going away.” He heard how stubborn it sounded and didn’t care. You let out a humorless breath. “Of course you’re not.” “I mean it.” “Good for you.” The sarcasm in your voice was so unfamiliar it almost made him flinch. You’d never talked to him like that before. Not as Bucky. Not as James. You’d always been soft with him, even when you were teasing. This version of you felt like a stranger. A stranger he helped create. He stepped a little closer to the counter, lowering his voice so only you could hear him.

“Please— just one minute. Outside, or — or an empty room, hell, a fuckin’ supply closet, I don’t care. I just need one minute.” You finally looked at him. Your eyes were still red-rimmed and so full of hurt that he had to fight the urge to reach across the counter and pull you into his arms right there in front of God and everyone. For a heartbeat he thought you might soften. Thought you might give in. “No,” your voice was firmerthis time. “I don’t want to talk to you.” He nodded slowly, like he was trying to absorb a language he didn’t speak. “Okay,” he said, even though it very much was not okay. “I get that you’re mad. You have every right to be mad.” “I’m not mad,” you replied, turning your attention back to the chart in front of you. The lie was obvious.

“You’re kinda trembling,” he pointed out before he could stop himself. “That happens when people don’t sleep.” The words slipped out sharper than you probably meant them to, and he latched onto them immediately. “Have you eaten anything since last night? Or— I don’t know— coffee, water, something?” The question came out softer than everything else he’d said, genuine worry breaking through the panic. You let out a disbelieving little laugh. “That’s none of your business.” “It is my business if you’re running around this place on an empty stomach and no sleep because of me.” “Since when do you get to care about that?” you shot back. The sting of it made him wince. “Since always… I just can’t stop caring about you, even if you don’t want me to.” You pressed your lips together, clearly fighting back another wave of emotion. “I don’t need you to take care of me.” Your voice did that shaky thing you were pretending it wasn’t doing. He could see the conflict on your face, the way part of you wanted to fold and the other part wanted to keep your armor on as tight as possible. You’d always worn your heart right out in the open with him. Now he was the reason you were trying to hide it. “I’m working,” you said after a beat. “I don’t have time for this.” “Then let me at least do something useful,” he was grasping at anything that would keep you from slipping completely out of reach. “Let me get you something to eat.” “I don’t want anything from you.” “You look like you’re about two seconds away from passing out.” Your glare would have been impressive if your eyes weren’t so glassy. “I am perfectly capable of getting my own food.” He hesitated, searching your face for any crack, any tiny opening he could fit himself into. There wasn’t one. Still, he wasn’t ready to give up. “Just let me do this. I just… don’t want you to keel over in the middle of a shift.” You stared at him for a long moment, clearly torn between telling him to go to hell and bursting into tears. He hated that he’d put you in that position. “Five minutes. I’ll grab something from the cafeteria and bring it back. You don’t even have to talk to me.” “I don’t want you buying me things.” “I’m not buying you things. I’m buying you breakfast. There’s a difference.” It was fucking stupid, but it was worth a try. Your mouth twitched despite yourself. That twitch, like you were fighting a smile despite the mess, gave him a spark of hope that flickered weak. For a second he caught a glimpse of the you he knew, buried under all the hurt he’d caused. It only made the guilt worse. You looked down at your hands, then away from him, then back again like you couldn’t quite decide where to put your eyes. “I don’t need you hovering,” you said finally. “I won’t hover,” he promised. “Scout’s honor.” “You were never a scout.”

“Details.” Another almost-smile that you fought hard to suppress. God, he missed you and the smile he’d imagined a thousand times. “Fine,” you muttered. “Do whatever you want.” “Okay,” he was quick to say, like you might change your mind if he gave you too much time to think about it. “Okay. I’ll be right back.” You didn’t dignify that with an answer. He took a step away, then hesitated, looking at you again. “You don’t have any allergies, right?” You let out a tired breath. “No.” “Anything you hate or don’t want to eat right now?” Yeah, he was absolutely being a pain in the ass. “I’m so not doing this with you.” “Right— right. I’ll figure it out.”

Bucky stood in the middle of the cafeteria, staring at a glass case full of pastries, feeling stupidly and embarrassingly out of his depth. The kind of out-of-depth that made him question every choice leading up to this, wondering if a simple bag of food could really patch over the disaster he'd created. He hadn’t been inside a hospital cafeteria in years, and he’d definitely never been inside one with a mission this specific. Get her food. Something she’ll actually eat. Something she won’t throw back in your face. Scanning the options once more, he racked his brain for every tiny detail you'd dropped casually, those offhand comments now feeling like lifelines he should've held tighter. You drank too much coffee and not enough water. You skipped meals when you were stressed even though you pretended you didn’t, and he'd teased you about it before, never realizing how those habits might stem from nights like last one, the kind he'd caused. “Can I help you, sir?” The interruption jolted him, pulling him from the mental list he'd been building. The woman behind the counter was looking at him with polite impatience, probably wondering why a grown man was glaring at a muffin. “Uh, yeah. I need… breakfast. To go.” She raised an eyebrow like she was saying ‘pardon me?’ “Most people do at this hour.” Right. Real smooth.

He forced himself to focus. “Something easy. Light, I guess. But also filling. And not— not too greasy.” The woman gave him a look like she’d been awake since 4 a.m. and didn’t have patience for men who couldn’t make decisions.. “So basically everything and nothing.” He ended up grabbing more than he probably needed. A bottle of juice. A yogurt with fruit on the bottom because he remembered you saying once that plain yogurt tasted like sadness. A small sandwich in case you wanted something more substantial. And a stupid little chocolate croissant that felt like a peace offering he wasn’t sure you’d accept. Definitely overcompensating. The croissant especially, recalling how you'd mentioned craving sweets during tough shifts, but now it seemed pathetic against the hurt His hands hovered over the coffee station before he decided against it. You’d had enough caffeine. What you needed was actual fuel. What you needed was sleep. And probably a world where he didn’t exist in it. At least without his lies complicating everything, leaving you to heal on your own terms. He paid, shoved everything into a paper bag, and then just… stood there. Going back to you scared the hell out of him.

