Callsign is Random

You don’t remember a version of your career that doesn’t have Bob Floyd somewhere in the background.

It’s strange when you think about it, how someone can become such a permanent fixture in your life that you stop questioning how it happened. He’s such an integral part of your life that you couldn’t imagine a single part of it without him.

You’ve known Bob Floyd for almost eight years now and, somehow, it still feels like you’re just scratching at the surface of him, which is absolutely ridiculous. Eight years should be enough time to learn every quirk, every subtle expression, every hidden thought, but Bob is… Bob—quiet, reserved, a mystery wrapped up in a well-fitted flight suit, with those glasses perched perpetually on the bridge of his nose like they’re the only things tethering him to reality.

You’re well aware that eight years is a long time to orbit someone without colliding.

You met him back at Pensacola, both of you green as could be—bright-eyed, freshly commissioned, uniforms sharp enough to cut, blinking against the Florida sun and the sheer immensity of what you’d signed up for. You’d already survived Annapolis; so had he. Both of you had weathered four years of the grind, the constant pressure, the rigid formality of military life, but Pensacola was something else entirely.

Pensacola had stripped away a lot of that polish. The training was brutal—long days of academics, simulator hours stacked on each other until your eyes blurred, PT in the Florida heat, flights that left your nerves flayed raw—and Bob had been there for all of it.

He was quieter than the others, soft spoken with a Kansas drawl that stretched vowels and softened consonants. At first you’d mistaken him for shy. Reserved, maybe. Someone who would get swallowed whole in a class where egos were as sharp as knives and voices carried like jet engines. And yet when it came to the work, when it came to the flying, he was unflappable. He was the kind of steady presence who never raised his voice, never let a mistake throw him, never showed more than the faintest smile when he landed smoother than anyone else.

You remember your first impressions of him clearly: that one’s going to get eaten alive.

But then he wasn’t.

Bob never made a scene about being good. He never needed to. He just was.

Your friendship started because you were both night owls. Everyone else passed out in their bunks after hours of drills and checklists, but you and Bob lingered in the common room, poring over flight manuals. He’d sit with his posture loose, one leg tucked under the other, glasses slipping down his nose, jotting notes in his small, cramped handwriting.

“Do you always read this late?” You’d asked him once, balancing your own manual on your knee.

Bob had shrugged, glancing up through his lenses. “Guess I think better at night.”

You’d grinned. “Me too.”

That was it—the start, the smallest flicker of kinship, enough to turn into something more.

You and Bob became a set. Where you went, he went. If you were on the track at 0600, Bob was a stride behind you, quiet except for the steady sound of his breath. If you were poring over checklists in the mess hall with cold coffee at midnight, Bob was next to you with his pen scratching softly against the page. If you slipped up in the sim, Bob leaned over after debrief and murmured something like, “don’t worry, you’ll get it next time.”

And you did.

He believed in you in a way that made you believe in yourself.

Bob Floyd was quiet, painfully so, but his eyes had been sharp and the slight quirk of his mouth when you’d teased him was enough to make your heart stumble in your chest.

That was dangerous. That was how the crush began—quietly, like a storm that doesn’t announce itself until the first roll of thunder shakes the windows.

Eight years later, that stumble has never stopped, and the low rumble of that throw away storm has rolled into every nerve endings in your body.

Now, here you both are: top rated graduates at Top Gun, names whispered with respect, your call signs etched into plaques on the wall. You fly like second nature, the air moving with you, your jet an extension of yourself. You’ve flown missions most people couldn’t imagine, pulled maneuvers that felt like threading a needle at Mach 2, come close enough to the edge of death to taste it on your tongue.

Bob is your constant—your wing, your partner, your anchor. He’s not in your backseat, not technically your WSO, but he might as well be; the two of you gravitate toward each other like satellites stuck in orbit. And—here’s the kicker—everyone sees it.

Phoenix sees it in the way your eyes soften when Bob laughs at some offhand comment, quiet and low. Rooster sees it in the way Bob’s hands always find a way to steady you; fingers brushing your elbow when you walk past him, palm hovering near your lower back when you’re cramming into the ready room. Hangman sees it most of all, and of course he’s merciless about it.

You and Bob? You’re hopeless. Blind as bats.

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The sun burns high over Miramar, hard and brilliant, the kind of California gold that blurs the edges of everything. The tarmac shimmers on base, the hangar doors yawning open like the mouths of beasts waiting for their prey. But, for once, you’re not in flight gear, and the sound of jet engines is just a distant hum.

Days off are rare, which means when one or two finally comes in succession, the entire squadron is hellbent on making the most of it. By noon you’re all spread across the sand, the Pacific glittering like a mirage, volleyball nets strung up and fluttering in the gentle breeze that soothes the scorch of the sun on your backs.

Phoenix and Payback have already staked out a patch of sand by the dunes, a cooler half-buried next to them. Rooster’s strumming an acoustic guitar, voice rough and easy. Hangman’s in the water, chest gleaming, grinning like a damn movie star. The rest of the squad is scattered around, calling out greetings as everyone arrives in staggers.

You’d gone for a bikini—something simple, black, but snug enough to turn heads. Not that you were trying to turn Bob’s head. No, you’d told yourself you were just comfortable. It wasn’t about him. (It was absolutely about him. You just hadn’t caught up to that yet.)

Bob had come down in a plain white t-shirt that immediately betrayed him the moment he got dragged into the water by Coyote and Fritz. Soaked through, clinging to his lean frame, the cotton plastered across the broad planes of his chest and shoulders. His glasses were gone, tucked safely away on a towel, and he looks... God, he looks different. Less boyish, more man, and when he pushes his hair back, blinking water out of his eyes, you feel something seize in your chest, every fibre of your being pulled taut, stretched thin against your skin as something in you itches at the thought of your fingers grazing over his freckles. You want to create a map of them—an endless scape of constellations that only your fingertips will know.

“You’re staring,” Phoenix murmurs at your side, shoving her aviators down her nose just enough to smirk, cutting off your thoughts just as you started to fall into a territory you had never allowed yourself to venture before.

“I’m not,” you mutter back, heat crawling slow like molasses up your neck.

“You so are. I’ve seen less intense eye contact in sniper scopes.”

Before you can retort, Rooster jogs past, tossing you a grin. “Better close your mouth before the sand gets in it, kid.”

You flip him off. He laughs and keeps going.

The game starts and of course you’re roped in. Bare feet kicking up sand, sweat beading on your skin, the thud of the ball smacking against forearms. Bob is on your team because, apparently, the universe wants to test the limits of your sanity. He’s surprisingly good, too—lithe and quick, slipping between bodies with no trouble, dodging tackles left, right and centre. You do notice, though, that every time you make eye contact he stumbles, fumbling the ball or sending it spiralling off course.

“Eyes on the ball, Bob!” Hangman crows after yet another miss, smirk cutting across his face like a knife. “Unless you’re distracted by something else.” His eyes flick deliberately to you.

Your stomach twists. Bob flushes pink, stammers something unintelligible, and shoves his hands onto his hips. You roll your eyes, pretending the heat in your cheeks is from the sun.

From the corner of your eye, you notice Hangman toss a bottle of water at Bob.

“Hydrate, Bobby-boy,” Hangman drawls. “Wouldn’t want you fainting every time she walks by in that bikini.”

Bob nearly chokes, fumbling the bottle.

“What—I—I didn’t—”

You push up on your elbows, frowning.

“What the hell, Hangman?”

He smirks, spreading his hands innocently. “What? It’s true. Guy’s one second away from heat stroke.”

Phoenix groans, flopping back on her towel, flinging one arm over her eyes to block the glare of the sun.

“Jake, you’re a menace.”

Rooster, of course, joins in, pushing his aviators up. “Nah, let him talk. Watching Bob stammer is the highlight of my day.”

Bob sinks lower into his towel, muttering something you can’t quite hear. You glare at the others, but inside—deep inside—you feel that fluttering pulse again. Because maybe, maybe, there’s something to what they’re saying. And maybe that scares you more than anything.

Later that night it’s beers at Hard Deck, the team spilling through the door like they own the place. Penny doesn’t even flinch anymore when you all crowd in, voices rising, someone inevitably slamming quarters down for pool.

Hard Deck is always alive at night—the hum of the jukebox, the clatter of pool balls, Penny’s steady hands sliding drinks down the bar. The place smells of beer and salt air and leather jackets; it feels like home.

You take a seat at the bar, Bob settling beside you. His shoulder brushes yours, and the contact is electric—your entire body buzzing like you’ve been wired straight into a live current. He orders a ginger ale because of course he does, it’s Bob, and you tease him about it.

“What, afraid a little alcohol will corrupt you?”

He smiles, sheepish, fingers turning the glass in his hand. “Someone’s gotta stay responsible.”

“That’s what Warlock’s for.”

“Mm. I don’t think he’d agree.”

It’s banter like this that’s dangerous—light, easy, but threaded with something deeper. Something you don’t touch because you’re not stupid. Because Bob doesn’t feel that way, not about you. Because risking what you have—the comfort, the partnership, the quiet moments nobody else sees—would be like throwing yourself into a nosedive without checking your chute.

Still. You catch him watching you sometimes, and it makes your breath catch. Just like now.

You lean forward to grab your drink and his gaze dips, just for a second, to the neckline of your shirt. Quick, almost imperceptible, but you see it. And when he realizes you’ve noticed, his ears go pink and he whips his eyes away, jaw tight.

Phoenix saunters by, catching the whole thing, and snorts. “Unbelievable.”

“What?” You demand, fingers twitching around the glass, picking at the label.

“Nothing. Just—you two. It’s like watching a soap opera in slow motion.”

You don’t get a chance to press because Payback hollers your name from the pool table, waving a cue stick like a flag. Bob shifts beside you, sighing softly, and you pretend not to notice how your hand aches to reach for his.

And so it goes: day after day, mission after mission, night after night at Hard Deck. The push and pull. The near-touches. The unsaid things hanging between you like contrails in the sky.

Everyone sees it—everyone knows.

Everyone but you. Everyone but him.

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The next night, you’re sandwiched between Phoenix and Bob at a high table near the bar. Rooster’s already halfway through a story that involves too many hand gestures and not enough logic.

“And then—listen, listen—then the tower tells me—” Rooster mimics a staticky radio voice, “You’re off course, Lieutenant Bradshaw. And I’m like, no, sir, I’m improvising—”

“Improvising,” Hangman cuts in, leaning against the table with a smug grin. “That’s what you call getting lost these days?”

Rooster scowls. Phoenix snorts beer up her nose. You laugh, a deep bellied and stomach aching laugh, and when you do, you feel Bob looking at you. Not your chest, not your lips, just you. His expression is soft, almost reverent, like he’s cataloguing the sound. His gaze scalds your spine, makes your breath hitch, leaves your head spinning, though you cover it with another sip of your drink.

Coyote notices. Of course he does. He leans across the table, stage whispering loudly enough for everyone to hear: “Can you two, like, not eye-fuck each other for one night?”

You choke on your beer. Bob’s ears go scarlet.

“We’re not—” you start.

“—eye-f—fucking—” Bob stammers, voice cracking embarrassingly high on the words.

The whole table erupts. Hangman claps Bob on the shoulder like it’s Christmas, Rooster bangs a fist against the wood, Phoenix is doubled over wheezing. You and Bob sit frozen in the middle of it, staring anywhere but at each other.

You think you might die.

Later, after most of the noise has shifted toward the pool tables, you find yourself outside on the deck, needing a breather. The ocean breeze cuts the lingering heat from the bar, the sky sprawling open above you.

Bob slips out a moment later, holding two ginger ales. He offers you one without looking directly at you, his eyes scanning across the crackling sea.

“Thought you could use it,” he says quietly.

You take it, fingers brushing his just barely. “Thanks.”

For a while you both stand there, sipping at your drinks, the waves crashing softly below. It’s an easy silence, the kind that only comes with years of knowing someone. His shoulder is close enough that you feel the warmth of him, even through your thin shirt.

“You okay?” You ask finally, eyes flicking over to Bob, the corners of your mouth twitching as you notice he’s looked away from you sharply. You wonder how long he’s been watching you.

He hesitates. “Yeah. Just—uh. They don’t mean anything by it, you know.”

You tilt your head. “By what?”

“The jokes.” His jaw tightens, eyes fixed on the horizon. “They don’t, uh, don’t mean anything.”

Your stomach twists. “Right. Yeah. Of course.”

There’s a pause—too long, too heavy—and then Bob clears his throat, shifting.

“Anyway... you—you played great earlier. Volleyball. I mean. You always were good at sports.”

You smile faintly though your chest aches. He doesn’t realise how close you’ve come to saying something you can’t take back.

It’s not always been like this. At the start—before you realised what that stomach-drop feeling was inside you each time Bob looked at you, or talked to you, or even just breathed in the same room as you—you both could sit in this silence without pause. Easier than one, two, three, like you were designed to orbit each other, always in the others trajectory. But now all you can hear is the thrumming of white noise in your ears and your heart pounding out of your chest.

You briefly wonder if Bob has ever felt the same.

When you rejoin the others, the teasing only worsens.

Phoenix lines up her pool shot, smirking.

“You two disappear together and come back looking guilty. Should I even ask?”

“We were outside,” you say quickly.

Bob nods too fast. “Fresh air.”

Hangman leans lazily against the rail, voice dripping with mock innocence.

“Fresh air, huh? That’s what we’re calling it now?”

The laughter roars again. You want the floor to swallow you. Bob looks like he’s considering bolting for the door.

Warlock, from his corner, finally cuts in, voice dry as sand. “For God’s sake, let them breathe. They’ll figure it out eventually.”

“Eventually?” Phoenix echoes, eyebrows raised. “At this rate, we’ll all be retired before they even hold hands.”

The table howls again and you force a laugh, your heart pounding and palms sweating. Bob’s cheeks are pink, his mouth tight, but he doesn’t deny it. Not this time.

That unsettles you more than anything.

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The next day is another rare gift: no drills, no missions, no debriefs. The Pacific is flat and glittering in the morning sun, gulls wheeling lazy circles overhead. It doesn’t take long for someone—Rooster, you’re pretty sure—to suggest surfing.

Before you know it, you’re trekking down the sand with half the squadron, boards under arms, salt stinging your skin. You’re in a bikini again, this time a cobalt blue that hugs every curve, while Bob has stuck with a plain white t-shirt and swim trunks. He looks awkward holding the borrowed surfboard, like it’s a piece of equipment he hasn’t quite figured out yet.

“You ever surfed before?” You ask, grinning as you adjust the strap on your ankle.

Bob shakes his head. “No. Closest I’ve come is watching Point Break once.”

You laugh, the sound carried away on the breeze. “Well, lucky for you, I’m an excellent teacher.”

He blinks. “You… are?”

“Better than you, anyway.” You tug on his wrist. “C’mon, Bob. Live a little.”

The others are already paddling out. Rooster is hooting obnoxiously as he catches a wave and Phoenix flipping him off when he nearly collides with her. Hangman, of course, pops up onto his board effortlessly, striking a pose like he’s on the cover of a magazine.

“Look at that,” Hangman calls back toward shore, his voice carrying easily. “Bet Floyd wipes out before he even gets up.”

“Shut it, Bagman,” you shout back.

Bob’s ears are pink but he doesn’t respond. He kneels awkwardly on the board, eyes darting toward the water like it’s some kind of test.

“Hey,” you say softly, crouching beside him. “Don’t listen to him. Just follow my lead, okay?”

His eyes flicker up to yours—brief, quick, but enough to make your chest tighten. “Okay.”

You start slow. Paddling out, letting the swell roll beneath you. Bob follows, gangly at first, but steady enough. The water is cool against your skin, spray misting your face. You show him how to pop up, balancing on your board as you demonstrate, then collapsing back into the water with a laugh.

He tries—God, he tries—and fails spectacularly.

The first attempt ends with him face-first in the water, board shooting out behind him. The second ends with him tumbling sideways, limbs akimbo. By the third, you’re laughing so hard your stomach hurts.

“Don’t laugh,” he says, sputtering, pushing his wet hair out of his face. “This is harder than it looks.”

“I’m not laughing at you,” you say, still giggling. “I’m laughing near you.”

He narrows his eyes, water dripping from his lashes. “That’s not—”

And then he grins. A real grin, bright and unguarded, and you feel like someone’s pulled the air right out of your lungs.

Eventually, he does manage to stand. Wobbly, knees bent too much, arms out like a scarecrow—but he stands. You cheer so loudly the others glance over.

“That’s it! That’s it, Bob!”

Of course he wipes out again.

When he surfaces he’s laughing, breathless. You’re laughing too, paddling over to him, cheeks aching. He leans on his board, chest heaving, and the look he gives you—wet hair plastered to his forehead, sun on his face, glasses left behind on shore—makes your heart stutter.

You don’t realize how close you’ve drifted until your knees bump under the water. His laughter fades. He doesn’t move away. Neither do you. The ocean rocks both boards gently. For a second, it feels like the whole world has narrowed to the space between you.

You swallow. “See? You’re a natural.”

His mouth quirks. “Not exactly.”

“Hey, you lasted longer than Rooster’s last relationship.”

That earns a startled laugh. You grin, relieved, though your pulse is racing for reasons that have nothing to do with surfing.

Your hand rests on the board next to Bob’s, pinkie fingers stupidly close despite the broad space available on every other part of the board. You can feel his body heat emanating from him, hotter than the California sun, and your breath catches tight in your throat. You swear you can hear Bob’s breath stutter before he motions his head to the beach, a silent request to start heading back.

Back on shore, the squad is merciless.

“Look at the lovebirds,” Rooster crows, shaking his wet curls like a dog. “Out there, cheering each other on.”

Phoenix smirks. “Didn’t realize surfing was a team sport.”

Hangman, of course, goes for the kill. “Careful, Floyd—if you keep making eyes at her like that, you’ll wipe out on dry land.”

Bob fumbles with his towel, muttering something you don’t catch. Your cheeks are hot and you absolutely just blame the sun.

“They’re so obvious,” Coyote says, not even bothering to lower his voice.

“Obvious,” Payback echoes.

“Oblivious,” Phoenix corrects, tossing you a sly grin.

You flip her off but your chest feels tight. Maybe because they’re right—maybe you are obvious. And maybe, God help you, you don’t actually mind.

Later, on shore, the sun begins to slip lower—soft gold against the surf, breeze cooler now. Everyone’s half-dry and lounging with drinks in hand. Hangman’s lighting a small fire, muttering something about “romantic ambiance” that earns him a handful of sand from Phoenix.

Bob sits beside you on your towel, hair still damp. His wet t-shirt clings to his chest and shoulders, transparent where the low light of sunset hits. You look once, then again—too long—and instantly look away.

“You okay?” He asks, quiet. Always quiet.

You nod, too fast, sure that the hammering of your heart is audible to him and everyone else around you.

“Yeah. Great. Just… zoning out.”

He tilts his head, watching you with a look that you can’t decipher. There’s a softness in his eyes that’s hard to stand. He’s never looked at you like you were hard to understand, just worth the effort.