This was ridiculous. He’d fought wars, survived things most people couldn’t even imagine, and here he was terrified of handing a woman a sandwich. But it wasn’t just any woman, was it? It was you. The walk back through the hospital felt longer than it should have. Every step gave him too much time to think. Too much time to replay your face from earlier. The way your voice had trembled when you’d said his name. The way you’d looked at him like he’d taken something from you that you could never get back. All because he hadn’t told the truth soon enough. He stopped a passing nurse, asked where you might be, and got pointed toward the on-call rooms down a quieter hallway. He saw you sitting on one of the couches just inside the room, head flopped back against the wall, eyes closed like you were trying to steal five minutes of peace in a place that never gave any. You looked exhausted, wrung out, like someone had reached inside you and twisted. And it gutted him, knowing your exhaustion ran deeper today because of his mess. He knocked lightly on the doorframe. Didn’t want to scare you on top of everything else. Your eyes opened immediately. The second you saw him, every bit of softness drained away. He deserved that.

“I brought food.” He held up the bag like it might count for something. “I told you I didn’t want anything.” “Yeah. I didn’t listen. You still gotta eat.” You let out a tired breath, like you were already sick of him all over again and looked away, staring at the opposite wall like it was suddenly fascinating. He stepped inside carefully, like you were a skittish animal he didn’t want to scare. He set the bag on the little table in front of you and started pulling things out one by one. “Orange juice, yogurt with the fruit you like. A sandwich if you’re hungrier than you think. And… a croissant.” You stared at the small spread like it might be a trap. “I didn’t ask for any of this. Why are you even doing it?” Because I screwed this up and I don’t know how to unscrew it. “Because you need to eat.” “I don’t need you deciding what I need, okay?” You looked like a kid sitting there with your arms crossed, and eyes fixed on the floor. He didn’t answer you, everything that might come out of him would only anger you more. “Thank you. You can go now.” Your voice was formal, as though you were dismissing him. “Please… just give me five minutes.” You laughed, but there wasn’t any humour in it. “Five minutes for what? So you can feel better about yourself?” “No… to explain.” “You already explained enough.” “No, I didn’t. I didn’t explain anything that mattered.”

You finally looked up at him again, and the raw hurt on your face almost knocked the air out of his lungs. “I still have six hours left in my shift… six hours of pretending I’m fine and doing my job and not falling apart. I don’t have the energy to do this with you right now.” “I know… I know it’s a bad time.” “It’s not just a bad time, James. It’s a long time.” He frowned slightly. “What do you mean?” “I mean even if I wanted to talk to you, which I don’t actually, I can’t just disappear for half an hour. I have responsibilities… patients. Real things that matter.”

The way you said real things that matter felt deliberate. Like you were reminding him he wasn’t one of them. “I’ll wait.” “You what?” “I’ll wait,” he repeated. “Until your shift’s over.” “Do you have any idea how long six hours is?” He almost smiled despite everything. “Six hours isn’t gonna kill me.” “No. I’m not asking you to wait around all day like some lost puppy.” “I’m not a puppy.” “You know what I mean.” He did. He just didn’t care. “I need to talk to you,” he repeated, softer this time. “I need you to hear me out. And if waiting is what it takes, then I’ll wait.” Your expression wavered for a split second. Just a crack in the mask. Just enough to let a little emotion slip through. “Why are you doing this?” you whispered.

Because I love you. The answer came uninvited, stupid dangerous and far too big to say out loud right now. “Because you matter to me,” he said instead. That’s safer. You looked away quickly, like you couldn’t fathom hearing those words. “Please stop saying things like that.” “I can’t.” “You can. You just don’t want to.” He had no argument for that. “Whatever… do what you want I guess.” Relief and dread bloomed together in his chest. “So… I can wait?” “I’m not giving you permission. I’m just too tired to fight with you about it.” You gestured toward the door. “Now please leave. I need to breathe without you standing in front of me.” The honesty of that hurt, but he respected it. “Okay, I’ll be… outside.” “Don’t hover near the station.” “I won’t.” “Don’t talk to my coworkers.” “I won’t.” “And don’t expect anything from me when this shift is over.”

That one hurt the most even though he deserved every bit of it. “I won’t,” he said anyway. You picked up the yogurt finally, peeling the lid back without looking at him. He lingered for a second longer, wanting to say a dozen different things and knowing none of them would help. “I’m glad you’re eating.” Lame excuse in trying to talk to you. “Goodbye, James.”

Message received. He backed out of the room and pulled the door shut behind him, leaning against the wall for a long breath. Six hours. Six hours of sitting with his own thoughts. Six hours of wondering if you’d walk out at the end of it and tell him to go to hell anyway. He made his way out of the hospital in a kind of daze, the automatic doors whooshing open to let him back into the bright, noisy world he suddenly didn’t care about at all. His bike waited in the parking lot where he’d left it. He sat on the curb beside it instead, and started the long business of waiting. The curb was cold under him, but it felt like the only penance he could offer for now.

Everytime the automatic doors slid open, his heart would jump. But all of them would be false alarms. Everytime it was the wrong person. Until it wasn’t. You stepped out just after dusk, with your coat wrapped tight around you. You had your bag slung across your chest and a look on your face that was pure exhaustion. For a second you just stood there at the top of the steps, closing your eyes and breathing in the freezing air, trying to remember how to be a person again. When you opened them, your eyes landed straight on him. Something crossed your face so fast he almost missed it. Surprise first. Then disbelief. Then, slowly, something softer he was too afraid to name. A kind of calmness. He straightened immediately, hands falling to his sides, trying not to look like he’d been sitting there all day thinking about nothing but you. You walked down the steps toward him, boots crunching over the thin layer of fresh snow that had started to stick to the pavement. “Hey,” he greeted you quietly when you got close.

“Hey.” Up close you looked even more tired than you had earlier. Your eyes were heavy, your mouth set in a small unhappy line. But you were here. You hadn’t slipped out a side exit. You hadn’t pretended you didn’t see him. You hadn’t called security and had him dragged off like he half expected. That had to count for something, right? “You waited.” “I told you I would.” “I didn’t think you meant it.” “I try not to say things I don’t mean.” Fuck, he really shouldn’t go act all noble now. Thankfully, you didn't call him out on it. You let out a slow breath that fogged the air between you. “Okay… talk.” Just two words that carried way too much weight. He opened his mouth. Absolutely nothing of value showed up. That was when he realized he didn’t know where to start. All the things he’d rehearsed in his head for six hours suddenly sounded stupid and thin and nowhere near enough.