The fire crackles as Rooster’s guitar strings hum low and sweet, Hangman telling some embellished story about how he single-handedly saved an admiral’s cat. Everyone groans in disbelief.

“You believe him?” You ask under your breath.

Bob chuckles, a quick twitch in the corner of his mouth. “I think he believes himself. That’s the scary part.”

The sound of his laugh does something to you—it always has. You take a sip of your drink to hide the smile tugging at your lips.

“You’ve got sand on your face,” he says suddenly, leaning closer. Before you can react, his thumb brushes the corner of your jaw. The touch is light and careful, but still you stop breathing. You don’t even know if he notices.

“There,” he murmurs, a flush crawling slow and steady across his cheeks.

“Thanks,” just a whisper, but your voice comes out too soft. He draws his hand back quick, clears his throat, adjusting himself in the sand until he’s pulled away a few centimetres.

The slight distance changes nothing.

The silence between you hums, stretched thin. It’s not awkward—it’s something else, something you don’t name.

“Hey, Bob,” Hangman calls suddenly from the fire. “You dropping by the Hard Deck tonight? Or you got other plans… with company?” He waggles his brows at you.

You nearly choke on your drink. Bob freezes mid-sip. “What? No—what? I—she’s not—”

Fritz snorts. “Smooth recovery, Floyd.”

Bob’s face goes crimson. You can’t help laughing, even though your own pulse is wild. “You guys are insufferable.”

“You love us,” Rooster sings, not looking up from his guitar.

“Barely,” you shoot back.

Bob laughs softly, shaking his head. “You see what I deal with?”

You grin. “You love it.”

His eyes flick up to yours again. “Maybe I do.”

The words land heavier than he probably means them to. Or maybe he does mean them that way—God, you can never tell with him.

By the time the fire burns down, the air has cooled enough that you slip into your jacket. Bob helps Phoenix pack up the cooler, shoulders flexing under the weight. You load boards into the back of his truck, and for a moment it’s just you two again—quiet, the hum of the surf behind you.

He closes the tailgate and leans against it, glancing over. “You heading to Hard Deck later?”

You shrug. “Thinking about it. You?”

“Maybe. Depends if I can still feel my arms after carrying all that,” he says, smiling.

You laugh, but you’re looking at him a beat too long again. You know it. You can feel it. And yet, you don’t stop.

Something passes between you—wordless, fragile, real. Then Phoenix’s voice carries from the sand, calling both your names, and it breaks.

Bob pushes off the tailgate, rubbing the back of his neck. “Guess we better head back.”

“Guess so,” you echo.

Your hands brush once—just an accident, a swing in the breeze—and you both flinch like you’ve been caught doing something you shouldn’t. He looks down, then away, jaw tight.

You pretend not to notice the way he keeps his hands shoved in his pockets after that.

“You did good out there,” you say.

He glances at you then away, scratching at the nape of his neck. “Only because you helped.”

“You did the work.”

He shakes his head, smiling faintly. “You’ve always believed in me more than I believe in myself.”

The words are so soft you almost miss them. Something twists deep inside you, sharp and aching.

“Maybe that’s because you don’t see what I see,” you murmur.

His brows furrow. “What do you see?”

Your throat goes dry. You could say it, right here, right now. You could lay it all bare. But you won’t. You can’t.

“Just potential,” you say instead, forcing a smile. “Lots of it.”

He studies you for a moment, as though trying to read between the lines. He nods slowly, never looking away from you.

“Thanks.” And that’s it—the final words between you both, hanging in the air like you’re flying thousands of feet above the ground, both of you pretending the air between you isn’t buzzing with everything left unsaid.

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“Hey, you spacing out on me again?”

His voice cuts through the midday noise of the hangar. You look up from your tablet where you’ve been half-heartedly reviewing flight telemetry, and there he is—Lieutenant Robert Floyd, WSO extraordinaire, standing beside your F-35 like it’s a loyal dog. Flight suit rolled down to his waist, undershirt clinging to a chest you really shouldn’t be noticing, and that same easy, almost bashful smile.

“Just admiring the scenery,” you say, tilting your head toward the aircraft. “Beautiful, isn’t she?”

“She?” He echoes, eyes narrowing infinitesimally behind his glasses.

“The jet, Bob.”

He hums, a hand running along the metal fuselage. “Right. The jet.”

You catch the twitch of a smile that gives him away, and you roll your eyes. “Don’t start with me.”

“I wasn’t saying anything,” he replies, entirely too innocent.

“That’s the problem—you never have to say anything. You just look like that.”

He glances down, confused. “Like what?”

“Like you’re thinking something ridiculous.”

He laughs softly—one of those low, genuine sounds that tugs at something in your chest. “You’ve known me eight years. When have I ever thought anything ridiculous?”

“Bob, I once caught you calculating the optimal wing angle for a paper airplane.”

He opens his mouth, then closes it again, adjusting his glasses with that endearing, nervous tic. “It was for science.”

“Sure it was,” you tease. “And the reason you kept throwing them into my bunk was...?”

“I was testing aerodynamics in confined spaces,” he says quickly. Then, under his breath, “... and you were sitting closest to the airflow.”

You snort. “Right. Airflow.”

The hangar’s doors rumble open, sunlight spilling across the floor in warm gold. Outside, you can hear voices—Rooster’s loud drawl, Phoenix’s laughter, Hangman’s unmistakable swagger.

Phoenix spots the two of you first. “There they are—the golden duo!”

“Don’t start,” you call back, setting your tablet down. “We’re just running post-flight checks.”

“Post-flight checks, sure,” Hangman says as he strolls up, cocky grin in place. “That what they’re calling flirting these days?”

Bob’s head jerks up, eyes wide. “We’re not—”

“Relax, Floyd,” Hangman interrupts, laughing. “I’m kidding. Mostly.”

Rooster claps him on the shoulder as he passes. “You two planning to make the rest of us look bad again next week, or can we actually win one for once?”

You shrug. “Not my fault we’re the best.”

“‘We,’ she says,” Hangman drawls. “See that, Rooster? She’s already talking like they’re married.”

Bob chokes on air. You shoot him a look that says don’t react, but the blush creeping up the back of his neck betrays him anyway. Hangman cackles.

“Real smooth, Bob.”

You groan. “You’re all children.”

Phoenix smirks. “Children who can see what’s right in front of them.”

You roll your eyes again, but the flush creeping into your own cheeks betrays you just as much as Bob’s does.

“We’re friends,” you insist, perhaps a little too sharply.

“Uh-huh,” Rooster says, sceptical. “And I’m the Pope.”

The others laugh, wandering off toward their own birds. You bend back over your checklist to hide your smile, pretending the sound of Bob’s quiet breathing beside you doesn’t make your heart race.

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The sky looks harmless, that’s the worst part. A clear, sharp blue overhead, sunlight spilling across the tarmac like a promise. Missions always start this way: normal, routine, almost boring. But you’ve been doing this long enough to know that boredom is a lie.

Your bird sits sleek and waiting, the glint of her canopy catching the morning light. You run your checks the way you always do—fingers steady, voice crisp over comms—but something inside you hums, restless. Maybe it’s nothing. Maybe it’s just the aftertaste of laughter from the other night at the Hard Deck, still clinging to your ribs.

Bob catches your eye across the tarmac. He’s strapping in with Phoenix, his posture as precise as ever, but his gaze lingers on you for half a beat too long. He lifts two fingers in a subtle salute, like it’s just for you. You grin, returning it.

And then you climb in, canopy down, the world sealed to the roar of engines and the rush of adrenaline.

The first hour is smooth. The mission itself is short—a series of high-altitude precision maneuvers over the coastline, weaving patterns across the sky. Rooster cracks a joke over comms, Phoenix fires back, Hangman throws fuel on the fire. You snort under your breath, eyes flicking to your instruments.

Every look, every hand movement, every subtle nudge of the flight controls is a conversation in itself. You and Bob anticipate each other’s thoughts instinctively, a rhythm you’ve perfected over countless hours together.

“You got the left turn?” He asks quietly and you glance at him in his jet, catching the glare of his visor as he looks over at you. You know he trusts you to take it, but there’s something in his voice that makes your stomach tighten.

“I got it,” you say, tipping the jet into a smooth banking turn.

You don’t realize you’re being painted until the warning shrieks across your cockpit.

“Rodeo, break! You’re hot!”

You bank hard, instincts kicking in, the G’s pressing you into the seat. Countermeasures flare, your breath ragged. But the missile’s too close. It slams into your wing—not a direct hit, but enough to rattle your entire bird, alarms screaming, panels flashing red.

“Shit—shit—” You wrestle with the controls but she’s gone unsteady, nose dipping, and panic surges up your spine like a wildfire.

“Eject! Eject!” Maverick’s voice booms in your ear.

You don’t think. You pull the handles. Your stomach drops and the world tears away—an explosive force, your body jerked violently, the sky rushing past in a dizzying blur, your parachute blooming above you. You hit the air hard, wind slapping your face, ears ringing. The ocean rushes up, unforgiving and cold, and the impact steals your breath away. Salt stings your eyes, your throat. Your limbs thrash before training takes over, before you claw your way up, breaking the surface with a gasp. The chute drags behind you, heavy. Pain burns along your ribs and shoulder, but you’re alive.

“Rodeo!” Bob’s voice roars through the comms, raw and desperate.

“I’m—fine,” you croak, coughing water, but he doesn’t answer.

They pull you out quick, the helo thudding overhead, divers plunging into the surf. You’re hauled up, hauled in, strapped down as the medic checks you over. Bruised, battered, but nothing broken. You keep telling them that.

Bob is there before the rotors even stop, sprinting across the deck. His helmet is gone, face pale, brows furrowed and jaw clenched tight. He kneels beside the stretcher, breathless, fingers clenching around your hand so tightly it almost hurts.

“Don’t.” He says. Just that. Quiet, fierce. “Don’t do that again.”

You blink at him, dazed. “It wasn’t—I didn’t—”

His jaw locks. He won’t look at you. His grip doesn’t loosen.

Your body aches—bruised ribs, muscles screaming—but nothing compares to the way his gaze pins you, the way his thumb brushes over the back of your hand like he can’t let you slip away.

The medics herd you off but Bob doesn’t move. He stays tethered to you by that one hand, silent, eyes fixed somewhere just past your shoulder. He doesn’t let go until Warlock physically pulls him back so they can wheel you inside.

The ocean in your throat and sinuses still tastes like blood and salt when they wheel you off the flight deck. The medics chatter, your ribs protest, and all you can think about is Bob’s grip on your hand like it was the only tether he trusted to keep you on this earth.

The fluorescent lights sting. The antiseptic smell clings. They prod, poke, x-ray. The verdict is simple: bruised ribs, mild whiplash, minor contusions. You’ll be sore but you’ll fly again in two weeks. When they release you, you expect Bob to be waiting outside. He isn’t.

The others are—hovering with too much energy, voices tripping over each other.

“You look like shit,” Phoenix says evenly. You croak out a laugh that hurts your chest.

“Thanks. Always good to hear from a friend.”

“Don’t scare us like that again,” she mutters, softer this time.

“Hell of an entrance,” Hangman drawls, though his voice lacks its usual venom. “You trying to steal my spotlight?”

“Trust me,” you rasp, “you can keep it.”

They laugh, but the sound is brittle.

Bob doesn’t come.

When the medics release you back to quarters, you expect him—a knock at your door, a call, a text. Something. Anything.

Nothing.

At dinner the team crowds around you like mother hens. Hangman tries to coax you into retelling the whole thing for entertainment value, Phoenix snaps at him to shut up, Coyote quietly pushes an extra carton of milk towards your tray.

You ask where Bob is.

“Turned in early,” Phoenix says, clipped, but you know she’s lying.

And then one day passes. Then two days. No word. Not a text, not a call. In the ready room, he avoids you. In the halls, he ducks away. At meals, he sits on the opposite side, talking low with Phoenix or Coyote.

You don’t understand.

On the third morning you spot him across the hangar. He’s with Coyote, reviewing flight data, facing towards you. You raise a hand automatically, then freeze when he turns away before you can call his name.

The rejection lands heavier than you expect, like you’ve been cut out of something you didn’t even know you were part of.

Hangman notices. He always does. In the locker room he leans against the bench besides you, watching you lace your boots.

“Bobby’s been a little squirrelly, huh?” he says lightly.

You glare. “He’s fine.”

“Sure,” Hangman drawls. “Avoiding you like the plague is his normal. Totally fine.”

Your boot thuds against the floor. “Drop it.”

He raises his hands in mock surrender but the smirk lingers.

At first you think Bob is angry. Maybe he thinks you screwed up, maybe he thinks the near-miss was your fault. The thought gnaws at you, keeps you awake at night, staring at the ceiling of your bunk.

Even Phoenix is ready to throttle him.

“Are you two gonna fix whatever this is?” She mutters when you’re alone with her in the ready room.

“There’s nothing to fix,” you lie.

She gives you a flat stare. “Bullshit.”

By the fourth day, the ache shifts. Not anger. Hurt. Why won’t he look at you? Why won’t he say anything at all?

The team notices, of course—they notice everything. Phoenix raises an eyebrow, Fritz nudges your shoulder, Halo just smirks like she knows something you don’t. You brush them off, though the weight in your chest grows heavier with every hour. Finally, on the evening of the fourth day, he corners you.

It’s late, the hangar mostly empty, your bird gleaming under the overhead lamps. You’re running checks you don’t need to run, just for something to do, when you hear footsteps.

“Hey,” Bob says quietly.

You freeze, wrench in hand. You turn slowly until you're facing him, unsure if he’s actually finally speaking to you or if you’re hallucinating.

He stands a few feet away, posture stiff, hands jammed into his pockets. His glasses catch the light.

“Hey?” You echo. Silence stretches.

It’s strange between the two of you. You’ve never felt uncomfortable in the quiet with Bob and yet here you are: nervous, twitching, desperate for anything or anyone else to come around.

“I’m sorry,” he says finally.

You blink, eyes narrowing. “For what?”

“For—” He stops, jaw working. His eyes flicker to yours, then away. “For avoiding you.”

A knot forms in your chest. “So you were avoiding me.”

He flinches. “I—yeah.”

“Why?” The word snaps sharper than you intend.

“I just—” His voice cracks. He scrubs a hand down his face. “I didn’t know what to say.”

Something inside you aches. “You could’ve said anything.”

His eyes flick up, meeting yours. For once, he doesn’t look away. There’s something raw there—fear, anger, something deeper you can’t name.

“When I saw your jet go down—when I saw that hit—I thought—” His voice breaks. He looks away, shoulders tense. “I thought I was gonna lose my best friend.”

Your heart stutters. That’s not what you thought he was going to say.

For one raw, impossible second, you’d thought—hoped, prayed—he was going to say something else. I thought I was going to lose the person I love. I thought I was going to lose you.

But he doesn’t. He just says best friend. So you nod, forcing the ache down deep. “I’m fine. See? Still here.”

“I know.” His voice is low. “I just... I couldn’t face it. Not right away.”

You study him—his tense jaw, his hunched shoulders, the way his hands curl into fists at his sides. He’s telling the truth but there’s something else too. Something unspoken, hiding in the shadows between you.

You don’t push. You can’t.

Instead, you nod again, softer this time. “Okay.”

And for now, that has to be enough.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

The accident fades into the background the way bruises do—slowly, tenderly, like the ache might never quite leave. What doesn’t fade is Bob’s silence.

It lingers between you, even as he settles back into your orbit, even as you find yourselves paired up again, sitting shoulder to shoulder in briefing rooms and laughing at inside jokes no one else gets. Except now, every laugh has an edge, and every brush of his arm against yours sends your pulse quickening. Something changed when you saw him look at you like that, like the world might’ve ended if you hadn’t ejected in time. And, if you’re not imagining it, something changed in him too.

The squad works out together more often than not; partly for the morale, partly for the competition. Rooster likes to bench press in obnoxious grunts. Phoenix times her sprints with a precision that screams don’t challenge me unless you want to lose. Hangman flexes in every reflective surface, of course.

And Bob? Bob stays low-key. He runs steady, lifts modest, doesn’t draw attention. But you notice him. You always notice him.

Today, you push harder on the treadmill, sweat slicking down your temples, your sports bra doing its best against gravity. When you hop off, lungs burning, you catch him watching you—just a flicker, glasses slipping on his nose, ears pink.

“Y’know, Bob,” Hangman says loudly from across the room, “staring burns calories too. You’re practically on a workout program just looking at her.”

You choke on your water. Bob drops his towel.

“I—I wasn’t—” he stammers.

“Sure you weren’t,” Phoenix mutters under her breath, smirking.

You laugh it off, pretending your cheeks aren’t on fire. Bob looks mortified, avoiding your eyes.

The days start to blur with near misses.

You linger close when you walk together, brushing arms deliberately. You bend low in the cockpit during pre-flights, knowing he can’t not look. You laugh too hard at his dry little quips, just to see him smile at you.

Sometimes you swear he’s doing it too. Letting his hand hover near yours just a fraction too long. Meeting your eyes across the briefing table, lips parting like he’s about to say something before he glances away.

Sometimes you’re certain he’s seconds from blurting it all out. Other times, you convince yourself you’re imagining it.

The squad, meanwhile, has gone from subtle nudges and jokes to open declarations.

“You two are disgusting,” Phoenix says flatly one night, pushing her fries across the table. “Just get married already.”

“Seconded,” Rooster mutters.

“Thirded,” Payback adds.

You and Bob both splutter at once—“what, we’re not—what are you talking about”—which only makes them laugh harder.

Hangman leans back in his chair, grinning wide. “Place your bets now, folks. First one to crack buys the next round.”

You want to sink through the floor. Bob looks like he wants to crawl under the table. But still, when your knees bump under the wood, neither one of you moves away.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

The sun hasn’t even broken the horizon when you’re back on the flight line. You’ve barely had time for coffee but your pulse is already alive with anticipation, the kind only flying a jet can give you. Bob is there, helmet under his arm, leaning against the F/A-18 like he owns it—which, in a way, he does.

“Morning, pilot,” he says casually, but there’s a hint of something in his tone, something just under the surface. A teasing undertone that makes your stomach twist. You try to ignore it.

“Morning, WSO,” you reply. You both know the drill. The banter, the teasing, the game you’ve been playing for eight years without ever admitting what it’s really about.

The briefing is short, crisp. This is just a training sortie—a low-level intercept, simulated SAM engagement. Your jet gleams under the early light, wings cutting through the orange glow of dawn. You climb in, heart racing for reasons that aren’t entirely professional. Bob slides in behind you, his shoulder brushing yours, just lightly, and you feel a jolt.

“You good?” He asks over comm, voice calm.

“I’m fine,” you reply, but your throat is tight. “You?”

“Always,” he says and, somehow, that’s enough. It always is. You don’t need words; you never have.

The sortie begins smooth, almost hypnotic, as the coastline unrolls beneath you in shades of gold and grey. You bank, dive, and maneuver with fluid precision, each movement mirrored by Bob’s hands on the controls, each call out almost telepathic.

“Right break, thirty degrees,” you say softly.

“Copy,” he murmurs, and the jet responds as if it’s reading both your minds.

You glance at him mid-maneuver. The helmet hides most of his expression, but the tilt of his head, the set of his jaw, tells you he’s smiling—just a fraction. You suppress your own grin, biting down on the corner of your mouth.

“You make this look too easy,” he says finally. There’s a brief pause. “Seriously.”

“You make flying with you… feel effortless,” you shoot back. The words are softer than intended, and you immediately regret them, but he doesn’t react. Not outwardly, at least, just adjusts the radar and flicks a switch, pretending like nothing happened.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

The Hard Deck is too loud tonight. Too crowded. Too hot.

You tell yourself it’s just the atmosphere—sailors packed shoulder to shoulder, jukebox bleeding out Fleetwood Mac, pool balls cracking, Penny hollering orders behind the bar. You can smell beer, sweat, sea, and that familiar low-lying hum of adrenaline that clings to every pilot in the room.

But really, it’s him. Bob.

He’s standing near the dartboard with a pint surprisingly in hand, a laugh caught low in his throat, and you can’t look away.

You’ve dressed down—tight jeans, soft white t-shirt that clings to the lines of your shoulders and waist, hair still faintly smelling of ocean. You didn’t plan it—not consciously at least—but when you caught your reflection in the mirror before leaving base, you thought about him and whether he would notice.

When his eyes flick over you as you enter, when the tips of his ears go pink, when his throat bobs as he swallows, you know he’s noticed.

The squad circles the pool tables like sharks. Phoenix lines up her shots with military precision, Rooster leans cockily against the rail, Hangman prowls around like he owns the place.

You’re paired with Bob again, cue chalk in hand, leaning low over the table. You make sure your stance is just a little wider, your back arched just a little more.

“Nice form,” Bob mutters from behind you. His voice is tight.

You glance over your shoulder, smiling faintly. “Thanks. You watching closely?”

He clears his throat, face scarlet. “I—uh—yeah. I mean, just the, uh, the angle.”

You bite back a laugh. God, he’s adorable.

When you sink the ball, you straighten and brush past him deliberately, your hand grazing his arm. He freezes, staring down at the felt like it might swallow him whole.

You’re sure this is it—tonight is the night he’ll crack.

You lean against the edge of the table, drink in hand, watching Bob take his turn. His precision shouldn’t surprise you—he’s steady like that; careful and deliberate, but there’s something different about him tonight. Maybe it’s the way the dim light hits his jaw, or the way he keeps glancing at you like he’s checking you’re still there.

He sinks two balls in a row then straightens, cue in hand, a small grin tugging at his mouth. “Guess I’m not terrible.”

“Guess not,” you say. “What happened to the quiet, unassuming WSO I used to know?”

“Maybe he got tired of losing,” he says, meeting your eyes. The look lingers just a fraction too long.

“Or maybe he’s showing off,” you shoot back.

“Maybe,” he murmurs.

In the end, it’s Hangman who pushes it too far.

He’s leaning against the jukebox, beer in hand, grinning like a shark who smells blood. He’s been watching you and Bob all night—watching the blushes, the stolen glances, the way you orbit each other like planets too stubborn to collide. Finally, he laughs, loud and sharp.

“For Christ’s sake,” he drawls, voice cutting through the noise. “You two should just fuck already. You’re basically married and you don’t even know it.”

The words slam into the room.

Everyone freezes. Phoenix’s eyes widen, Rooster winces, Payback mutters, “Jesus, Hangman,” under his breath.

Your cheeks burn hot, a mortified laugh cracking out of you like a gunshot. Before you can even speak, Bob does.

“She’s literally just a friend,” he blurts. “Why would you even think I’d be into her?” He stammers, his face flushing, voice too loud, too panicked.

The silence that follows is deafening. Your heart plummets.

The words echo, sharper than the crack of a sonic boom: just a friend.

And worse: why would you even think... You don’t stay to hear the laughter that bubbles after, brittle and awkward. You don’t stay to see Bob’s face. You can’t handle the burn of embarrassment and shame that ricochets through you. You feel a sting—too tense, too defensive, and something in your chest tightens.

You drop your cue, mutter something about being tired, and walk out into the night.

The air outside is cool, salted by the sea. Your footsteps echo against the pavement as you storm down the alley beside the bar, chest tight, vision blurring.

“Wait—” Bob’s voice. Behind you.

You don’t stop.

“Hey, Rodeo, wait!”

His hand catches your arm, gentle but firm. You whirl, shoving him back a step.

“What do you want, Bob?” Your voice is trembling. “Haven’t you made yourself clear enough?”

Bob runs a hand through his hair, breath coming quick. “I was trying to shut Hangman up, okay? He was making it weird.”

“It was weird,” you snap. “You just didn’t have to make me feel like an idiot while you did it.”

He flinches like you struck him. The music from inside thrums faintly through the wall—muffled bass, laughter, glass. You can see his chest rise and fall, fast. He looks… wrecked.

“I’m sorry,” he says quietly. “I didn’t think.”

“No, you didn’t,” you whisper.

“I didn’t mean—”

“You didn’t mean to humiliate me in front of everyone?” Your laugh is bitter, ugly. “Because congrats, mission accomplished.”

His jaw works. “I just panicked, okay? I didn’t want them—”

“What?” You demand. “Didn’t want them thinking you’d stoop so low as to like me?”

His eyes widen. “No! God, no. That’s not—that’s now what I meant.”

“Then what, Bob?” You’re shouting now, chest heaving. “Because I can’t keep doing this. I can’t keep pretending I don’t feel—” You choke on the words, fists clenching. “I’ve been in love with you for at least four years. Four years, Bob. And tonight I thought—hell, I thought maybe if I tried—”

Your voice cracks. “Obviously I was wrong. So let’s just forget it. Forget I said anything.”

You turn, ready to walk, to bury yourself in shame.

Bob doesn’t let you. He grabs your wrist—not rough, just desperate—and you spin to face him again, tears stinging your eyes.

He looks wrecked. Jaw tight, glasses askew, chest rising and falling too fast.

“You think I don’t—” His voice breaks. He swallows. Starts again. “You think I don’t feel the same way?”

You freeze.

His hand rises, trembling, cupping your cheek.

“I’ve been in love with you for years,” he says hoarsely. “I just thought I’d never have a chance. That you’d never… that you’d never look at me like that. So I shoved it down. I told myself that being your best friend was enough, because losing you entirely would kill me.”

Your breath hitches. His lips crash into yours.

It’s not gentle or careful, nothing like you’d dreamed it would be. Instead it’s desperate, teeth clashing, spit-slick, mouths wide open and swallowing moans. His hands pin you against the brick wall, your fingers tangling in his hair, both of you gasping like you’re drowning. Years of restraint is burnt away in mere seconds.

You whine into his mouth, your hips rolling against his, and he groans low, pressing you harder against the wall. His thigh slides between yours and you’re grinding down on it, chasing the friction shamelessly.

“God, Bob—”

“Been thinking about this forever,” he pants, lips swollen, breath hot against your jaw. “Dreaming about you, about touching you.”

Your nails scrape his back, pulling his t-shirt up, skin burning under your palms. His hands slip beneath your shirt, fingers splayed over your ribs, thumbs brushing the underside of your breasts.

You gasp out, arching into his touch.

“Need you,” you whisper fiercely. “Need you now.”

In the shadows, pressed up tight against the wall of the bar, you both dry hump like teenagers—jeans rough, lips slick, teeth scraping, hands everywhere. Your whines mingle with his ragged moans, every movement more frantic, more reckless. His lips are all over you—your mouth, your jaw, the soft line under your ear, the arch of your throat down to the hollow of your collarbone. His glasses are crooked, digging faintly into your cheek until you tug them off and let them clatter uselessly against the floor. He doesn’t care. Neither do you.

Bob pins you harder against the bricks, one arm braced beside your head, the other gripping your hip like he’ll never let go. Your legs part instinctively, wrapping one around his thigh, pulling him closer. His body fits against yours so perfectly, like he was built to be here.

“God, I can’t—” he gasps into your neck, his breath hot. “I can’t stop.”

“Don’t,” you beg, dragging your nails down the notches of his spine, fingers digging into the firm muscles of his back. “Don’t you dare stop.”

He groans—a deep, guttural sound you’ve never heard from him before—and bucks his hips against yours. The rough drag of denim on denim makes your head tip back against the wall, a strangled moan tearing from your throat.

Bob’s mouth is on you again instantly, swallowing the sound, kissing you like he’s starving. His tongue is hot and desperate, his teeth catching your lower lip until it stings. You whimper and he pulls back just enough to pant against your lips, eyes glazed and dark.

“Been dreaming about this,” he admits raggedly, thrusting his thigh higher between your legs until the friction has you grinding down shamelessly. “Every night, thinking about you like this, under me and moaning my name.”

Your nails scrape across his scalp, pulling his hair until he groans again, hips snapping forward helplessly.

“Show me,” you whisper against his mouth, breath shaky. “Show me how you dream about me.”

Something in him breaks. His hand slides beneath your shirt again, fingers splayed wide as he palms at the curve of your waist and the fat on your hips, and then he drifts lower—hovering, trembling, at the waistband of your jeans.

You arch into him, a desperate and wordless plea written all over your body. When his fingers finally dip just under the band—not far enough, just enough to burn—you let out a sound that’s closer to a sob than a moan.

Bob crushes his mouth to yours again, teeth clashing and tongues lapping, one hand tangled in your hair now while the other grips you tight enough to bruise. Your hips roll together, grinding shamelessly, the heat unbearable. You’re both lost in the dizzying and delirious filthy kiss. And the worst part? It’s not even close to enough.

You break apart just long enough to gulp air, your chest heaving.

“We can’t do this here—” You start, voice shaking, but he’s mapping out your mouth before you can even finish, swallowing your protest into whimpers and whines, lips parting yours with abandon.

“Don’t care,” he growls and the sound of it shoots straight through you. “I don’t care who sees.”

Your back scrapes against the rough brick as he presses closer, pinning you completely, every inch of him hard and hot and desperate against you. Your hands wander without thought—under his shirt, across the planes of his chest, down to the swell in his jeans, slipping under his waistband and stroking his hipbones.

He gasps, hips jerking against your hand, eyes fluttering shut. “Fuck—”

The word sounds so wrong and so perfect in his mouth that you shudder.

You stroke him through the denim, slow and teasing, and he practically folds into you, his forehead pressing to yours, lips parted, breath coming in ragged bursts.

“Please,” he whispers. Not begging for you to stop—begging for more. Always more.

Your hand stills, trembling, your body pressed flush to his. “Bob—”

But you don’t get to finish because that’s when the whoops erupt, laughter spilling into the night like a bucket of cold water.

“Holy shit!” Rooster’s voice.

“Get it, Bob!” Hangman hollers, cackling.

You freeze, blood draining from your face. Bob whips his head toward the noise, eyes wide, horror dawning.

The entire squad is there, clustered at the mouth of the alley, watching with gleeful shock. Phoenix has her hands on her hips, shaking her head with an exasperated smile. Coyote looks torn between amusement and secondhand embarrassment. Hangman is bent over howling with laughter. Omaha is miming out something with hand motions and comically lewd facial expressions that you don’t quite understand but you know is definitely inappropriate.

And Warlock... Warlock just looks like a disappointed dad.

Bob groans, dropping his forehead to your shoulder, muttering a string of curses so soft only you can hear them.

“Come home with me,” he begs. “Please.”

“Yes,” you whisper, breathless. “God, yes.”

You don’t bother grabbing your jackets from inside. Hand in hand you stumble to his truck, ignoring the shouts and obscene whoops behind you, the laughter echoing.

“Shit, shit, shit,” he pants, fumbling with the keys, eyes darting toward the bar as they filter back in the front door. You swear you can see Harvard handing over a wad of cash to Phoenix. “They saw us.”

“I couldn’t care less right now, Bob.” You snap, fingers clutching at his chest, nails dragging across the plane of his torso.

He swears under his breath, finally yanking the door open. You both stumble inside, lungs burning. Once seated, he starts the engine. The tires squeal as he floors it onto the lot and your hands are immediately on him, grazing over his jean-clad half hard cock.

“God, Bob,” you breathe, pressing yourself against him, “look at what you do to me.”

His eyes snap to yours, pupils dilated. He swallows hard, one hand gripping the wheel, the other shaking slightly as it hovers near your waist.

“I—I can’t—here,” he pants.

You laugh breathlessly, tugging at his jeans, grinding against him. “Watch me. Look what you’ve done to me, Bob. I’m yours.”

He groans low, teeth clenching, hand finally giving in, travelling over your curves, popping open the button and sliding down the zipper. His thumb brushes against your clit, light and teasing, but just enough to send shivers down your spine. You’re already soaked.

“Oh, fuck,” he groans, voice thick and broken. “You’re insane.”

“You’re insane,” you shoot back, lips brushing his ear, teeth nipping gently. “We’ve been holding back for years—years, Bob.”

His breath hitches, his fingers working feverishly at your clit, sliding against your wet entrance. You moan out, wild and wanton, eyes rolling to the back of your head. You squeeze at his cock, hands fumbling with his zipper.

“God, you feel—” He swears, hips bucking against your hand unconsciously.

You laugh, a ragged, wet sound, grinding down on him.

“I know,” you whisper. “Can you feel what you do to me, Bob?”

Every moan he makes, every shudder under your fingers, twists you tighter. His mouth finds yours again, lips wet, teeth nipping, tongues tangling. You can taste yourself on him, hear yourself in his groans, smell him—salty, heated, impossibly arousing.

The truck swerves slightly as he grips the wheel with one hand, the other still buried inside your cunt, curled up tight against your g-spot.

“Fuck, you drive like a maniac,” you gasp between kisses.

“I don’t care,” he hisses, eyes struggling to stay on the road, jaw tight, focus entirely on the feel of you pressed against him, responding, writhing.

“You’re mine. All of you.”

You gasp, shivering. “Then take me. Right here. Right now. Don’t care where we are.”

His hand moves faster, teasing, slick, fingers thrusting, curling, stroking expertly. Your back arches, head thrown back, and you let out a loud, desperate moan that rattles the cab.

“Shit,” he groans, leaning closer, lips crushing yours, tongue sliding into your mouth. “You’re killing me—fuck, I’ve wanted this—wanted you for so long.”

You claw at his shoulders, tug at his hair, grind down on him, whimpering, crying, moaning—everything jumbled into raw, desperate need.

“You feel that, Bob?” You gasp out, grip tightening on his chest. “You’ve ruined me. Look what you’ve done.”

“I see it, I can feel it, how wet you are...” He pants, teeth nibbling your shoulder. “All mine.”

The cab rocks with the force of your grinding, your moans, the desperate slaps of hands and bodies against leather. You’re both delirious, soaked in heat and lust, barely holding it together as the truck flies toward base.

When you finally reach the gates, neither of you can stop panting. The engine idles, tires skidding to a stop, and for a long, trembling moment, you just look at each other—heaving, flushed, hair sticking to sweat-slicked skin, lips swollen.

“Not done,” he mutters hoarsely, pulling you closer. “Not even close.”

You grin wildly, fingers carding through his hair. “Good. Neither am I.”

And with that, you shove the door open and haul him out the cab, lips colliding, hands roaming, urgency and desperation guiding every movement as you pull him toward his quarters.

Even the parking lot, the streetlights, the faint sounds of distant night life—they’re nothing compared to the raw, frantic heat between you.

The door to Bob's room closes behind you with a soft click, and the world outside disappears entirely. Breathless and flushed, with your fingers tangled in his hair, you step closer, noses brushing. His hands rest lightly on your hips, trembling, tentative, as though afraid to fully touch you and yet desperate not to let go.

“You sure about this?” He whispers, voice low, rough with want and disbelief.

You laugh softly, lips brushing his jaw. “I’ve been sure for years.”

He swallows, eyes dark and wide, lips parting. His hands finally drift under your shirt, cupping your waist, thumbs brushing against the heated skin of your stomach. You arch into him instinctively, lips finding his, kissing deeply, tasting him, savouring every moment.

Bob pulls you against him, his maw swallowing you whole, a slow and spit-slick kiss as his tongue traces every nook in your mouth. It’s dizzying and obscene. He murmurs your name like a prayer or a last rite, worshipping, taking a knee at the alter of you.

You breathe him in—his scent, the warmth of him—and melt against him, pressing your chest into his. He groans low in his throat, and you feel it vibrate through your whole body.

“God, I’ve wanted you,” he breathes into your ear. “Forever.”

You shiver at the admission, tugging at his shirt, pressing your body harder into him. Your teeth graze his jaw lightly and he moans, tilting his head to give you better access.

“I’ve wanted you too,” you admit, voice trembling, teeth grazing his shoulder. “So much it hurts.”

His hands wander, tracing your curves, pulling you flush against him. The warmth of his body, the steady heat of his skin, the rapid pulse beneath his chest—it’s intoxicating. You feel every nerve ending ignite.

Clothes are pulled off slowly, deliberately; his shirt first, then yours, discarded onto the floor, revealing the skin you’ve imagined touching for years. You shiver at the intimacy, the vulnerability, the pure rightness of it. He cups your face, kissing you softly, gently, like he’s memorizing every line, every contour, every curve. For a moment, it’s just tenderness—just you and him, breathing each other in, hearts pounding together.

“I’ve always been yours.” He whispers, his arms winding around you as he guides you both to the bed. You lay back, sprawled out with goosebumps dancing on your skin, breath caught in your chest as he stares at you reverently. You feel like a shrine with the way he is worshipping you.

His hands skate tentatively across your skin until he palms at your thighs, trembling as he spreads and drapes your legs across his broad shoulders, eyes locking on yours with a depth of longing that makes your heart stutter.

“God, you’ve no idea how much I’ve wanted this," he whispers into your skin, leaning in to press a soft kiss to your inner thigh. His lips lingered, trailing higher, each brush tender like a prayer.

His head dips to your folds, his heated breath at your clit and shivers run up your spine.

“Please, Bob, want you so bad,” you plead, nails scratching at the expanse of his skin, catching on a sliver of a scar you know is from a silly accident from when he was a teenage boy.

Bob acquiesces. His tongue dips out, flicking gently at first, tracing the outer folds with slow, worshipful strokes. He laps at you lovingly, savouring every inch, his breath hot against your slick skin.

“You taste so good,” he murmurs against you, the vibration forcing a gasp from you. His mouth covers your clit softly, sucking with a sweet desperation, like he can’t get enough—like he needs to devour you to feel whole.

Your fingers thread into his sandy hair, holding him close as he works at you with a patient devotion. His tongue circles your clit in lazy, molten swirls, then flattening to lick broad paths from your entrance to your sensitive clit. He hums in contentment, the sound rumbling through you, making your hips buck involuntarily. Bob’s grip on your thighs tightens just enough to steady you, his thumbs stroking soothing patterns on your skin.

Soon, his desperation wins out—he can’t hold back anymore. One hand slides up your thigh, fingers brushing your entrance before slipping inside. He curls them perfectly, stroking that spot deep within you with deliberate pumps. His mouth never leaves your clit, sucking it between his lips, flicking his tongue rapidly while his fingers fuck you in a steady rhythm—slow at first, then building, plunging deeper with each thrust. The combination shatters you completely—pleasure coiling tight in your core, his fingers crooking to hit your G-spot relentlessly, his tongue and lips worshipping your clit with desperate fervour.