“I don’t really have anything better than I’m sorry.” Your expression didn’t waver. “You already said that. It didn’t fix anything.” Snowflakes drifted down lazily around the two of you, catching in your hair and on the shoulders of your coat. He watched one land on your eyelash and melt. "I've got a lot I should say. I know I do. But you look dead on your feet and I don't—I don't wanna dump all of it on you in a parking lot.” Something in your face softened just a fraction at that. “You don’t have to worry about me.” “Yeah, I do.” You didn’t argue this time. As the wind picked up, you shivered before you could hide it. He stepped a little closer, putting himself between you and the wind without meaning to. “Let me get you a cab, it’s freezing out here.” “It’s close… I can walk.” “But… it’s snowing.” “I walk every day.” “Not when you’ve been on your feet for twelve hours and haven’t slept.” Your eyes flicked up to meet his. “I’m fine.” “You don’t look… fine.”

“That’s not your problem anymore.” There was the reminder again, that he doesn’t have any right to be here. “I could take you home,” he tried again. You glanced at his motorcycle and let out a small, tired laugh that surprised him with how normal it sounded. “You’re on a bike. It doesn’t exactly come with snow coverage.” God, he’d missed that laugh so much. It was such a tiny thing, barely even amused, but it felt like someone had cracked open a window in a room that had been sealed shut all day. He found himself smiling before he could stop it. “I’ve ridden in worse.” “I’m sure you have, but that doesn’t mean I want to freeze to death on the back of it.” “I’ve got an extra helmet.” “Helmets don’t have heaters.” “They do kinda protect you from snow if you think about it.” You looked at him for a long moment, weighing something he couldn’t see. “I don’t know, James… It’s really not that far.” “Then it’ll be quick. You — you won’t even have to touch me if you don’t want to. I’ll go slow… very slow.” He could see the conflict in your face. The part of you that was still angry. The part of you that was exhausted and just wanted to be home. “Fine… but only because my feet feel like they’re about to fall off.” He reached for the spare helmet strapped to the back of the bike and held it out to you. You took it without meeting his eyes, turning it over in your hands like you’d never worn one before. “I — uhm— need directions. You’ll have to tell me where to go.”

“Obviously.” “Obviously,” he echoed, a little smile tugging at his mouth. You rattled off the address. He memorised it like it matterd. He’d probably remember it for the rest of his life after today. As the bike rumbled to life beneath him, he waited for you to to adjust the helmet and climb on behind him. He kept his posture careful, made sure you had room. Even then, he felt you hesitate for a second. Then your hand came up and rested lightly on his shoulder. Just enough for balance. Just enough to keep yourself steady. It wasn’t even close. The weight of your fingers on his shoulder did stupid things to his brain. He knew he didn't deserve that touch. He drove exactly like he promised he would. Taking turns easy, making sure the ride was smooth enough that you didn’t have to hold on tighter than you chose to. Every now and then he felt your grip shift, the smallest squeeze when the road got uneven, and each time it sent a quiet jolt through him. You trusted him just enough to get you home. For now, that had to be enough. He tried not to think too hard about how right it felt to have you there. Tried not to let his mind wander to all the other rides he’d imagined with you before everything went to hell. “Turn left up here,” you called over the engine. “Next right.” Your apartment building came into view sooner than he wanted it to. Too soon. Way too soon. He slowed to a stop at the curb, cutting the engine so the sudden quiet felt loud. He felt your hand leave his shoulder. He missed it already. “This is me.” You climbed off carefully, handing the helmet back to him without quite looking at his face. “Thanks.” Suddenly he was aware that he was running out of reasons to stay near you. This is it. The clean ending. You go inside, he drives away, and the two of you figure out the rest of this mess some other day. Or never. Except he didn’t want it to end like that. He fumbled with the strap of his own helmet, pretending to be busy with something that didn’t actually need doing. Adjusted the mirror. Wiped imaginary snow off the handlebars. Anything to buy a few more seconds.

Just a little longer. You must have noticed because, “are you stalling?” “No,” he spoke too soon, then decided lying about this is definitely not the way to go about it, “maybe. A little.” Your mouth twitched like you were trying not to smile. “I’m literally standing in front of my building, James.” “I know.” “So… what are we doing here?” “I don’t know. I just— I didn’t want you to walk in without saying goodnight properly.” You studied him for a second, and he had the uncomfortable feeling you could see every nervous thought bouncing around in his head. “Well,” you said finally, steppinga little bit towards the door. “Goodnight.” That’s it. This is it. You’re going inside, he will probably never see you again. “Yeah… goodnight.” He forced himself to answer, the words tasted heavier in his mouth. Your boots made their way to the entrance. He told himself to put the helmet back on, start the bike, and leave before he made things worse. Instead he just sat there and watched you go. Because apparently he was incapable of doing anything the easy way when it came to you. Because this might be the last time he ever sees you. On reaching the door, you paused. For a second he thought you’d forgotten something. Then you turned back, toward him. “James.” You called him. You’ve called him. Are you going to ask him inside? His head snapped up immediately. “Yeah?” You hesitated, like you weren’t sure you believed the words you were about to say. “Do you— I don't know. Do you wanna come inside?" There’s nothing that could describe what happened to Bucky. His brain short-circuited. Inside meant your space. Your couch. Your kitchen. Fuck, your bedroom. It meant walls and the two of you without the hospital or the parking lot or the weight of strangers walking by. It also meant he could screw things up even more. “I—uh,” apparently he’d forgotten how to speak. “You — you don’t have to invite me. I mean, if you’re just … you know… being polite, you really don’t—” “Wouldn't ask if I didn't mean it,” you interrupted his train of half formed thoughts. “Oh. Right. Yeah. Yep. Okay.” He winced at himself, at his cartoonish response. You were watching him fumble with a small, tired smile on your face, and he could see the tension in your shoulders ease just a little. Seeing him nervous probably helped. He didn’t know how or why, but he was sure it did. “Wow. You’re actually flustered.”

“A little.” “That’s new.” “That’s…. that’s not new. You always have that effect on me.” The honesty slipped out before he could stop it, and for a moment he thought if you’re going to take back your invitation, let him out into the night. But to his surprise, you pushed the door open wider. “C’mon. Before we both freeze out here.” He killed the engine and followed you inside. The warmth of the building hit him all at once, making his cheeks sting. He stomped snow off his boots and trailed behind you up the stairs, trying not to think too hard about the fact he was about to see the rest of your life for the first time. He’d seen your bedroom before. On a screen. In stolen pieces.

But this was different. This was real.

Your apartment smelled like you. That was the only way he knew how to put it. The living room was small but comfortable, a couch with too many pillows, a coffee table stacked with medical journals and random pens, a plant in the corner that looked like it was barely hanging on.