“Bob—oh fuck, Bob, please,” you gasp out but words dissolve into an incoherent, fragmented babble as the edge rushes up on you. Your pussy is clenching around his fingers, walls fluttering wildly as he finger fucks you harder, sucking your clit with a wanton, urgent pull.

You cum hard—muscles locked taut, a scream stopped in your throat, your vision whiting out in a blaze of ecstasy, body arching off the bed, thighs quaking around his head as waves of orgasm crashed through you. Incoherent cries spill from your lips, a warbled mess of pleas and moans, lost in the overwhelming bliss. He doesn’t stop; drawing out your orgasm with gentle licks and the slowing thrusts of his fingers, milking every last tremor until you collapse, panting and spent.

Bob pulls back slowly, lips glistening with your arousal, his eyes shining with adoration. He kisses your thigh again, his eyes never leaving yours as he crawls up your body, his weight settling over you in a comforting press, his cock nestled in the curve of your hip.

“You’re so beautiful when you come,” he murmurs, voice rough with need, before capturing your mouth in a deep, lingering kiss. You taste yourself on his tongue—the flavour mingles with his own as he kisses you like you’re the only thing that matters.

His hand trails down your side, fingers dancing over your ribs, your waist, until he cups your breast, thumb circling your nipple until it hardens into a peak. You arch into his touch, still sensitive from your orgasm, a soft moan escaping into his mouth. Bob breaks the kiss to trail his lips along your jaw, your neck, nipping gently at your collarbone.

“Please, Bob, I want you in me.” You’re not above begging when this is all you’ve dreamed about since you first laid eyes on him.

You spread your legs wider, inviting him, and he positions himself at your entrance, rubbing the head of his cock through your slick folds. He teases you, sliding up to bump your clit before pressing in slowly, inch by inch. The stretch is exquisite, your pussy still pulsing, clenching around him as he fills you completely.

“Fuck—you feel perfect, made just for me,” he groans as he bottoms out with a shudder, his hips flush against yours.

He bottoms out with a shudder, hips flush against yours, his weight pressing you into the mattress. Your legs wrap his waist, needing Bob deeper. His cock is a perfect fit, stretching and filling you in a way that makes you feel utterly claimed.

Bob stills for a moment, his forehead resting against your, breaths mingling, sweat building at his temples and pooling at the hollow of your collarbones.

“You’re so fucking tight,” he whispers, his voice a rough exhale. You run your hands up his back with a smile, only pausing at the soft skin on the nape of his neck before cupping his jaw, thumbs stroking at his stubble. He looks at you with awe and you feel like a live wire—buzzing, exposed.

One hand slides back down to the small of his back to pull him in, the press of his cock thick inside of you. He obliges, pulling back slowly before thrusting forward again, his hips rolling into yours in a hypnotic metronome rhythm.

The bed creaks beneath. The ceiling light hums faintly. The headboard taps the wall in even beats. His thrusts are perfectly in sync and relentless, each one driving you closer and closer to the edge. You raise your hips to meet his rhythm, your bodies moving together in harmony, tongues tangling as Bob fucks you breathless with a ferocity and desperation you’ve never felt before.

The room spins around you, the world narrowing until it’s just the two of you like it’s always been. Your orgasm is already looming, a storm gathering in you, a wildfire decimating anything that isn’t Bob Bob Bob Bob. And Bob, ever attuned to you, seems determined to push you over the edge again. He’s whimpering in your mouth—wordless pleas, incapable of anything but your name—and thrusting a little harder, a little deeper, and you feel him deep in your stomach. Bob is driving into you with a hunger you didn’t know existed, one hand at your hip while the other laces with yours, pressed up on the pillow by your face.

As the first wave of your orgasm washes over you, wiping you out completely, you clench hard around Bob’s cock, soaking him entirely.

“Come in me, please—want you to fill me up!” A warbled cry, shrill and loud, as you lose yourself in your orgasm.

“Yeah—fuck, yes—gonna come in you, you’re gonna be full of me—”

“Yes yes yes, you feel so good,” eyes rolling to the back of your head, cunt pulsing hard, soaking through the sheets, painting Bob’s torso with your cum. Your legs twitch and kick out as Bob continues to fuck you through your orgasm, pleasure tearing through you with unabating fury. You can feel and hear Bob losing himself; each thrust in punching out little tufts of air from him, his teeth clenched and muscles locked. Through all this, though, he never looks away from you—his pupils are blown wide, no trace of the usual stormy blue, as though his body wants to see as much of you as it possibly can.

Suddenly, Bob stills mid-thrust, a strangled groan choked out of him, before one final thrust in you has him bottoming out to the hilt, just as his own orgasm washes over him. He cums deep inside of you, filling you up just as he promised, his body trembling and arms giving out. He’s splayed out on top of you but the weight doesn’t bother you. You feel safe, comforted, wrapped up in just Bob, and you never want to leave this moment: quiet, breaths and heartbeats in sync, skin-to-skin from head to toe, where you both have always belonged.

Tentatively, Bob rolls off to the side of you—never parting, just adjusting—wrapping his arms around you and pressing a gentle kiss to your temple. You tuck yourself tighter in his arms, content with his softening cock still inside you.

Neither of you speaks. You don’t need to. This silence is easy to understand: this is home.

-

The next morning arrived with zero fanfare and a whole lot of regret.

Not regret over anything you had done, but regret in the shape of Jake Seresin’s smirking face as he leaned against the edge of the table in the mess hall, sipping his coffee like he hadn’t just offered you up like tribute the night before.

“So,” he said, drawing the word out, “you excited?”

You narrowed your eyes at him, halfway through your oatmeal. “Excited for what?”

Jake blinked, all innocence. “Tonight. Dinner. Supply officer.”

Fanboy perked up from across the table. “Wait. You’re going out with the walking spreadsheet?”

Rooster choked on his juice. “The one who alphabetizes the peanut butter?”

You gave Jake a look that could have melted steel. “You told everyone?”

Jake had the audacity to look affronted. “I didn’t tell them. I just—mentioned it.”

Phoenix leaned in, grinning like she smelled blood in the water. “Did you also mention that she was strong-armed into this by you?”

Jake shrugged. “It’s not coercion. It’s encouragement.”

“Encouragement usually involves enthusiasm,” you muttered. “Not bribery and peer pressure.”

“I didn’t bribe you.”

“You said, and I quote, ‘If you go, I’ll never bring up that time you accidentally FaceTimed me from the bath again.’”

Fanboy nearly spit out his coffee. “What?”

Jake held up his hands. “Not what it sounds like.”

You stood, grabbing your tray and ignoring the stares. “You’re all children.”

Phoenix cackled. “Be sure to send us a group text if he turns out to be a taxidermist.”

Jake called after you, “He’s a very normal guy! You’ll have a great time!”

You didn’t respond. But you did flip him off on your way out of the mess.

-

It was 7:00pm sharp when you arrived at the seafood place Jake had suggested—off-base, casual enough to avoid dress uniforms but nice enough to warrant eyeliner. The place had string lights, polished wood tables, and the kind of menu where everything came with a “reduction” of something or other.

You spotted your date—Mike, the supply officer—before he spotted you. He was seated in a booth, already halfway through a glass of water, his posture too perfect and his shirt just a little too tucked-in.

“Hey,” you said as you slid into the seat across from him.

His face lit up with the same earnest enthusiasm he’d had when you’d signed for your new flight gloves last week. “Hi! You made it!”

You smiled politely. “Yeah. I guess I did.”

Conversation started off… fine.

He asked about your squadron, complimented your call sign (which he’d mispronounced twice), and talked about how he’d minored in aviation logistics at Purdue. He had a laugh that was technically charming, and a habit of straightening the salt shaker every time he leaned forward.

He wasn’t creepy. Or mean. Or even weird, really.

But the longer you sat across from him, the more glaringly obvious it became that this was not going to be the beginning of anything remotely romantic.

Your brain betrayed you somewhere between the appetizers and the main course. Because all you could think about was Jake.

Jake, who never sat that straight. Jake, who never got through a meal without sharing food off someone else’s plate. Jake, who once made up a fake call sign for Rooster just to mess with a group of visiting officers (“It’s ‘Cockadoodle-Doom,’ sir, and he earned it.”).

Jake, who had set you up on this date. Who had pushed you toward it with that easy smile and the kind of confidence that only someone with absolutely no self-awareness could manage.

“So,” Mike said, snapping you out of your daze, “are you into board games?”

You blinked. “Board games?”

“Yeah. I host a game night sometimes. We do Settlers of Catan and Terraforming Mars. I’ve got an expansion pack for Wingspan that adds European birds.”

You took a sip of your drink. “That’s… specific.”

Mike grinned. “You’d like it. You seem like someone who appreciates rules.”

You raised an eyebrow. “That’s not usually what people say about me.”

He looked slightly panicked. “I meant—like… structure. Not in a bad way!”

You laughed once, politely. Then glanced at the time on your phone.

Still forty minutes to go, if you were being generous.

-

Back on base, Jake was restless.

Bob watched him pace from the armchair, where he was trying to read. “You’re gonna wear a hole in the rug.”

Jake ignored him, turning toward the window like he could somehow see the restaurant from there. “You think she’s having fun?”

Bob didn’t look up. “You mean the girl you tried to pawn off like an Amazon package?”

“I didn’t pawn her off.”

“You did. It was weird. You should’ve just asked her out yourself.”

Jake froze. “I don’t— That’s not what this is.”

Bob finally looked up. “Isn’t it?”

Jake didn’t answer.

Didn’t have one, honestly.

-

By the time you made it back to your place, you were tired in a way that had nothing to do with your day. Mike had walked you to your car like a gentleman and given you a hug that lasted half a second too long.

“You’re really cool,” he’d said earnestly, eyes hopeful.

You’d smiled and thanked him.

And then you’d sat in your car for five full minutes, forehead pressed to the steering wheel, wondering what the hell you were doing.

Your phone buzzed.

Jake: “So… still alive? Didn’t join a cult?”

You stared at it. Debated. Then typed back:

You: “Barely. He asked if I wanted to see his board game collection.”

Jake’s reply came instantly.

Jake: “That sounds like a euphemism.”

You: “It wasn’t.”

Jake: “That somehow makes it worse.”

You smiled in spite of yourself. Tossed your phone onto the passenger seat beside you. The night was still. Quiet.

And the only thing louder than the silence was the thought you’d been trying to avoid since the moment Jake first brought this whole “project” up.

Why was he so interested in trying to get you to date?

And why was HE of all people on your mind all of a sudden?

-

The squad didn’t do boredom well.

Two days after movie night and that god awful date, Phoenix convinced half of you to join a beach volleyball tournament on base. You weren’t even sure how it had been sanctioned—maybe the C.O. was just as restless as the rest of you—but suddenly there were nets set up just past the tarmac, and someone had roped off court boundaries with neon cones and caution tape.

You showed up in gym shorts and a tank top, hair pulled back and sunscreen barely rubbed in. Bob handed you a water bottle as you arrived, his cheeks pink from the heat despite the early hour.

“Phoenix and Rooster already claimed each other,” he said. “So I guess you’re stuck with me.”

“Poor thing,” you teased, bumping your shoulder into his.

He just smiled—calm, steady Bob—and tugged his cap lower against the sun. You loved flying with him. Loved hanging out with him. Sometimes you thought maybe you loved everything about Bob, full stop.

Fanboy was the one who brought the speaker. Of course. He queued up a playlist titled “Top Gun Top Hits” that had everything from Kenny Loggins to Doja Cat. By the time the first game started, Rooster was dancing between points and Phoenix had already spiked a serve into Hangman’s chest.

“That one was for your ego,” she said, tossing the ball back over the net.

“Jealousy doesn’t look good on you,” Jake shot back.

You and Bob held your own, surprisingly enough. You weren’t flashy, but you had good instincts. And Bob was sneaky—he didn’t talk much during games, but he always seemed to know where to be.

“Okay, that was kind of hot,” you admitted after he dove for a save and landed in the sand.

He just looked up at you, winded and flushed. “You like that?”

You did. Too much. And maybe Jake noticed, because suddenly he was rotating in as your opponent with a little too much enthusiasm.

Afterward, you collapsed on a towel with Phoenix, both of you gulping water and yelling at Coyote for eating all the orange slices.

“This is why we can’t have nice things,” Phoenix muttered.

“Yeah, well, next time bring more,” he shot back, mouth full.

By late afternoon, the squad scattered—some toward the showers, some to grab food, and Jake? Jake lingered.

“You’re free tomorrow night, right?” he asked, nudging your foot with his.

You narrowed your eyes. “What did you do?”

“Nothing,” he said innocently. “Just… remember that avionics tech from the hangar? The one with the buzz cut and the arm tattoo?”

“The one who said Star Wars is overrated?”

Jake winced. “Okay, so he’s not perfect. But he’s free. And I figured—just a quick drink. Harmless.”

You groaned. “Why are you like this?”

“It’s for morale,” he said smugly, already walking backward toward the barracks. “And entertainment.”

-

The bar was dim and vaguely sticky, tucked into a side street just outside the base gates. It smelled like old beer and buffalo sauce, the kind of place that tried to pass itself off as “divey” in a charming way but never quite nailed the charm. Off-duty personnel clustered at the high tables, uniforms swapped out for jeans and team shirts, most pretending not to watch the pilots coming and going like it wasn’t their entertainment for the night. Country music played over the speakers—loud but not loud enough to cover the clink of bottles and the low buzz of half-drunken conversations.

Trevor—aka Buzz Cut Guy—was already seated at a corner booth when you walked in. You spotted him instantly. Tight black t-shirt, designer watch, one leg sprawled out too far into the walkway like he wanted people to trip over him. His cologne hit you before his smile did: something aggressively masculine, the kind of scent that tried too hard to say I lift without any actual lifting.

He stood when you approached, teeth flashing in a grin that felt more practiced than warm. “You must be Jake’s friend,” he said, sliding a hand across the table and pulling out your chair with the sort of flair that implied he’d rehearsed it.

“He said you’d probably try to bail.”

You raised a brow, pausing halfway into the seat. “That’s a weird opener.”

Trevor chuckled like that was somehow endearing. “Just messing. I’m good at reading people.”

You doubted that.

Still, you sat. Mostly because you didn’t want to give Jake the satisfaction of knowing you almost turned around and left the second you saw that buzzcut and smug expression in person.

“Figured I’d keep it casual tonight,” Trevor said, nodding to the waitress as she came over. “Can I get you something? Beer, wine, appletini?”

You blinked. “I’ll just take a ginger ale, thanks.”

He raised an eyebrow. “No alcohol? That’s cute.”

Your jaw clenched. “Or maybe I just have early drills tomorrow and don’t want to show up hungover. Wild, I know.”

Trevor shrugged, unbothered. “Your call. I’m off tomorrow. I usually am. Perks of being indispensable.”

Oh boy.

It only got worse.

Trevor was, admittedly, attractive in the technical sense. Broad shoulders, straight teeth, a tattoo of what looked like a circuit board wrapping around his bicep—but every sentence out of his mouth made you question how many brain cells it took to put on deodorant in the morning.

“I’m kind of a genius with electronics,” he said, not even a full five minutes into the conversation. “Like, borderline savant. I rewired my mom’s entire security system when I was sixteen. She still doesn’t know how I did it.”

You nodded slowly, sipping your ginger ale like it was spiked with the patience of a saint. “Impressive.”

“I don’t get why people worship Maverick, honestly,” he continued, tipping his beer toward you like you’d agree. “Bit of a burnout vibe, don’t you think? Washed up. Always breaking the rules.”

You blinked. “You do realize everyone in my squad reports to him, right?”

He waved that off. “Yeah, but come on. You really think he’s still got it? Dude’s a relic.”

You forced a smile, digging your nails into the underside of the table. “So what made you join avionics if you’re such a prodigy?”

“I could totally be a pilot if I wanted. I just don’t want to deal with all the bullshit training. So much red tape, man. You guys live in the cockpit, but I live in reality.”

It was almost impressive—how quickly someone could become more unbearable with every word. You found yourself cataloging the signs like a checklist: talks over you, check. Makes his job sound harder than yours, check. Thinks The Matrix was “based on real science,” check.

“Oh, and don’t get me started on women who fly. No offense,” he said, glancing at you with that same fake grin. “Just seems like a tough gig. Like, do they even make helmets that small?”

You blinked. Slowly. “Excuse me?”

“Kidding,” he said quickly, hands up. “Joking. Lighten up.”

You had lasted thirty-seven minutes. You decided to be generous and make it to forty. Not because he deserved it, but because walking out before the forty-minute mark would just give Jake ammo to say I told you so.

You nursed your ginger ale. You let him talk. You imagined throwing his phone into the jukebox. And finally—finally—you stood.

“Well,” you said, pushing your chair back with a polite smile that barely masked the storm brewing in your chest. “This has been… something.”

Trevor stood too, reaching for your hand like he thought this was going well. “This was nice. Maybe next time you let me pick the music. Jake says you like weird stuff.”

You pulled your hand back. “Jake’s never heard me complain about music.”

Trevor blinked. “You sure? He said—”

“I’m sure,” you said firmly, already turning for the door. “Thanks for the ginger ale.”

The second you stepped outside into the cool night air, you exhaled like you’d just surfaced from a dive. Your boots hit the sidewalk harder than necessary as you made your way toward the parking lot, fingers already curled around your phone.

Jake 🙄

So??

You stared at the text. A dozen responses came to mind, ranging from sarcastic to profane, but you settled for closing your phone without replying. Not yet.

Let him sweat.

-

It was the kind of late afternoon where everyone lingered in the hangar instead of showering—half still suited up, half in undershirts, flopped on crates or leaning against the wing of Rooster’s F/A-18. No one had the energy to leave yet, and unfortunately for you, that gave them plenty of energy to gossip.

“You’re awfully quiet today,” Phoenix said, cracking open a water bottle and tossing another one at you. “That bad?”

You caught it with one hand and gave her a look. “It wasn’t good.”

“Oh, do tell,” Fanboy said, perking up immediately. “We’ve been waiting for the post-mortem.”

Jake, of course, chose that moment to walk in, sunglasses still on despite being indoors and half the sunlight gone. “Here we go,” he muttered, under his breath but not low enough to go unheard.

You ignored him and sat on an ammo crate. “Okay, well. His cologne could’ve killed a small animal.”

Coyote winced. “Yikes.”

“Buzzcut Guy didn’t pass the vibe check?” Rooster asked, adjusting his backwards cap. “I thought Jake said he was ‘normal enough to survive a night with her.’”

You turned slowly. “He said that?”

Jake held up his hands. “In my defense, I said it in confidence to Rooster.”

Phoenix raised her brows. “So you knew he was questionable and still sent her out there?”

“I didn’t know he was that questionable!” Jake protested, finally removing his sunglasses and hooking them onto his collar. “I mean—how bad could it have been?”

You looked at him flatly. “He said, and I quote, ‘Do they even make helmets that small for female pilots?’”

There was a beat of silence. Then—

“Noooooo,” Payback said, wheezing.

Fanboy doubled over like he’d been physically struck. “Nooo shot. Jake. Jake.”

Even Rooster looked horrified. “He said that to your face?”

“Loudly,” you said, sipping your water. “Like he thought it was charming.”

Phoenix’s voice dripped with sarcasm. “He sounds like a national treasure. Jake, where do you find these guys? Do they have a club? Is there a pool you dip into specifically marked ‘do not recommend’?”

Jake looked genuinely pained. “Okay, first of all, Trevor didn’t say any of that shit when we were at the gym.”

“Because of course you recruit men at the gym,” Phoenix said.

“Next you’ll be setting her up with a guy who thinks ‘Top Gun’ was a documentary,” Payback added.

Jake looked at you, eyes a little sharper now. “So what—you’re mad at me again?”

You shrugged. “Not mad. Just impressed you managed to pick someone even worse than the last one.”

Fanboy raised a hand like he was in class. “Question: how do you keep managing to top yourself? Is this a long game to ruin her faith in men so she just gives up and settles for you?”

The squad howled.

Jake’s jaw clenched. “That’s not—”

“I mean,” Rooster said casually, spinning a socket wrench in his fingers. “You do seem to care a whole lot about who she ends up with.”

“Because I’m trying to help,” Jake snapped.

“Help yourself into her pants?” Phoenix offered, deadpan.

“That’s not—oh my god,” Jake groaned, dragging a hand down his face.

You watched him, letting the squad’s laughter drown out the weird warmth under your skin. Jake wasn’t looking at you now, not directly. His ears had gone a little pink.

“Just admit you’re bad at this,” you said calmly, tossing your empty bottle into a nearby bin.

Jake scowled. “You know what? Fine. I’ll do better next time.”

“Oh no,” Rooster said. “There’s gonna be a next time?”

Jake ignored him. “Give me one more shot. I’ve got someone in mind already.”

Coyote looked alarmed. “He said that like a man about to suggest someone who drinks Monster for breakfast.”

Phoenix put her face in her hands. “This is gonna be another ‘I swear he’s normal’ guy, isn’t it?”

You crossed your arms, amused despite yourself. “Is this how you flirt? Just slow psychological warfare until I give up?”

Jake met your gaze. This time, his expression softened. “I could stop if you asked me to.”

You held his stare for a second too long—again—and didn’t reply.

Fanboy clapped his hands. “Alright! Next date pool starts now! Who wants to put money on this one lasting less than thirty minutes?”

“I’m giving her fifteen,” Phoenix said.

“Ten,” said Coyote.

Jake looked around, scandalized. “You guys are actual traitors.”

“Traitors with taste,” Rooster added.

The squad fell back into their banter, placing increasingly dramatic bets, and you let it wash over you—grateful, at least, for the distraction. But as Jake sat beside you on the crate, a little quieter now, you didn’t miss the way his knee bumped yours.

And stayed there.

You glanced back at Jake, who was pretending to be interested in the banter going on with Rooster and Payback, but his knee was still casually brushing yours. Your chest tightened, a weird mix of comfort and something unspoken hanging in the air.

“Alright, Cupid,” you said, nudging him lightly with your elbow. “If you’re so confident, when’s my next ‘date’?”

Jake gave you a mock offended look. “Whoa, slow down. You’re making it sound like I’m some kind of serial dater.”

“Well, you are definitely the reason I’m meeting these characters.” You smirked. “And don’t think I forgot that you specifically picked Buzz Cut Guy.”

Jake shrugged, the grin never leaving his face. “Quality control.”

You rolled your eyes. “Yeah, quality control right into the dumpster.”

He leaned closer, voice dropping an octave. “Hey, I’m trying here. It’s a process.”

You caught the glint in his eyes—the same one you’d seen during briefings, in the heat of missions, and now here, in the middle of all this ridiculous squad chaos. It was easier to tease him, easier to laugh, but your heart hammered with every accidental touch, every shared glance.

“Just… try not to kill me with your ‘dates,’” you teased.

Jake’s smile softened. “No promises.”

For a moment, the noise around you faded, the room shrinking until it was just the two of you—two friends tangled in something neither of you was quite ready to name.

Then Rooster shouted from across the room, “Hey, you lovebirds, quit hogging the crate!”

Jake’s knee finally slid away, but the spark between you lingered.

“Come on,” you said, standing and stretching. “Let’s see what disaster you have planned next.”

Jake was already on his feet, quick on the comeback. “Oh, it’s going to be legendary.”

You laughed, feeling the familiar warmth of the squad around you and something a little more dangerous simmering just beneath the surface.

-

The next morning, the base was buzzing with its usual hum—pilots prepping for missions, techs bustling through equipment checks, and the faint scent of strong coffee drifting from the mess hall. You were sitting at one of the picnic tables outside, scrolling through your phone when Jake strolled up, his flight jacket casually slung over one shoulder.

“Hey,” he said, dropping into the seat across from you with that familiar smirk. “So, about dinner last night…”

You arched a brow. “What about it?”

Jake rubbed the back of his neck, eyes flickering sideways like he was debating how much to spill. “Trevor wasn’t exactly my best pick.”

You chuckled, setting your phone down. “That’s one way to put it.”

He shrugged. “Yeah, I thought he’d be better. But then again, I guess it’s hard to find someone who doesn’t suck.”

You snorted. “Thanks for the glowing endorsement.”

Jake grinned. “I’m just saying, your standards are high.”

Before you could respond, Payback and Fanboy appeared nearby, carrying trays loaded with breakfast. Payback gave you a knowing look.

“Talking about your love life again?” he teased, plopping down beside Jake.

“Only because Jake here is apparently moonlighting as a matchmaker,” you shot back, rolling your eyes.

Jake defended himself. “Hey, I’m just trying to help. And I’ve got a new candidate lined up.”

“Oh god,” you groaned, half-exasperated, half-amused.

Rooster wandered over, catching the tail end of the conversation. “Another date?”

Jake nodded, eyes twinkling. “Yep. This one’s different. Supposedly a real stand-up guy. Name’s Marcus.”

“Marcus,” you repeated slowly, trying the name out. “Sounds promising.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Jake said, waving a hand. “He’s a cop. Good with his hands, apparently.”

You squinted at him. “How do you know all this?”

Jake smirked. “Let’s just say I do my research.”

The squad chuckled, settling into easy banter as you all ate.

-

The restaurant was dimly lit with an ambiance that felt more like an exclusive lounge than a casual dinner spot. Soft jazz floated through the air, blending with the quiet clinks of silverware and murmurs of other diners. You sat at a small, candlelit table across from Marcus, the cop Jake had set you up with. From the start, you knew this was going to be a challenge, but nothing prepared you for how quickly it spiraled.

Marcus smiled with that easy confidence cops often carried—the kind that told you he was used to getting his way. His eyes lingered a little too long, and the way he spoke felt less like a genuine conversation and more like an interrogation.

“So, Jake thinks we’ll hit it off,” Marcus began, swirling his glass of red wine with practiced ease. “Apparently, he’s a big fan of mixing things up.”

You smiled politely. “Yeah, Jake has his own ways.”

He chuckled but didn’t take the hint to dial it back. “So, what do you do for fun? I mean, besides dating mystery men?”

You raised an eyebrow but answered carefully. “I’m pretty into my work. Flying missions, training. It keeps me busy.”

Marcus nodded as if that was expected. “I get it. Structure, discipline. I’m all about rules myself.”

You tried to steer the conversation to something more neutral, but the undertone grew heavier.

“You know,” Marcus said, leaning forward slightly, his voice dropping an octave, “a woman like you probably likes a man who knows what he wants. Someone who takes charge. Makes decisions.”

You felt the hairs on the back of your neck prickling. “I’m pretty capable of making my own decisions.”

Marcus smirked, clearly amused. “Sure, but there’s something nice about a guy who can show you the way. Keep things simple.”

You shifted in your seat, trying to maintain your composure. The subtle power play was becoming obvious.

“So, what’s your idea of a perfect date?” Marcus asked, but it wasn’t a question so much as a challenge.

You shook your head slightly, feeling the conversation close in. “Honestly, I just want someone who respects me.”

Marcus’s smirk faded just a little. “Respect’s earned, you know.”

At that moment, Marcus’s hand slid from the table, moving slowly until it landed on your thigh. The contact was light but unmistakably deliberate.

You froze, your stomach twisting. “Marcus…”

He didn’t withdraw his hand. Instead, he let it drift further back, brushing the curve of your hip, and then—before you could react—he gave a quick, possessive squeeze on your lower back.

Your breath caught, and your polite smile hardened. You pulled your chair back slightly, creating distance.

“Look, I don’t know what Jake told you about me,” you said quietly but firmly, “but I’m not here to be touched without consent.”

Marcus’s face tightened for a moment, a flicker of irritation crossing his features, but he masked it with a forced laugh.

“Hey, I’m just trying to show you I’m interested.”

You shook your head, exhaling sharply. “Interest isn’t physical if it makes me uncomfortable.”

The rest of the meal was a blur of awkward silences and forced smiles, each minute stretching longer than the last. Your mind raced for a way out, but you were trapped by the formalities and the restaurant’s watchful eyes.

Finally, you excused yourself, mumbling something about the restroom.

Inside, you locked the door behind you and pressed your back against the cold surface. Your heart pounded in your chest, a mix of adrenaline and frustration flooding your senses.

You pulled out your phone, fingers trembling as you fumbled to unlock it. Your breath hitched as you typed the message again, trying to keep your voice steady despite the knot twisting tighter in your stomach.

You: Jake, please come get me. Marcus is… not what I expected. I don’t want to be rude, but I’m about to lose it.

The silence stretched. Then your phone buzzed.

Jake: Hang tight. I’m leaving now. Don’t do anything stupid.

You exhaled shakily, the tension in your shoulders easing just a little. But you couldn’t help the worry gnawing at you.

A few minutes later, your phone rang. You answered quickly.

“Jake,” you whispered, voice cracking.

“Hey,” Jake’s voice was low but tight, laced with anger and concern. “What the hell’s going on?”

You bit your lip, suddenly feeling small. “Marcus… he crossed a line. I told him to stop, but he—he touched me.”

There was a long pause on the other end. Then Jake’s voice dropped, deadly serious.

“Are you okay? Did he hurt you?”

“No, I’m fine. Just… uncomfortable. I didn’t know what else to do.”

“Goddammit,” Jake muttered, his frustration clear. “I’m so sorry. I should’ve stopped this before it even started.”

You pressed your forehead against the cool bathroom wall, trying to calm your racing heart. “It’s not your fault. You didn’t know.”

“I should’ve. I’m on my way, alright? Just stay put. Locked door, no matter what.”

“I will,” you whispered.

Jake’s voice softened for a moment. “I’ll be there soon. You’re not alone.”

As the call ended, you pressed the phone to your chest, letting the sound of Jake’s promise settle in. Somewhere between fear and relief, you realized you trusted him more than anyone else right now — and that maybe this ridiculous matchmaking project was turning into something a lot more complicated.

Steeling yourself, you took a deep breath, glanced at your phone’s screen — Jake had texted back, I’m waiting outside. Don’t say a word until you get here.

You slipped out of the bathroom door quietly, heart thumping so loud you thought it might give you away. The restaurant’s dining room buzzed with muffled conversation and clinking glasses. You ducked behind a pillar, weaving past tables with your eyes on the exit.

The cool night air hit your face as you slipped out the side door, the city sounds washing over you in relief. And there he was—Jake, leaning casually against his car, arms crossed, watching the street like a sentinel.

“You made it,” he said softly, voice just for you.

You barely nodded, sliding into the passenger seat before he even opened the door. The car smelled faintly of leather and pine-scented air freshener, oddly comforting in the tension of the moment.

Then, out of nowhere, the front door of the restaurant slammed open and Marcus stomped outside, scanning every shadow.

“Where the hell did she go?” Marcus growled, voice thick with frustration.

Jake’s eyes narrowed, and before you could blink, he pulled the door closed and locked it with a quiet click.

“Hide,” Jake hissed, pulling the seatbelt tight.

You ducked lower, barely able to keep from laughing as Marcus prowled past the car, his angry muttering unmistakable.

Jake cracked a grin. “Looks like your charming date doesn’t have a clue.”

You giggled, the absurdity of the situation hitting you. “Yeah, real smooth.”

As Marcus circled the block, you and Jake exchanged amused looks, the kind that said, Can you believe this guy?

A laugh escaped you, and Jake’s grin widened until it was all teeth and mischief.

“You know,” Jake said, voice dropping a notch, “we make a pretty good team.”

Your eyes met his in the dim glow of the dashboard, and suddenly the air shifted — the easy humor melting into something softer, something more electric.

Jake’s gaze lingered on you, warmth pooling in his eyes like a silent confession.

“Uh…” he cleared his throat, breaking the moment. “I should probably drop you home now.”

You nodded, cheeks flushed for reasons beyond the cold night air.

Jake started the engine and pulled away, the city lights blurring past the windows.

“I’m sorry you had to put up with that asshole,” he said quietly.

You reached over, squeezing his hand. “Thanks for saving me.”

He glanced your way, that grin teasing the corners of his mouth.

You laughed softly, the tension finally unwinding as the car hummed along the quiet streets.

-

The car pulled up outside your place—a modest, familiar building that felt like a sanctuary after the chaos of the night. Jake cut the engine and glanced over at you, his expression softer now, the easy teasing replaced by genuine concern.

“You sure you’re okay?” he asked, voice low.

You nodded, but didn’t meet his eyes. Instead, you reached into your bag, pulling out the small jacket you’d tossed over your shoulders earlier. The cold was creeping in now, but you barely noticed.

Jake stepped out and walked around to your side, opening the door. You hesitated for a moment, then slipped out, the night air cool against your skin.

You stood side by side on the sidewalk, the silence between you thick but not uncomfortable. It was as if the city itself had paused to let this moment breathe.

Finally, Jake broke the quiet.

“Next time, i’ll leg you pick out the date,” he said with a small, crooked smile.

You laughed softly, the sound mingling with the distant hum of streetlights and passing cars.

“Deal,” you whispered.

He reached out, brushing a stray lock of hair from your face, fingers lingering a heartbeat longer than necessary.

Neither of you said more, but the weight of everything unspoken hung in the air—something tender, something promising.

With a final look, you turned toward your door, and Jake watched you go, a quiet smile tugging at his lips.

-

Two days after the restaurant escape, everything felt a little brighter. The sky over base was stupidly blue, the coffee in your hand was criminally good, and for once, your morning wasn’t crawling with tension. Instead, you walked through the hangar bay doors with a little spring in your step, humming under your breath, the lid of your cup pressed to your smile.

Bob was the first to notice.

“Wow,” he said, blinking behind his glasses as you passed him. “Someone’s chipper this morning.”

You smirked, biting back a reply as you took your usual seat beside Phoenix on the toolbox near the main maintenance station. She leaned toward you immediately, squinting. “Okay, what gives? You look like you’re about to break into song.”

Fanboy glanced up from where he was trying to fix the squad’s broken coffee machine. “Please don’t. I haven’t had caffeine in three hours. I might actually cry.”

You held up your cup in mock apology. “I had mine already.”

“Traitor,” he muttered.

Jake looked up from where he was half-bent over a clipboard with Rooster. The second he saw you—your smile, the little crinkle at the corners of your eyes—he felt something twist in his chest. He didn’t say anything, just watched as you took another sip and tried not to grin too hard.

You were glowing. Genuinely glowing.

And it wasn’t because of him.

Coyote joined the group, tossing a wrench onto a nearby cart. “Alright, spill. You’re grinning like you just found out Maverick’s paying off everyone’s student loans.”

You glanced around at all their faces—expectant, amused—and finally caved.

“I met someone,” you said.

Jake’s clipboard snapped shut in his hands. No one else noticed, but his jaw ticked.

Rooster tilted his head. “When?”

“This morning. At a coffee shop, just off base,” you said, twirling your cup slowly. “I was in line, and we started chatting. He’s… funny. Really charming. Works in environmental science or something.”

Phoenix raised a brow. “So not in the military?”

“Nope.”

“Already a green flag,” Fanboy said under his breath.

You laughed. “Right? And he asked me out.”

Jake’s stomach dropped.

You kept talking, unaware of the spiral unraveling behind his practiced expression. “We’re getting dinner tonight. He suggested this little Thai place near the beach. Said it’s his favorite spot.”

“He’s got good taste,” Phoenix said.

“He sounds promising,” Rooster added. “Better than Buzzcut and Cop Guy.”

You winced. “God, don’t remind me.”

“Wait,” Fanboy said, lifting his head. “You’re saying this one might actually be decent?”

“I think so,” you said softly. “He seems… different. It’s not just about looks or whatever. There’s something about him.”

Jake was frozen. He didn’t laugh. Didn’t nod. He was staring at the floor like it held the answers to every single one of his bad decisions.

Because it had just hit him—like a missile to the gut—that he didn’t want to see you smiling like that because of someone else.

He’d wanted it to be him all along.

And now you were going on a date with someone who hadn’t made a complete ass of himself in front of you. Someone you were actually excited about. Someone who made you glow.

Jake couldn’t breathe.

Phoenix noticed the change in his posture and gave him a strange look, but he stood before she could say anything.

“I, uh… I gotta check something in the breakroom,” he muttered, walking off without meeting anyone’s eyes.

Phoenix frowned. “The breakroom?”

Bob glanced at Rooster, then at Fanboy. “We don’t even keep anything in there anymore.”

Rooster sighed. “He’s losing it.”

-

Later That Night

Bob’s place was already filled with the scent of pizza and the low hum of music when the squad filtered in. There was a pile of shoes near the door, two half-full coolers, and a lopsided stack of movies no one would watch.

Jake sat on the couch, beer in hand, eyes glazed over as the rest of the squad cracked open drinks and teased Fanboy for trying to light the fire pit with a lighter too small for the job.

“She’s not here, you know,” Coyote said, flopping onto the other side of the couch.

Jake didn’t reply.

“She’s probably having the time of her life right now,” Fanboy said with a smirk, strolling past with a handful of chips.

“Let it go, man,” Rooster added, nudging Jake’s leg. “We’ve accepted the fact that you’re the world’s worst matchmaker.”

Phoenix dropped down beside them and rolled her eyes. “It’s actually impressive how bad those dates were. I mean, come on—Buzzcut? Marcus?”

Jake took a long sip of beer. “They weren’t that bad.”

“They were terrible,” Phoenix replied. “And now she found someone by accident. Coffee Shop Guy is already in the lead.”

That was the moment her phone buzzed on the table.

Phoenix didn’t look at it right away. She was in the middle of tossing a gummy worm at Rooster’s head. But when it lit up again, and again, she finally picked it up.

Her eyes widened.

“Oh my god.”

Everyone paused.

She turned her phone around and held it out. “Look.”

It was a photo. Taken an hour ago, timestamped. You were on the pier, sitting on the railing, hair blowing in the breeze. Ice cream cone in hand. Laughing. Glowing.