It felt like you.

“Sorry it’s a mess.” You flicked on a lamp, the light illuminated enough for him to see you differently. Soft.

“It’s not.” It really wasn’t. It was lived in. Couch cushions not perfectly straight. A mug on the table. A blanket that looked like it got used instead of arranged.

He found himself glancing down the hallway without meaning to, knowing your bedroom was back there somewhere.

Don't be a creep. She let you in. Don't make it weird. Don't fucking make it worse.

“Want something to drink?” You were already heading toward the kitchen.

"No — I mean, you should change or shower or… something. Get comfortable. You've had a long day."

You paused and gave him a look. “Are you telling me I look gross?”

Surely he didn’t mean that. “"What? No. Jesus. I just meant — comfortable. Like... change clothes, relax, sit down, not look at me." Not look at me because it’s fucking terrifying, he kept that last piece to himself.

You rolled your eyes a little but there was no real heat in it. “Right. Make yourself at home, I guess.” You disappeared down the hallway.

The second you were out of sight, he let out a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding.

Okay. Okay, you’re inside. Don’t fucking screw this up.

He wandered into the kitchen because standing in the middle of your living room like a statue felt wrong. He found the fridge mostly empty in the way of someone who worked too much and forgot to grocery shop.

Eggs. Bread. Two takeout boxes he didn't want to inspect too closely. Some veggies that had definitely seen better day.

He hesitated at first, listening for the sound of the shower or a sink running, then made a decision before he could talk himself out of it.

You had needed food earlier. You probably still did.

So he did the only thing he could think to do. He cooked. An apology without words.

It was nothing fancy. Just scrambled eggs and toast, something simple and easy to eat. Even though he’s never been in your kitchen before, he’d heard you here a hundred times before.

It felt strangely domestic. Almost like the kind of normal he’d stopped believing he’d ever get.

Soldier instincts say he should know by default when someone walks in. But Bucky didn’t hear you until you spoke, you were stopped on the doorway. “Did you… cook?”

He had never been this self-conscious. “Yeah. I hope that’s okay. You just … didn’t eat much at the hospital.”

You just stared at the plate he’d set out for you on the counter, so much he thought he should bolt. But then you smiled. A real smile that reached your eyes.

“That’s really nice.” The same quiet voice you used on late night calls.

He could feel relief flooding him. “It’s not much.”

“It’s perfect.”

Sliding onto one of the stools, you pulled the plate closer, and he just watched the way your shoulders dropped, and the soft smile still lingering on your face.

“Sit. You cooked. You have to eat too.” It wasn’t quite a statement as much as it was a command.

“I’m not hungry.”

“Yes you are.” You pushed a second plate toward him. “Don’t argue with me.”

He didn’t.

You ate in comfortable silence, that felt almost normal if he ignored everything that had brought you here..

“So.” You poked at your eggs, moving them around on your plate. “You wanted to talk.”

This deserved his full attention. He set his fork down. “Yeah.”

Like you were bracing for impact, you folded your hands in front of you.

“Okay. Talk.”

Taking a long breath, “I’m sorry. And I know you don't wanna hear it again. But I need to say it anyway. I lied to you. I dragged it out. I should've told you the second I figured it out."

Your eyes dropped to the table. “You made me feel stupid,” you said softly.

The words hit him harder than anything else had all day.

“I didn’t mean to. Swear I didnt.”

“But you did. I— I told you things. Real things. And the whole time you knew exactly who I was and I didn’t have a fucking clue.”

“I wanted to tell you… every time I saw you I wanted to. I just— I didn’t know how.”

“That’s not a good enough reason.” Your hands started to shake. “I trusted you,” your voice wavered, he could hear the tears creeping in now. “I trusted James. I trusted Bucky. And they were the same person and neither one of them bothered to be honest with me.”

What would he even say to that? “I screwed this up.”

“Yeah… you really did.” A tear slipped down your cheek before you could stop it, and he felt his own eyes sting in response.

“I never wanted to hurt you,” he said quietly.

“But you did anyway. I don’t even know why I’m crying. I’m so… tired of crying.” You wiped at your face angrily. “

He reached for you without thinking, then stopped himself halfway, hands hovering uselessly in the air.

“I’m so sorry.”

You looked at him then, he could see how close you were to falling apart. No, you were already falling apart.

“I don’t know what to do with you. I hate that I missed you.” Small, broken voice.

The confession undid him. He broke you.

“I missed you too.” He hated how useless and stupid that sounded.

He stared at the plate in front of him a little too hard, like the eggs were suddenly the most complicated thing in the world.

You went still, not even picking at your food.

He knew he couldn’t keep circling around it. “I need to tell you something.”

You didn’t answer him, fair. He didn’t expect you to.

“I’m gonna be completely straight with you… about everything. No more half truths.”

You watched him carefully, like you were trying to decide what to do with it.

"The day I came into the hospital — that same day, I found your page. Total accident. I swear I wasn't looking for you. I didn't even know it was you."

“Babydoll,” he clarified softly.

Not that it needs clarification, but he saw the way your shoulders stiffened at the name.

“I didn't know it was you. Not at first. There was no way to know. You didn't show your face. Something about you was familiar, but it was just a feeling. And then the next day, I saw that bandage on your finger, and the same thing on your hand that night. Same finger. Same day. And it just… clicked.”

“So you figured it out.”

“Yeah.”

“And you kept watching.”

There was no other truth. “Yeah… I wanted to tell you though… even if not right away. I did. But I didn’t know how to say it without sounding like some creep who tracked you down.”

A small laugh that was not at all amusing escaped you. “You are a creep.”

“I am.” That was the truth.

“I hate you.”

The three words hurt him more than everything, but this was what he deserved. He deserved to be hated. By you.

“I know,” it was an admission of defeat.

He swallowed and forced himself to keep going, because stopping now would be worse. “At first I told myself I wasn’t gonna talk to you. I thought I’d just… leave it alone. Keep it separate… you know. Hospital you, online you, two very different worlds.”

You gave him a look that said that was the dumbest thing you’d ever heard.

“But then your stream cut off that night. Right in the middle of everything. And you didn’t come back on. So I freaked out.”

Your face softened just a fraction, despite yourself. Something about this man freaking out because your wifi went off, seemed to falter something in your resolve.

“I didn’t know if something had happened to you, I kept checking and refreshing. I texted you because I was genuinely scared… worried if something had happened to you. That’s all true. Then it felt like—” He stopped, searching for the right words.