Next to you, a guy. Not Buzzcut. Not Marcus. Someone new. Handsome. Casual arm on the back of your bench.

He looked just as happy.

Jake felt like the air had been knocked out of him.

“That’s him?” Bob asked, peering over her shoulder.

“I guess so,” Phoenix muttered. “My friend saw her and sent this. I had my phone on DND. This was taken, like, an hour ago.”

Jake stood up so fast the couch shook.

“Jake?” Rooster asked.

Jake stared at the picture. And then, before anyone could stop him—

“I love her.”

Everyone froze.

Phoenix blinked. “I’m sorry—what?”

Jake ran a hand through his hair, pacing now. “I freaking love her. And I’ve been setting her up with losers because I didn’t want to admit it. But I love her.”

Rooster dropped his beer. “Dude.”

Fanboy choked. “WHAT?”

Coyote threw a pillow at him. “You moron! You let her go on four dates?”

“I KNOW,” Jake groaned.

Phoenix stood up. “You have to tell her. Like now.”

“But she’s with him. Look at them!” Jake pointed at the photo. “They’re probably planning their damn wedding.”

“No,” Bob said calmly. “They’re eating ice cream.”

“We need to find her,” Phoenix decided, grabbing her keys. “Now.”

-

“You want to what?”

Rooster stared at Jake like he’d just suggested they storm the Pentagon in flip-flops and Hawaiian shirts.

Jake stood in the center of Bob’s living room, hair sticking up in every direction, chest heaving with chaotic energy and pure desperation. “A paper airplane. I’m writing her a message. On a damn paper airplane.”

Silence.

Then Fanboy, holding a beer and looking deeply unimpressed, said flatly, “What the hell kind of third-grade rom-com fantasy are we living in right now?”

“I’m serious,” Jake barked. “She told me once—like a year ago—that if someone ever gave her a paper airplane with something meaningful written on it, she’d cry. Happy cry. She said she’d marry them on the spot.”

Phoenix narrowed her eyes. “Wait. She really said that?”

“She was drunk,” Jake admitted, pacing like a man on the edge. “We were playing Truth or Drink, and she was tipsy off two margaritas. She said it was the kind of gesture no one makes anymore—personal, sweet, thoughtful. Like… actually knowing her. Not just pretending.”

Bob, from the armchair, blinked slowly. “You realize that means she probably meant it.”

Jake nodded fast, almost frantic. “Exactly. That’s why I have to do it.”

Rooster tossed a piece of junk mail at him. “Here, use this—wait. Never mind. That’s a Domino’s coupon.”

Coyote reached into his backpack and chucked a half-used notebook across the room. “Use this. But don’t waste the back pages—I have my gym log in there.”

Phoenix snatched a pen off the coffee table and pointed it at Jake like she was about to knight him. “Write from the heart. But don’t be cringe. I swear to god, if you start it with ‘Dear beautiful,’ I’m lighting you and the paper on fire.”

“Noted,” Jake muttered, sitting down like he was about to defuse a bomb instead of write on lined paper. His knee bounced. His fingers drummed. The notebook sat in his lap, untouched, and the squad stared like they were watching a live soap opera unfold on Bravo.

“Bro,” Fanboy said. “Just start with her name.”

“I’m not writing her a letter,” Jake said. “Not like that. I’m writing… pieces. Memories. Stuff I wish I’d done right.”

Bob tilted his head. “Like a patchwork confession?”

“Exactly,” Jake murmured, flipping the notebook open to a clean page and clicking the pen. “Things I should’ve said. Dates I should’ve taken her on. Dumb moments I should’ve known mattered.”

He began writing.

For a long time, the only sound was the soft scratch of the pen and the occasional beer bottle clinking against the coffee table. Jake’s brows furrowed, his mouth tugged into a tight line as he scribbled fast, pausing only to cross something out or shake his head at himself.

One by one, the squad wandered closer, like a group of nosy aunties pretending not to read over his shoulder.

On the top right corner, Jake wrote:

should’ve asked you to be my date to Coyote’s promotion party — you looked so good that night I forgot my own damn name

In the center:

remember that diner in El Centro? I should’ve asked for your number before we even got our food

I should’ve kissed you on the tarmac after that night flight

I should’ve told you that your laugh ruins me

Near the fold:

I kept trying to set you up with guys who weren’t me

because if I admitted I wanted to be the guy — and you didn’t feel the same — I’d never come back from it

Near the tip:

I want to take you on real dates

the kind with car karaoke and milkshakes and pulling you closer on the couch when the movie gets boring

the kind that end with you in my sweatshirt

Near the tail:

I’ve been in love with you since that time you punched Rooster in the arm for making fun of Bob’s playlist

I should’ve told you

I didn’t

I’m sorry

In the bottom left corner, nearly hidden:

I don’t deserve a second chance

but if you gave me one

I swear to god I’d never waste it

By the time he finished, the squad had gone quiet.

Jake exhaled hard through his nose, like the act of putting it all down on paper had taken something out of him. He stared at the page. Folded it. Creased it carefully, like it was a sacred artifact. With practiced fingers, he turned the notebook page into a perfect paper airplane and held it in both hands, like it might break.

“Dude,” Rooster said, blinking. “That’s actually… like, good.”

“Kind of beautiful,” Bob offered, smiling softly.

Fanboy looked dumbfounded. “Okay, I take back all the slander. That was not stick figure energy.”

Jake stood up slowly, paper airplane in hand, and said—more to himself than anyone else—“I’m giving it to her tonight. I don’t care if it makes me look insane.”

Phoenix grinned. “You already look insane. But also? Kinda hot.”

“I hate how much I’m rooting for you,” Rooster muttered.

Coyote clapped Jake on the shoulder. “Let’s go find her, man. You made your plane. Time to fly it.”

Jake groaned. “That was awful.”

“Thank you, I try,” Coyote said with a wink.

And just like that, the mission was a go. Paper airplane loaded. Feelings confessed. The squad ready to take on the world—or at least the city—in the name of rom-com chaos.

Next stop: the pier.

If she was still there.

If Jake wasn’t already too late.

-

The paper airplane sat on the coffee table like it held nuclear launch codes. Jake didn’t take his eyes off it.

“It’s not even that late,” he muttered, already pacing again. “They could still be at the pier. Maybe walking around or eating somewhere else nearby.”

Phoenix pointed at the picture on her phone again. “Okay, but which pier? That’s the problem. This could be anywhere. There are like seven piers in the county.”

Rooster squinted at the photo. “Zoom in on that sign behind them. The one next to the bench.”

She did, dragging her fingers across the screen. The image was grainy, and the lighting was terrible, but you could just barely make out a few blurry letters.

Fanboy tilted his head like a confused puppy. “That says ‘Pelican something.’ Pelican Wharf? Pelican Bay?”

Bob perked up. “Pelican Point. That’s a real place—it’s by the old marina past the naval museum. There’s a pier right next to it, with that same kind of bench. I’ve been there with my mom.”

Coyote grinned. “Bob, you beautiful genius.”

Jake was already grabbing his keys. “I’m going. I’ll drive out there. If she’s not there, I’ll keep looking.”

Rooster held out a hand like a crossing guard. “Whoa, whoa, whoa. You can’t just drive off into the night like it’s a Nicholas Sparks movie.”

“I absolutely can,” Jake said, and then paused. “And technically, it’s more like 10 Things I Hate About You.”

Phoenix raised a brow. “So, what? You’re Heath Ledger now?”

Jake pointed at her dramatically. “If the shoe fits, baby.”

Coyote clapped his hands once. “Alright, alright. Let’s not waste time. Jake, you take your truck and go to Pelican Point. If she’s not there, call us.”

Fanboy stood up too. “Wait—we should track her location.”

Everyone turned.

“She shares it with Phoenix!” he added quickly. “Remember when we all went camping and she said if she got murdered in the woods, she wanted someone to find her body?”

Phoenix nodded. “Yeah. I still have her on Find My Friends.”

She pulled up the app. “Okay, last ping was almost two hours ago. But—” She tilted the phone. “—she’s not at Pelican Point anymore.”

Jake frowned. “Where is she?”

Phoenix zoomed in, and then frowned too. “Uh…she’s home.”

A beat of silence passed.

“Wait,” Bob said slowly, “so she’s not on the pier anymore?”

Phoenix shook her head. “Nope. She’s back at her place.”

Fanboy looked around. “So…should we tell Jake not to go?”

“No,” Jake said instantly. “I’m still going. I’ll check the pier just in case the location’s lagging, and if she’s not there, I’m heading to her house.”

Phoenix crossed her arms. “And what’s the plan? You’re just gonna knock on the door and say what? ‘Hi, sorry all your dates sucked. Turns out it’s because I like you?’”

Jake didn’t blink. “Yeah. Pretty much.”

Bob smiled softly. “Don’t forget the airplane.”

Jake grabbed it from the table with a reverence normally reserved for flags and championship rings. He looked at the squad, still wide-eyed and vibrating like a caffeinated hummingbird.

“I have to try,” he said, voice low. “Because if she actually liked this guy—if he’s good to her and he makes her smile like that—and I just sit back and let her be with him, I’ll regret it for the rest of my life.”

Rooster groaned into his hands. “God, you’re in deep.”

Phoenix threw him his hoodie. “Go. But call us if she’s not there.”

Fanboy pointed at the airplane. “And don’t chicken out. That thing’s not gonna launch itself.”

Jake nodded. He turned and made it to the door.

Then paused.

“…You guys coming?” he asked, glancing back.

The squad looked at each other.

And then, like a slow-building mutiny, they all stood.

“We’ll follow you in Rooster’s Bronco,” Coyote said. “But from a distance.”

“We want to see what happens,” Phoenix added. “And make sure you don’t wimp out.”

Bob stood too, grabbing his car keys like they were tactical gear. “Also, if it goes badly, you’ll need backup.”

Jake huffed a disbelieving laugh. “You guys are insane.”

Rooster patted his shoulder. “Welcome to the club.”

They poured out into the night like a small military unit on a love-fueled recon mission. Jake climbed into his truck. The squad piled into two cars behind him. The paper airplane sat on the dashboard like a little talisman.

Operation: Find the Girl was officially underway.

-

Jake’s headlights swept across the gravel lot as he pulled up to the edge of Pelican Point. The pier jutted out into the water like a dark, jagged silhouette against the horizon, the last traces of sunset bleeding into the sky. He threw the truck into park, killed the engine, and stepped out into the warm coastal air.

The wind coming off the ocean hit him like a wall—salty, humid, and just cool enough to feel cinematic. His boots crunched over old wood planks as he walked the length of the pier, scanning every shadow, every bench, every corner where a couple might still be wrapped up in each other.

But it was empty.

No laughter. No clinking silverware from the food shack that had already shut down. No dimly lit photo booth glowing in the background. Just the creaking of wood and the soft lap of waves beneath him.

Jake let out a long, slow breath. “Shit.”

He stood at the railing for a second, holding the paper airplane in both hands, his fingers tightening around the folded wings. The edges were soft now—creased from where he’d clutched it all the way here. His pulse thrummed in his ears.

He glanced down at it again, rereading the scrawled notes across the wings and tail:

“Wish I took you to that rooftop jazz bar instead of setting you up with Trevor.”

“Should’ve kissed you after that night on the beach.”

“You looked so happy at the wedding last spring. I wanted to be the reason.”

“I like you. God, I like you so much it makes me feel twelve.”

He swallowed. Looked out at the water. Then grabbed his phone and hit Phoenix’s name.

She picked up on the first ring.

“Not there?” she asked, no preamble.

“Nope.” Jake dragged a hand through his hair. “Pier’s dead. Not a soul in sight except two drunk teenagers making out on the stairs.”

“Gross.”

“She’s not here, Phoenix.”

“I told you she was home—”

“I know, but I had to check.”

Behind her, he could already hear chaos brewing. Rooster shouting something about Google Maps, Coyote yelling at Fanboy to stop touching the AC controls.

Then Phoenix must’ve put the call on speaker, because suddenly the whole squad was in his ear.

“Abort mission?” Rooster asked.

“No,” Jake snapped. “Not aborting.”

“Then what’s the play?” Fanboy demanded.

“She’s at home. You gonna just roll up and throw the airplane at her window like a boombox?”

“Not a bad idea,” Coyote muttered. “Very Say Anything. Classic.”

Jake turned and leaned his back against the railing, staring up at the sky. “I don’t know, man. I feel like I missed the window. She’s probably sitting on the couch right now with this guy, talking about how great the date was.”

Silence.

Then Bob’s voice came in, quieter. “If that were true, she wouldn’t be home alone.”

Jake blinked. “What?”

“I mean,” Bob said, “if the date went that well, wouldn’t he still be with her? Or at least walking her to the door, staying for a drink, texting her right now? You think she’d really be sitting there by herself?”

Jake said nothing, chewing the inside of his cheek.

“She’s not texting,” Phoenix added. “I can see the read receipts. Last message she sent was a meme about a raccoon eating french fries. That was two hours ago, so your best hope is that she’s not sitting on that couch and making out with that gorgeous man right now”

Rooster groaned. “Why do you know this much about her phone activity?”

“Because I care, Bradley.”

Jake pushed off the railing. “Okay. Okay. I’m going. I’m heading to her place.”

“Hell yeah,” Coyote said immediately.

“Good,” Phoenix added. “And this time, don’t chicken out. Don’t make a joke. Don’t try to flirt your way around it.”

“Be honest,” Bob said gently. “If this is your one shot, take it seriously.”

Jake looked at the paper airplane one more time. Ran his thumb over the wing that read: “Wish I’d told you the truth sooner.”

He nodded to no one.

“On it.”

He hung up.

The squad, for once, didn’t say anything else.

Back in the truck, he laid the airplane carefully on the passenger seat, like it was more fragile than it looked. And for the first time all night, Jake Seresin wasn’t overthinking the landing. He was just aiming straight and trusting the wind.

-

Jake didn’t remember the drive to your place.

Somewhere between the pier and the turnoff to your street, his brain just… blanked. He barely noticed the green lights, the low hum of country radio still buzzing through the truck’s speakers, or the way his hands clenched the steering wheel so tight his knuckles cracked.

All he knew was that the paper airplane sat on the passenger seat like it held his whole heart.

He hadn’t even realized how fast he was driving until he practically skidded up to the curb outside your place, tires whispering against the pavement. His boots hit the ground hard, truck door slamming behind him.

He took the steps two at a time.

Then three.

And then he was there — fist raised, pounding on your front door like it owed him money.

“Open up!” he barked. “Come on, come on—”

He was still muttering to himself when the door opened.

And then you were there.

In a hoodie. Hair pulled back. Eyes glassy.

You looked… wrecked.

And Jake’s voice immediately faltered.

“I—I was gonna—” He waved a hand around like it could pull the words out of the air. “Shit, sorry, I know it’s late, I just—listen, I should’ve said something a long time ago, I was stupid, I thought I was helping you but I was just—God, I’ve been in love with you since that day at the hangar when you made fun of my playlist—”

“Jake.”

“I know you probably hate me,” he rushed on, words tumbling out. “But I had to try, okay? I had to say something before it was too late. I don’t care about the other guys, I don’t care about Coffee shop guy or whatever his name was, I care about you, and I swear to God if you tell me to leave I will—but just let me say this first—”

“Jake.”

You cut in again, softer this time.

He finally looked at you—really looked.

And the words died on his tongue.

You weren’t just tired. You weren’t just annoyed he’d shown up unannounced.

You were upset.

Something in your expression cracked like porcelain under pressure. Eyes rimmed pink, lower lip trembling, arms folded around yourself like armor.

Jake’s chest tightened.

“What happened?” he asked, voice low now. “Are you okay?”

You swallowed hard and leaned a shoulder against the doorframe, suddenly unable to meet his eyes.

“I left the date early,” you muttered. “He—he has a girlfriend.”

Jake blinked. “What?”

You laughed, bitter and broken. “Yeah. She showed up halfway through. Started yelling at him. Apparently this is a thing he does. Picks up girls at coffee shops and sees how long he can keep the lie going.”

Jake’s jaw clenched. “I’m gonna kill him.”

You didn’t answer.

Just stared down at the floor like it held the last shred of your dignity.

And that’s when Jake’s whole demeanor shifted.

The flustered panic drained from his face. The tension in his shoulders melted, replaced with something raw and real and steady. He took one careful step forward, then another, until he was right in front of you.

You didn’t flinch when his hand cupped your cheek. You just leaned into it—soft and broken and trusting.

“I’m so sorry,” he whispered.

You shook your head. “It’s not your fault.”

“I think it is,” he said. “I think if I’d said something sooner, you never would’ve gone on that date.”

Silence stretched between you.

And then Jake reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out the folded paper airplane.

“I was gonna just give you this,” he murmured. “Let it speak for me. But now I think you deserve more than a folded-up piece of notebook paper.”

He stepped back.

And then—to your absolute shock—he dropped to one knee on your porch.

“Jake—?”

“Don’t freak out,” he said quickly. “I’m not proposing. Not unless you want me to, in which case I’ll go grab a ring pop from the gas station, we can make it official.”

You snorted despite yourself.

He smiled.

Then he held the airplane out in both hands like an offering.

“I wrote everything I should’ve said,” he said quietly. “Everything I didn’t say when I should’ve. It’s all there. Every missed chance. Every almost. Every wish.”

Your fingers brushed the paper.

Jake’s voice wavered, just slightly.

“I thought if I couldn’t find the right words… maybe I could fold them.”

You didn’t move.

Didn’t speak.

Just stood there, stunned, holding the paper like it might shatter if you breathed wrong.

“I know it’s late,” Jake added. “I know I’m late. But I’m here now. And if you’ll let me, I’ll spend every day making up for the days I didn’t say the right thing.”

You blinked fast, trying to keep the tears in.

“Why didn’t you tell me sooner?” you whispered.

Jake stood.

“I was scared,” he said honestly. “Because once I told you… it’d be real. And if you didn’t feel the same, I don’t know if I could’ve stood next to you every day pretending it didn’t kill me.”

He looked at you.

And something cracked open inside you.

You didn’t even think. Just stepped forward, dropped the paper airplane gently to the porch, and reached for his collar.

Jake barely had time to register the movement before your mouth was on his.

The kiss was everything.

Long-overdue and breathless. Gentle and feral. All teeth and tears and tangled hands in hair and whispered promises between gasps.

When you finally pulled back, Jake was grinning like a fool, forehead pressed to yours.

And then—

A honk.

From the street.

You turned, squinting into the dark—

And saw two parked cars.

One held Fanboy half hanging out the window, fist pumping in the air.

The other had Phoenix leaning on the horn and Rooster hanging a “FINALLY!” sign out the passenger side.

Jake groaned. “Oh my god.”

“They followed you?”

“I hate them so much.”

“I love them,” you corrected, grabbing the paper airplane and tucking it close to your heart. “And I think I love you.”

Jake blinked.

Then grinned.

“Yeah?” he whispered.

You kissed him again.

Longer this time.

From the cars, a chorus of victorious whooping erupted—cheers, clapping, and at least one bottle of champagne being popped (probably Coyote’s doing).

But Jake didn’t hear any of it.

Friday nights were reserved for drunken pool games at The Hard Deck with Y/n’s favorite squad of pilots. But by the end of the week, she was exhausted. Work, for some reason, had been a much bigger load to bear. People were just much more forgetful, rude, and critical this week, leaving her to pick up the pieces. She just wanted to stay in, maybe watch a movie, and sleep. 

When she told her boyfriend, Bob, this over the phone, he immediately stepped in. “Do you want me to stay back with you? I know you’ve had a hard week.” He said sweetly. 

She shook her head, “No, you’re all good. If you wanna swing by after, go ahead though.” She reassured. Though she’d love to just lie in bed with Bob, and hold each other till they were fast asleep and drooling. The TV always ended up playing the ‘continue watching?’ screen.

“Okay, I shouldn’t be out too late. Might have a few drinks because I lost a bet to Phoenix.” He said, sighing. 

That made her chuckle. She was not surprised by that in the slightest. Bob wasn’t a huge drinker. He’d have a beer every once and a while and call it a night. But that just made it easier for the dagger squad to have leverage against him. 

“That’s fine. Be safe.” She said into the phone

“I always am.”

Well, it was 11 PM. She was in the middle of her millionth Friends rewatch, and she was bored out of her mind. Maybe she should’ve gone to Hard Deck. She took a handful of popcorn and shoved it in her mouth. 

Then her phone rang. Caller ID: Chicken. Obviously, her screen name for Rooster. Her brows furrowed, but she shrugged as she reached for her phone. It was probably going to be just him grumbling about how she didn’t come out and how much fun she was missing. She pressed the green answer button.

“Hello?” 

“Hey, Y/n- Uh- We’ve got a situation,” Rooster said over the speaker.

Oh god. What happened? A million different possibilities played through her mind. Did Bob get hurt? Did someone hit on him? Did he die in some freak accident? There were too many ‘situations’ that this could be. And it was only 11 PM.

“What do you mean?” She asked worriedly.

“IS THAT Y/N?” A familiar voice echoed faintly in the back… Was that?

“Bud, go- go sit in Jake’s truck.” Rooster said off to the side, “So, Phoenix brought this new daiquiri seltzer thing for Bob to drink as part of their bet. And neither of them realized it had a 70% alcohol content.” He sounded like he was wincing, as if waiting to hear her yell at him. 

“Jesus Christ! Is he okay?” She asked, more worried than anything else.

“Yeah, he only had a couple, but for a guy who barely drinks… He’s pretty gone. We were talking about having him just stay at my place, but we didn’t know if you guys had plans.” 

She immediately jumped into action, “Bring him to mine. He has a bunch of his stuff here.” She said firmly. “How’s Phoenix? Does she need anything?”

“She’s fine. She had a lot less. We’re getting Bob water, then we’ll be on our way.”

“Alrighty. Sounds good.”

She hung up the phone and started prepping for his arrival. Usually, it was the other way around. On a crazy Friday night, it was Bob taking care of her drunken mess. So even though she was tired, she wasn’t mad. It’s not like he had planned on this. 

She grabbed a bunch of plastic water bottles and put them on her bedside table. There were some extra clothes he kept in a drawer in her closet. She loved that drawer. She loved the fact that it existed. That he felt comfortable enough dating her to leave his things there.

Ibuprofen for when he was hungover the next day. Snacks for if he needed something to soak everything up. And an extra blanket for if he got the chills.

Yeah, it was safe to say that she was very experienced in being dysfunctionally drunk… Was that a problem? She dusted her hands off. Oh well, it just meant that she knew exactly how to take care of Bob, who was probably getting his world fucking rocked.

A knock on the door broke her out of her thoughts, and she ran over to open it. When she did, she found a sober Hangman and Rooster holding up a disheveled Bob. His glasses were crooked on his face, and his typically tidy hair was pushed back and standing up. A red drunken flush crossed his cheeks. She had never seen him so wrecked. 

“Hey, party animals,” She said, trying to keep the atmosphere light, letting them in. 

“Hey… Sorry to crash your night in.” Rooster said with a guilty expression. 

“Oh, it’s no problem. This is kind of an emergency.”

Meanwhile, Bob looked up at Hangman with a hazy smile. “That’s my girlfriend.” He slurred, nodding proudly. She broke into a smile.

Hangman nodded, pretending to be entertained, “Yeah, buddy. Very astute.” He dropped his smile and looked over at her, “He has not shut up about you, all freaking night.” 

She gave a smile that said ‘awww’. Poor Bob. Even in his inebriated state, he was still thinking about her. 

“Where do you want us to put him?” Rooster asked, still holding onto Bob, who looked like he was doing his best to be present… but failing. 

“Here, we’ll take him to my room.” She said, leading them in.

After they got Bob lying on the bed, she walked them to the door. The two lieutenants walked out with their tails between their legs, saying their sorrys. She tried to reassure them that it was completely fine. But they were good guys. It was clear they felt bad for crashing her night, and also probably for not reading the tiny wording on the front of the bottle.

She walked back into her bedroom to find Bob lying on top of the blankets. His cheek pressed up against the pillow, and his legs sprawled out. 

“Baby… I’m drunk.” He cried out.

That made her heart hurt. She knew he didn’t like to drink very much. That he didn’t like the feeling of it. She walked over to the bed and gently sat by his feet. Reaching out to hold his ankle. 

“I know. I can see that. Let’s get you out of this uniform and into something comfy.” Her voice was softer than normal.

He nodded, slowly blinking. She moved over to the floor and knelt by his face so she could take his glasses off. The wire frames were currently being crushed between his face and the bed. She reached out to grab the arms of it, and he sighed just looking at her.

“My god, you’re so pretty.” He slurred. His blue eyes looked up at her. Pupils huge enough that she could see her reflection in them. “Don’t- Don’t take my glasses off. I wanna see my pretty girl.”

She couldn’t help the smile that grew on her face. Taking care of Bob really wasn’t bad at all. “Thank you. But you’re crushing your glasses. The arms might get all bent.”

His eyes widened in understanding. “Oh yeah.” He said, sitting up clumsily to avoid that. His body swayed, as if he were sitting on a ship. 

She stood back up and gently took the glasses off his face. He looked up at her with his big doe eyes. After some admiring, he reached out his arms and looked up at her, as if asking for permission. She chuckled and walked in between his legs so he could wrap his arms around her waist. His face pressed up against her stomach. “I missed you. I just wanted to go home.”

She stretched over and put his glasses on the bedside table before hugging him back and scratching the back of his head. He let out a shaky exhale at that. It made her heart skip a beat that he called her house ‘home’. Or maybe it wasn’t the house. Maybe she was his home. 

“Yeah, I know. We’re gonna get you sober soon.” She reassured. She left his arms and grabbed the shirt and boxers that she had picked out and left on the dresser. Returning to him, sitting obediently on the bed, she began to unbutton his khaki shirt. 

He giggled, “I always- I always like it when you do that.” He stammered while squinting his eyes, as if he was trying to get the best view of her without his glasses. 

“I know you do. But tonight we’re just sleeping, mister.” She teased 

“That’s my favorite.” He said, happily nodding as she took off the overshirt.

“Arms up for me, baby.” She said, and he did it, letting her slip the white T-shirt underneath over his head, “You’re a very easy drunk to take care of.” She commented.

He smiled to himself as she helped him put on the old Lemoore Union High School shirt he used for pajamas. “I-I don’t wanna make your week worse.” He admitted softly.

Oh yeah. The horrible week had slipped her mind. She had told him so so many times over the phone about it in the past few days. There were a few times she’d sniffle and tear up on their phone calls, out of frustration built up. And he’d always try and be right over because that was just Bob. He never wanted to see his girl upset.

And it was clear he was worried about upsetting her right then.

“Bob, any time I spend with you is the best part of my week.” She said truthfully, “This included.” She kissed his head, and he closed his eyes, just letting himself feel the bliss for a moment.

After Bob was done changing into some fresher boxers, she had him sit up against the bed frame. She handed him a water bottle, which he accepted eagerly.

“Don’t drink too fast or you’ll throw up.” She said, “You’ve seen me do it.” 

He chuckled at that and took a slow sip of water. She crawled onto the bed and sat next to him, checking her phone and reading the group texts from Rooster and Hangman teasing everybody about the night. 

Chicken: Well, that’s the last time Phoenix ever brings a drink to the function. Jesus Christ.

Bagman: Will send all blackmail here in the morning so it hits you harder hungover. Take a shot every time Bob talks about his girlfriend in the videos.

“You are so pretty, Y/n.”

She turned her attention back to him, “You’ve said that quite a lot tonight.” She said, raising her brows. The constant repeats made her wonder what exactly he was saying to Hangman all night. 

“You should- you should be a model.” He hiccuped, “Like those girls on Hangman’s w-all.” 

The water had given him a bad case of the hiccups, but he seemed just eager to talk to her now with a little more energy.

She furrowed her brows and smirked. “Who are the girls on Hangman’s wall?”

He closed his eyes and nodded at nothing. “When we share a stateroom, he’s got these big p-osters. With- with these ladies on it.” 

She was trying to stifle her laugh as he talked with his eyes closed. 

“And they’re all in like red bikinis on the beach or- or on the American flag… I don’t think that’s allowed.” He said, sadly shaking his head, which made her laugh out loud. She couldn’t hold it in at what looked like his genuine disappointment about a violation of The Flag Code. 

He blinked his eyes open at her laugh. His favorite sound in the whole world. A bashful look went over his face. “But none of them are prettier than you.”

“You’re crazy, baby. Thank you. Maybe at some point I’ll do a photoshoot like that and print you a poster.” She offered.

His eyes practically bugged out of his head at the thought. A surprised cough came from his throat as he pointed up to the ceiling. “But I-IIIIIII wouldn’t put it on the bunk wall. That’s just for me.” He said, nodding and leaning over so he could lie in her lap. Even though the subject matter was scandalous, he wasn’t touchy. He wasn’t trying to start anything. He just wanted to spend this horribly sloshed time with his girl. 

“Oh, that’s just for you?” She repeated, teasingly looking down at him, as she brushed her fingers through his hair. He looked up at her with half-lidded eyes. “How are you feeling? Are you feeling dizzy? Thirsty? Hungry?”   

He shook his head. “I feel better. I’m gonna feel bad tomorrow though.” He groaned.

She nodded, “But that’s why I’m here. I’m gonna make us breakfast, and get you lots of water and ibuprofen.” She sang softly.

The blissed smile returned to his face. “You’re an angel. A literal angel.” He reached out and held her hand. 

She squeezed his hand back. “What even happened? What was the bet?” 

He groaned again. His face crumpling up and it was simply adorable. “So, so there’s this strike we’re training for. And- and the target is like… It’s like…”

She did her best to seem attentive and listen, but she was fighting the urge to smile. Playing with his messed-up sandy blonde hair between her fingers, she found it interesting how he struggled to speak. Usually, when he explained missions to her, he was able to explain it straight to the point… Not tonight. 

“The target is like… super duper tiny. And I was like, heyyyy no problem. Nooooo problem for Bob. No, no.” He said, giggling to himself in her lap, “But Phoenix said I couldn’t do it. And I was like- that’s mean.”

“So you bet that you could do it.” She finished his story.

He nodded, “Mmmhmm, I-I bet that I could do it first try. Which was stupid. And my punishment was drinking 5 drinks of Phoenix’s choice.” 

“Why’d she choose that one?” She asked curiously

“LOOK!” He said suddenly, very loudly with his eyes shot open, which made her laugh, “Sheee thought that she was doing me a favor. She had heard that this brand tasted like juice. So it’d be easier for me, ya know.” 

She nodded, listening. It was sweet that he was still defending his pilot. Even though he was absolutely wrecked, he wasn’t angry at Phoenix. 

“And it did. It tasted like strawberry juice. Like your favorite. But the percentage was so high.” Bob whined, “Per can.” 

“70% per CAN? These were canned drinks?” She groaned

He nodded, clearly regretting. “Not fun. Not fun at all.”

After a little bit of just talking, he started drifting off on her lap. She gently moved him off of her, just so she could lie down next to him. He grumbled, but he was too exhausted and dizzy to protest. She tucked him in under the blanket and turned off the bedside lamp. 

When she shifted onto her side, she felt Bob scooch over and wrap his arms around her. He squeezed her against him like a teddy bear, looking for comfort. She sighed, relaxed, and smiled to herself. She did a good job. He’s gonna be just fine.

The next morning, Bob woke up with a loud groan. His head felt like it was being split open with an axe. Sitting up, he looked around dazed and blind for a second before remembering that he was in his girlfriend’s bedroom. He reached for his glasses on the bedside table, putting them on. 

He found a sticky note next to a water bottle and painkillers, 

‘Picking up eggs for breakfast. Drink the water and ibuprofen… Don’t throw up in bed, please :)’ 

He did so. He chugged the water and threw back the pills now that his stomach wasn’t as sensitive. A queasy feeling took over him, but he was used to it. He flew jets after all, so nausea didn’t often get him to throw up. After some deep breaths, the feeling subsided.

After that, he checked his phone to see that the group chat had blown up. 

The most recent messages were from 2 AM, and it was a picture of Phoenix passed out on Rooster’s couch. A blanket draped over her as her mouth hung open with a little drool on her chin.

Rooster: Get this woman her car keys.

A groan mixed with a laugh escaped him right as Y/n walked in. 

“Morning, baby. How’s the hangover?” 

God, he was so glad to see her. He was so happy to be in his girlfriend’s room, and not on Rooster’s couch.

“Bad. So bad.” He sighed, rubbing his face.

“You feeling good enough to eat? I’m gonna just make some quick eggs and toast.”

With a tired nod, he got out of bed. He walked over to her and silently wrapped his arms around her. “Yes, please.” He rested his chin on top of her head. “Thank you for taking care of me.” 

She sighed into his neck. “Any time… You’re always taking care of me when I’m drunk anyway. It’s about time I redid the favor.” She chuckled.

A little bit later, they sat at her kitchen counter, eating their eggs and toast. Bob picked at his slowly, wary of making himself sick. She had her phone out and scrolled through the various videos Hangman sent. Starting from the beginning of the night, there was a video of a sober Bob sitting in a booth and looking at the camera with dread.

“My name is Bob Floyd. And this video is to document that Natasha Trace was completely and utterly right.” He said before opening a white can with a strawberry label and cheering it to the camera.

The next video was Bob, a little gone, but not as bad as the state she saw him in. “My name is Robert. And- and I’m three drinks in… These are kinda strong, Hangman.” He burped.

“They’re the most girly drink she could find, Bob,” Hangman said off-camera.

“Anyway. I miss my girlfriend, and I wanna go home.” He said before taking a sip of his fourth can.

The last video was chaotic and shaky footage of Bob being helped into Hangman’s truck. In the background, they could hear Rooster on the phone with her. He scooched in and lay across the back seat. “Where’s Y/n? How come she’s not here?” He asked confused, making her laugh as she watched back the footage. Bob couldn’t even watch it; he just groaned, listening to the audio.

“She’s at home. We’re taking you to her, I think.” Hangman said.

“I love her so much.” He slurred, “I’m gonna- ’m gonna marry that girl. She’s so smart. And so pretty.” 

She gasped and laughed out loud watching that back. Bob’s eyes shot open. He said that?! 

Hangman turned the camera to himself, revealing a monotone expression. He looked pissed off before turning the camera back to show Bob again. 

“Hangman, where’s my phone? I- I wanna call her.”

“I have it so you don’t, dumbass.” 

Then the recording ended, and she looked over at Bob, who had his head in his hands. 

“You’re so sweet.” She said, leaning over to poke at his shoulder

“I hope you know that I’d say it all again sober.” He said nervously. He didn’t want her to think that it was just a drunk accident. All of what he said was true; he just didn’t say it so pointedly all the time. Some liquid convincing just made all his feelings burst out.

Beautiful colors of pink and violet were painting the sky, the sun beginning his descent towards the western aerosphere. It had shined brightly throughout the entirety of the squad’s monthly beach day, bathing your skin in warmth and golden light.

“For fuck’s sake, Javy ! You guys can shoot down a target from two hundred feet while flying at Mach one but you can’t aim a volleyball for shit !” You snapped, dusting the thousands of grains of sands from your book and towel.

Next to you Natasha was hiding a laugh behind her own book.

Pointing a finger at her, you warned, “don’t you dare laugh at me, Nat.” You got up to brush off more sand off your legs, “that’s why I hate going to the beach with them, there’s nothing less relaxing on this earth,” you mumbled out, a frown making the lines on your forehead prominent.

“My bad, Lightning !” Jake called out, his hands around his mouth to amplify the sound, though his tone was very much not apologetic, and the smirk stretching his lips only fueled the irritation simmering under your skin.

Glaring at him, you debated for a second on yelling back a piece of your mind, indulge into this game he seemed to initiate anytime he could. Riling you up, provoking you and then simply grinning like an idiot when you eventually ended up taking the bait.

But for once, you decided to be the bigger person. So you settled on raising your middle finger high enough that he could very much identify what lovely sign you were throwing his way.

“I love you too, darlin’ !” He yelled back.

You rolled your eyes so hard you feared for a moment that they’d get permanently stuck.

“Careful, you’re blushing,” Natasha snickered, still lying next to you.

Scoffing you flipped her off as well, “which side are you on ?”

“The side of love, darlin’.” She smiled in a perfect imitation of Jake’s Texan drawl.

You couldn’t have contained the laugh that broke out of you even if you tried, “shit, you actually sound just like him.”

“I know,” she cooed, obviously proud of her trick, “is it turning you on ?” She inquired, wiggling her eyebrows at you.

A shocked laugh escaped you, “Geez Nat—“

“OH MY GOD WHAT TIME IS IT ?” Javy’s sudden gasp made you both jump as he came running towards you, where all of the squad’s stuff was and he started abruptly digging through his bag.

“It’s seven.” Bob supplied after a quick look to his watch.

“I was supposed to meet my mom for dinner fifteen minutes ago,” he explained, panicked as he was hastily grabbing all his stuff and throwing it carelessly in his bag. “Jake, can you drive me ?”

Usually, you carpooled to avoid bringing everyone’s car and having to park too far away if the beach was busy that day.

“Let me think about it…” Jake walked over, deliberately slow, pretending to think it over.

Javy groaned, not in the mood to entertain his friend’s antics, “come on, man.”

Jake sped up a bit, raising his arms in mock defense, “alright, alright, don’t throw a fit mama’s boy. I’ll drive you.”

As he was gathering his own stuff, you suddenly saw him frown, and then frantically look around. Lifting his towel, emptying his bag only to pack it again, passing his hands in the sand in visible hope of stumbling upon something…

You were about to throw in a witty remark when you noticed something missing on his wrist.

His watch.

His father’s watch.

In its place was now a tanning line. A ribbon of whiter skin surrounded by his Californian and natural Texan tan.

It didn’t take a genius, nor being Jake’s best friend to know how precious that watch was to him, or to guess that it might have been one of the last few things left from his dad.