“Like what?” you asked.

“Like a dream… like some ridiculous, impossible dream. You were right there. You were real, and funny, and — and kind. And you actually wanted to talk to me.”

Your eyes dropped to the table again like looking at him was hard.

“So I couldn’t stay away. Even though I knew I should have told you.”

“You could’ve.”

“I know.”

“You really really could’ve, James.”

The way you said his name this time made his chest ache. It reminded him of last night when you basically pleaded with him.

“You could’ve pulled me aside at any point and just said it… instead you let me go on and on like an idiot.”

“I was scared.”

“That’s not an excuse.”

“It’s not… it’s just the truth.”

You were quiet for a moment, chewing on your bottom lip. “If you’d told me, I wouldn’t have… I wouldn’t have reacted the way I did last night.”

“Yes you would have,” he said before he could stop himself.

“No, I wouldn’t.”

“Yeah. You would have.” The gentleness of his voice surprised even him.

You opened your mouth to argue, then closed it again. “Okay… yeah probably.” A tiny laugh escaped you.

“I really wanted to show myself last night. Turn on the switch and everything’s out in the open and I could be down with it.”

“Coward.” You pushed your plate away, appetite apparently gone now. “So what now?” you asked. “You’ve apologized. You’ve explained. You’ve admitted you’re a certified creep. What’s the plan, James?”

He hesitated, choosing his words carefully. “I’m here to make things right.”

Your eyebrows lifted, in surprise or challenge, he couldn’t yet figure out. “And how exactly do you plan on doing that?”

“However you want me to.” The sincerity in his voice surprised even him. “I’m serious… whatever you need. Space, time, yelling at me, never seeing me again, I’ll do it.”

Maybe the never seeing him again part was a bit much. What if you actually choose that?

“And if I tell you to disappear?”

Fuck.

“Then I disappear.” The thought made him feel sick to his stomach, but he meant it.

You studied him for a long time. “You say that like it’s easy.”

“It’s not. But you matter more than my comfort. I’m the same guy… I know it doesn’t feel like it right now, but I am. Everything we talked about, everything we laughed about, that was me. All of it.”

You still looked unconvinced. “Except the part where you were lying.”

“Yeah… except that part.”

You rubbed at your eyes, the tiredness creeping back in. “I don’t even know what to believe… one minute you were this sweet patient who made dumb jokes, and the next minute you were—”

“Some asshole on the internet pretending to be someone else,” he finished for you.

“I was gonna say mysterious internet guy, but sure, we can go with asshole.”

Despite everything, a small smile tugged at his mouth. “I missed this… you.”

“Don’t… get sentimental on me.”

“‘m sorry.”

Then came silence, both of you not wanting to fill it with anything.

“You really hurt me,” you spoke after a while.

He knew you wouldn’t just open your arms and let him in, but it hurt him more hearing you say that. The simplicity of the statement hit harder than any yelling could have.

“And I don’t forgive you yet.”

“I’m not asking you to.” He really really wasn’t. But he definitely hoped for it.

“I don’t even know if I can.”

Ouch.

“That’s fair.”

You stared at him like you were trying to peel him apart and see what was real underneath.

“Why did you keep talking to me?After you knew. Why not just… back off?”

He thought about lying. About making it sound noble. But you deserved better than that.

“Because I liked you. Way too much to stay away.”

“That doesn’t make it okay. You should’ve been stronger than that.”

“I should have…. but I wasn’t.”

He watched the way you twisted your fingers together on the table, nervous habit he’d noticed about you. The way your shoulders slumped now that the adrenaline was fading.

“You look dead on your feet.”

“Thanks.”

He hesitated, then spoke again. “Do you… want me to go?” The question felt dangerous. Because if you say yes, he will never have another reason, another opportunity.

You seemed to consider it. “No, not yet at least.”

Relief washed through him so strongly he almost felt like he was going to fall.

“But I might change my mind in five minutes. And I kinda want to hit you with something.”

“I’d deserve it… you totally should hit me, you know.”

A ghost of a smile bloomed on your lips. “You really don’t make this easy to stay mad at you.”

“I’m just trying real hard to not make it worse.”

“You’re doing an okay job.”

He took that as a small victory.

You carried the plates to the sink. He dried them.

Somehow you both ended up in the living room after that.

Choosing one corner, you left him no other choice but to choose the other.

“Can I ask you something?”

He nodded immediately. “Anything.”

You leaned your head back against the cushions, eyes on the ceiling.

“Was any of it real?” The question was quiet. It wasn’t even angry, no, it was just tired, like somehow you’d decided that it wasn’t.

He saw how small you seemed curled up there. It broke him how he’s made you doubt everything. “Of course it was real.”

“All of it?”

“All of it.”

You let out a slow breath.

“Because it was real for me… I know we never showed faces, and I know it was stupid internet stuff, but I actually… opened up to you. I talked to you about things I don’t talk about. I told you things I haven’t even told my friends. And I liked you,” you admitted, like the confession hurt coming out. “I really liked you. Not just the flirting and… the other stuff. I liked talking to you. I looked forward to it.”

He closed his eyes for a second. If he thought whatever you said before hurt the most, he was wrong. This is it.

“And now I don’t know if that makes me an idiot.”

“You’re not an idiot.”

“Feels like it.”

He shook his head. “Don’t do that. Don’t rewrite it like that. What we had, what we talked about, it was real for me too.”

You turned your head to look at him. “Then why didn’t you tell me?”

There it was again. The question he kept tripping over. No matter how he’d explain, he’d always fall short. Because he was just s plain coward.

“I was scared.”

“Of what?”

“Of you hating me.”

A bitter and humorless laugh leaves you. “Worked out great.” You pulled your knees up onto the couch, wrapping your arms around them. “I kept replaying everything, every conversation, every joke. Every time I thought you were just being sweet. And now I don’t know which parts were genuine and which parts were you just… playing along.”

He felt that like a punch. “I wasn’t playing. Not once… It was real to me too, sweetheart.” The word slipped out, but you didn’t seem to mind, or you didn’t seem to mind enough to correct him.

Your eyes searched his face like you were trying to dig for proof.

“I was so worried about screwing this up. From the second I realized who you were. I kept thinking, don’t mess this up, don’t mess this up.” He let out a small, helpless laugh. “And then I messed it up worse than I could’ve imagined.”

“At least you’re self-aware,” you muttered.

He loved that there were still real pieces of you that came out, making him believe he could still somehow reach that part of you.

You shifted on the couch, exhaustion written all over you now. He noticed the dark circles under your eyes, the way your body seemed heavy with it. After a minute you spoke without looking at him. “Why are you sitting all the way over there, not even looking at me?”

Surely he must be hallucinating, “what?”

“You’re practically on the other side of the couch, like I’m contagious or something. Just because I work at the hospital doesn’t mean I’m contagious at all times you know. Also nothing spreads through eye contact. I mean, sure, there’s eye-to-hand-to-eye contact, but there’s no such thing as eye-to-eye contact.”

That brought a real smile out of him, reminding him once again of the true you, “I just didn’t want to… uhm… crowd you.”

“Or are you not looking at me because if you do you’ll get horny?” The words were blunt. Crude. Thrown out like a small grenade.

What the fuck?

Caught completely off guard, he managed to get one little word out. “What?”

“You heard me.”

He felt heat crawl up his neck. “That’s not— I’m not—”

“Because that’s what this was, right?” your voice became suddenly sharper. “Just some convenient fantasy. Doctor by day, porn girl by night. Best of both worlds.”

“Hey… that’s— that’s not fair.”

“Isn’t it?”

“No. It isn’t.” Firmer now.

You looked away. “I don’t even know why I said that,” you murmured after a second.

“I do.”

“Why?”

“Because you’re hurting, and you don’t know what to do with it.” He shifted a little closer without really thinking about it, careful not to touch you still, just not so far away anymore. “I’m not avoiding looking at you for that… I’m avoiding looking at you because you look exhausted and sad and I know I’m the reason, and it makes me feel sick…. And I don’t want you to think I’m here for the wrong reasons, because I’m not.”

You let out a shaky breath. “Everything feels like the wrong reason right now.” You rubbed at your face with both hands. “I feel stupid.”

“Stop… saying that… please.”

“I do,” you insisted. “Because I handed pieces of myself to someone who didn’t even exist.”

“I existed… I just didn’t exist the way you thought… because I was a fucking coward.”

“Did you… did you ever laugh at me?” The question was so small it nearly broke him.

“No. Never. How could I?”

“Not even once?”

“Not even once.”

“Did you ever show anyone, share that it was me?”

“No.”

“Did you save anything?”

He shook his head. “No screenshots. No recordings. Nothing.”

You studied his face like you were trying to decide whether to believe him. “I need you to be honest with me, James.”

“I am.”

“Even if it makes you look bad.”

“I swear, I am not lying now. I will never lie to you again.”

“I don’t know what to do with all of this.”

“You don’t have to decide tonight.”

“But I feel like I should.”

“You don’t,” he repeated. “You’ve had a horrible day. You’re exhausted. You don’t owe me clarity right now.”

“That’s annoyingly mature of you.” You laughed softly.

“I have my moments.”

Before long, another small silence settled in. You turned your head to look at him again. “I wish I could hate you properly. Would make things… easier.”

What could he even say to that? He nodded, accepting whatever you said, and what you are about to say .

“But I don’t,” you finished quietly.

Is this a relief? Or is this a punishment? He didn’t know. “I don’t deserve that.”

“Yeah… probably not.” Your agreement was casual but laced with that unresolved ache.

The honesty of it made him smile sadly. He hated that he was the reason you were like this.

Shifting, you pulled a blanket off the back of the couch and draped it over yourself. “I’m so tired.”

“I can go,” he offered immediately. That was the least he could do.

“No. Stay.” He knew he didn’t deserve to stay in your place, stay with you. But if this was what you wanted, he’d stay.

After what felt like seconds, he could see that you drifted off without meaning to.

One minute you were sitting there wrapped in that blanket, with heavy eyes, trying to listen to him talk, and the next your breathing went soft, uneven and your head tipped just slightly to the side.

He noticed the exact moment it happened. Your face relaxed in a way it hadn’t all night, the tension smoothing out like someone had finally turned the volume down inside you. And it made something in his chest ache, seeing how worn out you really were.

He stayed still for a few minutes, hardly breathing, like any small movement might break the fragile peace you’d fallen into. But the couch wasn’t meant for sleeping, and the blanket barely covered you, and he knew you’d wake up sore and miserable if he just left you there. He couldn’t do that to you.

He got up quietly to make your bed. Maybe he could wake you up, let you sleep there. Honestly, there was no thought process behind it, only that the couch seemed uncomfortable and you deserved to sleep in your bed at the end of this brutal day.

He moved carefully through your apartment, taking in the small details he hadn’t really had the chance to see before. The little stack of mail on the counter. A crooked photo frame on the wall. A mug left beside the sink with some faded cartoon on it.

Ordinary things. Real things. Your things.

He stepped into your bedroom with a strange, cautious feeling in his stomach, like he was crossing some invisible line even though you were the one who had allowed him here.

Your bed was exactly what he expected because he’s seen this a million times before, but this time it lacked any performance. Simple sheets, a soft comforter, a couple of mismatched pillows that looked like they’d been loved for years. The ones you use for comfort, not for show.

He started straightening the covers, smoothing them out with more care than the task really required. That was when he heard your footsteps behind him.

“What are you— Are you snooping?” Your voice was rough with sleep and suspicion.

He turned around to see you standing in the doorway, eyes narrowed at him like he’d been caught doing something terrible.

“No, Jesus, of course not. I was just—”

“Going through my stuff?” you cut in, like you were hell bent on saying something, pinning something.

“No, I was just making your bed,” his voice had gone softer.

You crossed your arms like you were protecting yourself. “Right.”

The look on your face hurt more than he wanted to admit. You knew it wasn’t true. He could see that you knew. But you said it anyway. Like you wanted to push him. Like you needed him to feel bad.

“You think I’m that much of a creep?”

“I don’t know what to think about you anymore.” He could hear the pain in your voice. It was very obvious you weren’t trying to blame him, only following your emotions. You stood there staring at him for a long moment, chest rising and falling a little too fast.

“I’ll leave. I shouldn’t have—”

“Don’t.” The word came out sharper than he expected.

“Don’t what?” His legs were frozen in place.

“Don’t leave,” you turned away, suddenly not looking at him.

He searched your face, trying to understand the shift. “You just accused me of snooping. And… now you don’t want me to go?”

“I’m allowed to be conflicted,” you shot back.

Of course you are. You’re just human.

“I’m not snooping,” he sighed. “I just… didn’t want you to sleep on the couch, wanted to make your bed so you could sleep properly.”

You glanced past him at the neatly straightened sheets. “Oh.” Your shoulders sagged a little, finally understanding the whole situation. “Sorry.”

“It’s alright.”

“No, it’s not. I’m being awful… and you were just trying to help.”

“You’re just hurt,” he corrected.

You didn’t argue with that or you didn’t have any energy left. He finished smoothing the comforter, folding the edge down the way he’d seen people do in movies, trying to make it look inviting instead of just functional.

When he turned back, you were still there, closer now. Too close if he was being honest.

He could see the tired redness in your eyes, the way your bottom lip was caught between your teeth. “Bed’s ready.”

“Thank you.”

“You should get some rest.”

But neither of you bothered to move. The space between you grew smaller by the second, like a single breath could tear it. You stepped forward, just to close the last bit of distance.

Before he could even process it, your arms slipped around his middle and you hugged him. It was tired, desperate and a little bit broken.

His body stilled in surprise, hands hovering awkwardly at first, not sure if he was allowed to touch you back.

Your face pressed into his chest. Before he could think better of it, you tilted your head up. He realized what you were about to do a second too late.

Your lips brushed his. It was barely a kiss. More like the idea of one.

Bucky pulled back immediately like he was shot. “Baby,” the word was barely a whisper, only that much he could manage. “Hey, no.”

Confusion painted your face as you blinked up at him, probably a little stung too. “Why not?”

He set his hands gently on your shoulders, keeping a small but firm distance. “Because this isn’t right.”

Your brows pulled further together. “Least you could do is entertain me,” you tried for a joke that didn’t quite land.

“I want to kiss you. Believe me, I do.” Getting those words out while being in such close proximity was a pain.

“Then do it.”

He shook his head. “You’re angry, and sad, and… exhausted.” He listed things that had nothing and everything to do with this.

“So?”

“So this is not how I want our first kiss to be.”

Your breath stopped, then became faster. “What does it matter?” It doesn’t mean anything anyway.” There was a tremble in your voice, he would’ve missed it if he was far.

Without thinking, he reached out, his hand landing gently on your waist. “It means everything to me. And I’m not gonna fuck this up.”

Bucky saw the anger giving away to pure, raw hurt. He saw it happen in real time, your eyes welling with tears.

“Stop saying these things… the right things.”

“I’m not trying to—”

"Yes you are. You're doing that thing. That calm voice. The one that makes me feel like I'm overreacting even when I'm not."

He realized his thumb had moved on its own and had no idea when it started. “It’s not a thing. It's just… me.”

An ugly sound left your mouth as your face crumpled. And then you did something that nearly broke him, you hit his chest. It was just a small, frustrated little fist against his shirt. But it was enough to break his heart. “I hate you.” Another weak thump. “I hate you for making me miss you.”

He made no efforts to stop you. He just stood there and took it. The least he could do.

Your hands curled into the fabric of his shirt and you hit him again, softer this time, more like you were running out of steam. “I was fine before you,” "I had a routine. I had my stupid little routine and my stupid little life and it was fine. I was fine… then you showed up and… and messed everything up.” Your shoulders shook, the fight draining out of you completely. “You ruined it, James.”

Without thinking, he wrapped his arms around you and pulled you in.

This time you didn’t resist. You folded against him like you’d been waiting to. Your face pressed into his chest again, and he could feel the damp warmth of your tears through his shirt. “I’m so tired. I don’t wanna be sad anymore.”

His own eyes burned, chest aching in a way he didn’t have a name for. “I’m so sorry,” he murmured into your hair. “I’m so damn sorry.”

Your fingers gripped him tight, not wanting to let go. And he didn’t.

He didn’t let go of you for a long time. Not until your breathing evened out a little and the trembling in your shoulders settled.

Eventually you pulled away first. Just enough to look up at him with tired eyes.

“I should leave,” he spoke softly, not to spook you, because it felt like the responsible thing to offer, even though every part of him hated the idea.

“No.” Your answer came too fast.

He tried again. “I… I can take the couch. You know, give you some space.”

“No.”

“Alright,” he said after a second. “I’ll take that chair over there.” He pointed at the chair by the window.

“No.”

A small helpless laugh escaped him. “Okay, then I’ll just stand here all night.”

“No.” You looked at him like the suggestion itself offended you.

He rubbed a hand over his face, unsure about what you actually wanted. “Sweetheart, you gotta help me out here.”

Instead of answering, you reached for his hand and tugged. “Bed.”

His brain went blank. Surely you didn’t mean that?

“Just… lie down with me… please.”

He’d imagined this moment a hundred times, a thousand times even, but none of them were under these circumstances.

The both of you lay there stiff as hell first, like teenagers who didn’t quite know what to do with their limbs. You were on your side facing the window, and he was on his back beside you, staring up at the ceiling and trying to remember how to breathe normally.

The room was dark, warm and filled with the soft sounds of the night. Everything that brings one to sleep.

It should have felt peaceful. It was anything but.

He decided against tossing and turning, he didn’t want to disturb you. Laying still like a statue near you, until your voice interrupted his thoughts. “Are you sleeping?”

“No.”

A couple minutes went by and he figured you'd fallen asleep again.

Then the mattress shifted.

Before he could ask anything, you moved. Suddenly you were over him, knees bracketing his hips like you'd decided something without telling him.

No. No. Absolutely not.

His whole body went rigid with surprise. Apparently it didn’t get the memo about the situation, and it did exactly what a guy’s body would do, if the girl he loved straddled his crotch.

Shit.

“What— ah— what are you doing?”

There was hesitation in your eyes, but there was something else too. Something restless and raw.

You leaned down like you were about to kiss him.

Instinct took over before he could second guess it. His hands found your hips to steady you, to keep things from tipping over into something neither of you was ready for.

Gently, he rolled you off him and switched positions so he was the one hovering above you instead.

“What are you doing?” he asked again, a little more serious this time.

Your eyes searched his face. “I — I don’t know.”

“Are you checking… testing me? To see if I’m just here to get you into bed?”

Your mouth pressed into a thin line. “Maybe.”

The word stung more than he expected.

“If that’s what you think,” he tried to keep his voice steady, failing nonetheless, “then you’re wrong.”

“I don’t know what to think anymore.” You turned your head away.

He climbed off you slowly, careful not to make you feel cornered, and settled beside you instead, lying on his side so you were face to face.

The distance between you felt less dangerous like this. Safer even.

“I know you’re hurting,” he began, choosing his words carefully. “And I know I’m the reason. But I’m not here for sex.”

You let out a humorless little sound. “That’s not what it looked like five minutes ago.”

He didn’t mean to get hard. It just happened. “I’m a guy with a pulse. You climb on top of me in the middle of the night… I’m not made of stone, though I wish I was. But that doesn’t change why I’m here.”

Expecting a response, he looked at you. But you stayed quiet, your gaze focused on the ceiling.

“So listen to me… and please believe me when I say this.”

Your eyes flicked back to his.

“Look- yeah. I liked your stream. I'm not gonna pretend I didn't. I'm not that noble. I loved watching you, loved seeing you confident and in control, loved that version of you. But that’s not why I stuck around.”

He took a breath before continuing. “I stayed because I loved talking to you.” The words came out simple and honest.

“I loved hearing about your day and your dumb vending machine coffee and the way you laugh at your own jokes before you even finish telling them. I loved the sound of your voice when you were half asleep. I loved that you called me out when I tried to dodge questions. That’s what mattered to me. That’s what matters to me.”

Your eyes were fixed on him, searching for any cracks.

“If it was just about seeing you on a screen, I could’ve done that with another account. I coudve stayed anonymous and kept my distance and none of this would have fuckin’ happened. But I didn’t want that. I wanted you.” The last part came out softer.

Sure, he’s just poured his heart out, amending all his mistakes, it’s normal to expect a reply. But you didn’t give him one. As time went on, he watched you blink slowly, the day finally catching up to you again.

But then you shifted closer on the pillow, studying his face in the dim light. “Are you gonna disappear if I fall asleep?”

Whatever he had expected you to say, it wasn’t this. “No. I’m not going anywhere.”

“Promise?”

“I promise.”

He reached out carefully and brushed a strand of hair away from your face, giving you plenty of time to pull back if you wanted to.

You didn’t.

He stayed exactly where he said he would, listening to your breathing slow down, hoping with everything he had that this fragile little truce was the beginning of something he hadn’t completely ruined.

Morning light crept in through the window and woke you up whether you wanted it to or not. For a few seconds you didn’t remember where you were, or why the bed felt different, or why the room smelled faintly like him instead of just you. The weight beside you registered then, pulling your focus to the man who'd turned your world upside down yet somehow made the bed feel less empty. Everything from the night before drifted back in slow pieces, unwelcome. He was still asleep. Curled toward you, one arm resting loosely across your waist, his shoulder angled in a way that almost looked protective. Like his body had decided sometime in the middle of the night that this was where it was supposed to be. The first thing you noticed was that he was warm. The second was how safe you felt without meaning to. It caught you off guard completely. You lay very still for a moment, watching him breathe. Up close like this he looked younger and softer. There were faint lines around his eyes and a tiredness to his face that hadn’t been as obvious yesterday. Dark circles, the kind that came from nights that weren’t really nights at all. He hadn’t slept much either. Your eyes traced over him slowly, taking him in without the panic and anger that had colored everything before. The slope of his nose. The stubble along his jaw that had grown in just enough to be noticeable. The way his lashes rested against his cheeks. He looked peaceful. And for the first time since all of this exploded, you let yourself think something gentle about him.

He didn’t mean to lie. The thought arrived quietly, without excuses attached to it. He didn’t wake up one day and decide to trick you. He worried too much about doing the wrong thing and ended up doing it anyway. He got scared. He hesitated. He made a mess. Your hand moved before you really planned it. Slowly, you lifted your palm and let it hover near his face, giving yourself a chance to change your mind. When you didn’t, you rested it against his cheek, fingers just barely brushing his jaw. His skin was warm under your touch. He made a small sound in his throat. That sound birthed an intense need right under your ribs.

You wanted to kiss him. The thought surprised you. You’ve felt this before with him, before all the hurt and drama, before he took your heart to pieces. But now you want to again. The realisation scared you a little. Your thumb brushed along his cheekbone almost absentmindedly, and he shifted closer without waking, like his body recognised you even in sleep. You didn't give yourself time to overthink it, you’ll probably chicken out if you did. Leaning forward, you pressed a soft kiss to his forehead. It was small. Almost shy. You pulled back and watched him, expecting him to wake right away, to jump, to pull back like he had been doing all night. But he stayed where he was, breathing still even. A few seconds passed. Then his eyes fluttered open. At first he just blinked at you, unfocused and sleepy, like he wasn’t entirely sure if he was still dreaming. You saw the exact moment he realized where he was and who he was with. The moment everything came rushing back. “Oh.” His voice was laced with sleep. His gaze dropped to the way he was wrapped around you and he immediately tried to move away, pushing himself back on instinct. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to—” You didn’t let him finish. Your hand caught the front of his shirt before he could get far. “Don’t.”

James froze, you could see the panic already start to build behind his eyes. To ease him, you added, “I’m not mad.”

Still, he hesitated, unsure of what to do. “You sure?”

“Yes.”

He looked like he didn’t quite believe you, but he stopped trying to put distance between you.

The space felt too big anyway.

You tugged him closer again, just enough so he understood you meant it.

He watched you carefully, probably waiting for some kind of catch.

Truth is, there wasn’t one.

This time you kissed his cheek. You could feel him going very still.

“Okay,” he said quietly. “Good morning to you too.”

You kissed his forehead next. Then his jaw. Each one was gentle, unhurried, like you were trying to tell him something without actually finding the words.

His face went warm under your lips.

“You’re… uh,” he started, then stopped. “You’re being very nice for someone who wanted to throw me out last night.”

A tiny laugh escaped you. “Don’t ruin it.”

“I’m trying not to.” He sounded flustered in a way you only heard on calls.

He looked different like this. Sleepy and confused and a little overwhelmed. Not the confident steady version you were used to. More like a boy who didn’t quite know what to do with his hands.

And he really didn’t. They hovered awkwardly between you for a second before settling carefully at your waist, like he was afraid to touch too much.

“Are you okay?”

“Yeah.”

“You’re not planning to stab me, right?”

“Not today.”

“Well… that’s comforting.”

A smile broke before you could stop yourself.

You studied him for a moment, still close enough to feel his breath on your face

It felt like the both of you were trying to figure out the rules of a brand new game you’d never played before.

Clearing his throat, “just so you know, I wasn’t trying to… you know… crowd you. I move around when I sleep. I didn’t want you to wake up and think I was being weird.”

Immediately, you shook your head, “I didn’t think that.”

He watched you closely, like he was trying to figure you out maybe. “How are you feeling?”