He wore it at all times. There weren’t much occasion you had seen him without it ever since you’d met him. It had stayed securely around his wrist all throughout Naval Academy, and then had stayed through every one of his deployment until he got permanently assigned in San Diego. During every flight, every mission, every exam even, every casual outing… You could always see the watch rest proudly on his cuff. Perhaps it was the only thing about him Jake didn’t feel the need to flex, a quiet legacy he carried around with him, feeling the weight of it in his every move, every decision.

The only times he ever took it off was during underwater training and at the beach if he went for a swim. Surely a watch like that was waterproof and even capable of descending a few feet deep, but the fact that Jake was unwilling to bring it with him in an environment it was specifically designed to survive in, was only another proof of its value to him.

He never talked about it. Never ever voiced the words ‘my dad’ out loud, but everyone knew. You knew.

Javy was ready to go, packed bag at his feet as he hastily threw in a t-shirt over his head, “Jake ? Are you good to go ?”

Jake froze for a moment. It was rare to see him display anything other than sheer haughtiness. And it weirdly tugged at your heartstrings to see him look so lost for an instant.

You were about to help him look for his watch — sure you hated him, but that didn’t mean you didn’t feel empathy for him losing something so precious to him, when—

“Yeah, yeah, I’m coming.” He said a bit absentmindedly, his eyes still frantically looking around as he stuffed, slightly violently, all his stuff in his backpack.

He quickly got up, threw the bag over his shoulder as Javy was waving everyone goodbye and starting to make a run for Jake’s truck.

You watched Jake with a shock you hoped wasn’t too visible. Yes, he was the emotionally constipated type, never one to speak about feelings or do so much as even mention or acknowledge them, but surely when he was about to lose, perhaps forever, the one thing that probably meant more to him than the whole world, he would say something, express himself, let it out.

And you knew that if he’d speak up right now, the whole squad would stop everything and help him look for it. Javy would run right back on the warm sand and rampage through the entire beach if he had to.

Surely, he had to know that the squad wouldn’t see him as weak over getting a little panicked upon losing the one item he held so dearly in his heart ?

But you watched, stunned, and for some reason with a weight pressing down on your chest, as Jake looked one last time at the beach, eyes boring into the sand as if the distance would give him some perspective and help him spot the watch in a nanosecond.

“See you on Monday,” he threw to everyone over his shoulder, soundly halfhearted as he turned around and began to walk towards his truck, joining Javy.

The image stuck with you for some reason. it was like seeing him willingly abandon a piece of himself behind, and for what ? Just so he could hold on to his ‘feelings make you weak’ Hangman persona ?

If you had been closer to him, and in any place at all to call him out on this, you would have screamed at him. Yanked him back by the collar and prohibited anyone to leave this beach until the watch wasn’t back on its rightful place, on Jake’s wrist.

“I think I’m gonna head out as well,” Reuben spoke up, “does anyone want me to drop them home ?”

“Me please,” cheered Mickey, dusting some sands off his chest.

“Yes, please. Thanks Reuben,” Bob smiled, gathering his things.

“I’ll ride with Y/N, we’re gonna head back as well, right ?” Natasha turned to you.

If you had been able to say anything other than insults and provocative remarks, you would have reassured him.

If you had been able to consider yourself his friend, you would have helped him look for it.

“Y/N ?”

But you were capable of none nor were you any of those things.

And still—

“Actually I’m gonna stay a bit longer,” you blurted out without really thinking about it.

“You sure ?” Natasha questioned, skeptical.

“Yeah, the sunset is beautiful, it’s still warm and my book is getting really good, I’ll stay for a bit.” You assured, as if trying to convince yourself more than Natasha.

“Alright,” she conceded, still eyeing you a bit suspiciously, “be careful, you text me when you get home and don’t forget that Penny’s right next door if you have any problem,” she pointed to the Hard Deck which was facing the beach.

“Yes mom,” you chuckled as she playfully rolled her eyes at you.

As Reuben’s car drove away, you stood there for a moment. Watching the waves crash on the beach, the soothing sound of it blending with the distant echo of music coming from the Hard Deck. This beach wasn’t an especially popular one, and you marveled for a second at being the only person standing there.

Why had you stayed ?

You kinda had blurted it out without any real thoughts of what you would actually do once left alone.

Because you hadn’t stayed for the sunset or your book, in fact, the book was getting a bit boring if you were honest.

Jake’s expression when being met with the realization he’d lost his watch suddenly flashed into your mind and it made your heart clench. And perhaps it was what prompted you to start digging in the sand where his towel had previously been lying.

“I can’t believe I’m fucking doing this,” you muttered to yourself while rummaging through the sand, the watch couldn’t be far… right ?

You didn’t even notice when the warm light of the sunset got subsided by the sharp, white one of the moon.

The spot where the squad had previously established its camp was empty. You didn’t find anything apart from a few seashells and a colony of small crabs that you had probably woken up from their slumber.

You probably should have gone home. The watch obviously wasn’t there. But then your gaze drifted out towards the ocean… the guys usually played volleyball closer to the water, perhaps Jake had lost the watch around there ?

The cold breeze coming from the ocean had started to pick up as you searched the grounds of what was previously the volleyball court.

And when you didn’t find anything there, you moved on to other parts of the beach, trying to remember and retrace the entirety of Jake’s steps during the day. Your knees were aching from being constantly on them, hands pruned from the wet sand you’d been digging up, nails completely darkened by the grains. Your phone was slowly dying, using all its battery to shine inside the holes you were digging up, desperate to see a flash of silver. And it was cold, so, so cold. The wind was getting stronger, making you clutch your hoodie tighter around yourself.

The moon had well settled into the sky now, an indicator of just how much time you’d spent there.

You had wanted to give up, oh so many times. But everytime you had wanted to get up and leave, an image of Jake’s face would flash back into your mind. The way he had looked back at the beach, like he was saying goodbye to his dad a second time. And every time, without fail, your brain had conjured images of him getting home, and calling his mom back in Texas, telling her about how he had lost the watch and the image was just too painful for you, enough to bring unwanted and in your opinion, unjustified, tears to your eyes if you thought about it too much.

Anyone could have argued you were being overly dramatic over a guy who you proclaimed your hatred towards from the rooftops. And you would have agreed. But you wouldn’t leave this beach until the watch was secured in your hands.

You were on your hands and knees, near shore where the water was gently lapping up at the sand, bringing new things and taking away some when—

“Y/N ! Is that you ?”

Penny’s voice from the front of the beach made you jumped.

“Jesus Christ, Penny !” You exclaimed, a hand over your racing heart, “you scared the shit out of me !”

Jogging up lightly to meet her, you saw her frown when she took in the state of you, her worried face illuminated by the Hard Deck’s sign.

“What are you doing out there, sweetheart ?” She asked softly, and you could perceive the same tone in her voice she’d use with Amelia sometimes, no doubt that her maternal instinct were kicking in, seeing you all alone, covered in sand and digging up holes in the dark.

“Oh I was— I lost my bracelet earlier, you know we had our beach day with the squad ? Yeah, so the bracelet means a lot to me and I— I couldn’t leave without it.”

You pestered Jake for being emotionally constipated but you couldn’t even admit to Penny, of all people, sweetest woman alive who’d never judge you, that you were doing this solely for him.

“I see,” she said, an empathetic smile pulling at her lips, “I’ll help you.”

“No don’t worry Penny, it’s alright, promise. I’m all good.”

Was there a sick part of you that wanted to be the one to find Jake’s watch ? Maybe, you would deny all of it thought.

“At least I’ll wait for you, I just closed the bar.”

“Don’t worry,” you repeated with the sweetest smile you could mutter out at the moment, “I won’t stay much longer anyway.”

“You sure ?”

“I am, thank you though that’s really nice of you.”

“Could you at least activate your location please ? And also text me when you get home, okay ?”

Saluting her you let out a chuckle, “I will, Penny. Promise.”

“Alright.” She conceded, bregrundly.

She knew this beach was safe, otherwise she would have never left you alone. You parted with a warm hug and watched her drive away, similar to how you’d watched your friends leave a few hours ago now… God, had it been really that much time ?

You were beginning to lose hope, Jake’s watch seemed to have truly vanished, and you tried to ignore the heavy feeling sitting on your chest that came along with this conclusion. Telling yourself to check towards the west side of the beach before leaving, though you knew it was useless, you couldn’t really recall Jake going there, you still crouched, and began to dig, again…

Phone flash blasting in the dark, the light reflected on something then…. Silver !

“Oh my god !”

You rubbed your eyes to make sure the sight in front of you was real and not the fatigue making you hallucinate. But it was real, the small silver circle was still there.

“Oh my god !” You exclaimed again in a laugh, immediately digging in.

And sure enough, the watch was there. Covered in sand, but there. You carefully inspected it for damage, but other than the general dirt, it seemed fine.

Turning the watch over, your eyes caught something. The initials of who you could only guess was his father were delicately engraved in the metal, G.S. Before you could even think about it, your thumb passed, almost tenderly over the gravure.

A small, disbelieving laugh escaped you again, and it was incredibly chocked up. You didn’t even notice you’d been tearing up until you felt something wet roll down your cheeks.

Quickly you wiped the tears off, a feeling of embarrassment creeping up your neck even though you were the sole person standing on this beach, moonlight illuminating your figure.

Forcing your emotions to settle down, it was only a watch for Christ’s Sake, you practically ran all the way back to your car. It felt as if your whole body was buzzing, and you couldn’t explain this weird feeling of excitement and… was it fulfillment ?

A genuine giddiness was coursing through your veins as you drove home, you couldn’t wait for Jake to have his watch again. See him settle, knowing his father’s legacy was in him, like it’s always been and always would be, but the physical representation of it, back on his wrist. The comforting weight of it bringing meaning to every one of his moves.

The excitement kept you awake once you were home, so you took the time to carefully clean the watch. You physically couldn’t give it back to him like that. And soon enough, once you were sure that there was not even the tiniest grain of sand left in any notches, only then, did sleep finally caught up to you.

The sun wasn’t even up yet when you made your way to base the next morning. You had decided that you would just leave the watch in his locker, he didn’t need to know who found it, and maybe he wouldn’t be too happy to see you holding his father’s watch, considering you hated each other…. Right ? At least that’s what you told yourself.

Arriving in front of his locker, you opened his numbered lock, honestly who was stupid enough to put in their birthday as a password ?

But then, anyone could argue that it was weird you knew his birthday, as someone who hated him so much.

Refusing to give this any more thought, you neatly placed the watch in his locker, on a little rag. You made sure one last time that it was perfectly clean, made sure it was not askew, made the sure the rag wasn’t wrinkled…. And for a moment it felt as if you were stalling.

“My god, I need to get a grip,” you mumbled to yourself, finally closing the locker door, a bit more forcefully than you had intended.

“I’m telling you, my mom is obsessed with getting me in a relationship !” Javy complained to Jake on their way to the locker room, “last night she just kept showing me pictures of her friends’ daughters and being like ‘you two would make an adorable couple’ like, oh my god, can’t a man go at his own pace ?”

Jake only hummed, not exactly in the mood to discuss Javy’s mom self proclaimed matrimonial agency.

Each of his step was heavy. Heavy with the lack of sleep and the mass pressing down on his chest. The missing weight on his wrist made him feel strangely stripped bare, like a piece of himself was missing, left where he had abandoned it on the beach the night before.

When Jake had gotten home after dropping Javy off, he had cursed himself. He couldn’t believe he had actually walked away, without even taking the time to look for the watch, no he had just left.

He had to refrain back tears when his mom had called him that night, asking him about his day, and he hadn’t had the courage to tell her what had happened, consumed by sorrow and shame. He felt pathetic. He spent that entire night sulking, thinking about how ashamed his father would be if he saw him like that. It felt like letting him down.

“Like she doesn’t get that I don’t want to settle down, I mean not yet anyway—“

“Yeah, tell her you want to keep bringing girls home from the Hard Deck every weekend for a little while longer, I’m sure she’ll be thrilled to hear it.” Jake finally answered Javy’s rant, trying to give his remark its usual wit.

“You fucking jerk, you’re supposed to be on my side !” Javy whined, opening up his locker.

Jake was abort to retort something but the words died on the tip of his tongue when he opened his own locker.

He froze.

He was met with his watch. Neatly placed on a small rag, looking as new as the day he had received it from his dad, just a few days before losing his battle against cancer.

His heart skipped a beat in his chest. How ?

Jake stayed there for what felt like an eternity to him, but was only a few mere seconds, just staring at the watch. He could faintly hear Javy next to him still talking, now rambling about how his mother compared him to his cousin or whatever, but the sound of his voice was drawn out, an echo in Jake’s ears.

With shaky hands, he gently grabbed the watch and immediately turned it over, eyes fixed on his father’s initials that he traced with a tender pass of his thumb, and his heart clenched, suddenly overwhelmed by a wave of emotion.

He had no idea how the watch had gotten there, and perhaps it should have worried him a bit more — whoever this was had cracked the impossible code of his locker for Goodness’s sake ! — but he chose to pay it no mind.

Now Jake wasn’t superstitious or a believer of any kind, far from it, actually. But in this moment, he chose to believe that whatever, whoever had found his watch and brought it back to him, had somehow been missioned by his father, who had probably been very upset about his son being so careless with the precious time teller.

Jake knew it was stupid, truly. His father, from the beyond, somehow orchestrating a whole plan to find the watch left on the beach and leave it in his locker on base, was a stupid theory. But the thought of it made a warmth spread out in his chest and his eyes sting slightly. So he decided that for once, he would let himself believe in a little stupidity.

This weird mix of euphoria and serenity hadn’t left him the entire week. He felt good, more confident now that the watch was back on his wrist. And he would sometimes just stare at it for a few moments, in amazement and incredible gratefulness for having been given a second chance, that’s how he saw it. And he would honor his father in every action he took while securely wearing the watch.

He had found a new vigor, a new desire to win, one that made him better, he thought. Though the squad would probably argue it just made him more insufferable.

So that’s with a pumped up step that Jake walked into the Hard Deck that week end, closely followed by everyone.

“Alright, what do you guys want ?” He cheered, still in an exceptionally good mood.

The squad all gave him their orders before going to find some seats, you merely grumbled a ‘nothing that comes from you’ and somehow, Jake understood it meant a virgin mojito.

He made his way to the bar, patiently waiting for Penny to finish off her conversation with a customer.

“Hey, sailor !” She greeted with a smile when she saw him, “what can I get you and the squad ?”

After he told her, she started to prepare the drinks on front of him, making small talk, asking about training, how life was on base when—

“Oh by the way,” she seemed to remember, momentarily stopping the making of your virgin mojito to look at Jake, “do you know if Y/N found her bracelet ?”

Jake frowned, confused.

“Um, I don’t know. I didn’t know she had lost a bracelet,” he said, head turning slightly to look for you in the crowd and he suddenly frowned more, looking back at Penny, “in fact, I didn’t even know she wore bracelets, her wrists are usually bare.”

“Oh, because I saw her last week, after your guy’s beach day. I closed the bar a little earlier than usual because it was pretty quiet, and she was there, digging in the sand, looking for her bracelet. I proposed to help her but she said she was fine. It was quite late though, so it really must have mean a lot to her, that’s why I was wondering if she’d found it. But I’ll ask her myself later then, thanks Jake.”

Penny’s words had the effect of a sledgehammer hitting Jake right in the chest. The realisation dawned on him and he froze for a moment, not sure what to do with the newfound piece of information.

“You okay ?” Penny asked him, his shock seemingly visible on his features.

Her voice got him out of his trance.

“Yeah, yeah I’m good, thank you for the drinks Penny, talk to you later !”

He made a beeline for the spot the squad had settled in, their usual one, next to one the pool tables. He absentmindedly handed the drinks to everyone, keeping your virgin mojito in his hands and making his way over to you. His heart was beating so hard in his chest that it was borderline painful. It seemed as though his vision had zeroed in on you, only you. Images of you on the beach at night, cold, alone, tired but still looking for his watch flashed into his mind and he felt a knot get caught up in his throat.

He barely heard the ‘thank you’s’ the squad threw him.

Leaning over some of the high tables near the windows, you were watching Mickey, Reuben and Bob engage in a heated game of pool.

“No Mickey it’s still my turn,” you watched with a smile as Reuben interjected his friend, “you sinked the cue ball so I get to shoot twice, gosh you’d think that you’d know the rules after playing literally every week end !”

You snorted, amused by their banter. And out of the corner of your eye, you saw Jake walking towards you. Expression unreadable but his step visibly determined.

Arriving in front of you, he practically shoved the drink in your hand.

“I told you I didn’t want anything,” you said, monotonously, nonetheless still grabbing the glass.

Any excuse was good enough to start a fight with him.

You turned your gaze back to the pool game unfolding in front of you, but when the quick wit you were expecting from him never came, you turned back to him, frowning.

His jade green eyes were trained on you. Chest rising up quickly, like he’d ran a marathon before coming here. You didn’t think you had ever seen him so… moved.

“You good ?” You asked, letting your tone convey the tiniest bit of concern.

Jake took a shaky breath, “why didn’t you tell me ?”

The hand that was bringing the glass to your lips froze halfway through.

“Tell you what ?”

“My watch.” Was all he said, eyes still boring into yours, seemingly looking for answers you were absolutely not intent on giving.

Your eyes quickly flicked to the leather band sitting proudly on his wrist.

You had noticed it all week, how it was right back on shining on his cuff. How Jake had seemed to smile even more cockily than before, brighter. And you hadn’t been able to ignore the weird, warmth feeling spreading in your chest every-time you had caught him eyeing his wrist with a flash of pride and cherish.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you replied, forcing yourself to keep an annoyed tone as your eyes flicked back up to meet his.

“There’s no use in lying, I know it was you.” He said, voice firm and steady despite the whirlwind of emotions threatening to choke him up, “why ?”

You weren’t known to give up that easily.

“Jesus Seresin, I literally told you I have no idea what you’re talking about, go win at darts or something, leave me alone.”

Swallowing uncomfortably under his prying gaze, you silenced the tiny voice in your head that was telling you just how much similar to Jake you were in terms of showing feelings.

Facing your stubborn resolve in not telling him the truth, Jake let out a small, humorless laugh, “Y/N I just want to thank you properly, so please, for once, just let up.”

Let up. Stop fighting me for a second, was really what he was saying. And looking at him be willing to be honest and open for once did something to you.

“I did it because you looked all pathetic, okay ? And really, I didn’t want you sulking all day on base and mess up every training.” you finally conceded, tone annoyed despite the loud thumping of your heart in your chest, “besides it was just underneath where you had put down your towel, so really you could’ve found it if you had put a bit more effort into it. But I guess that it’s just another thing I’m better at than you, huh ?”

It was a complete lie. And both of you knew it.

Just the fact that you had been the only one to notice he had lost his watch told him everything he needed to know. And he knew from Penny that you had stayed well past midnight looking for it. To see you in front of him, knowing the length you had been to for him — despite what you were saying — made his heart do something inexplicable.

And Jake moved before he could think any more about it. He slightly bent down to wrap his arms around you, slipping under your own and hugging your middle, bringing you into his chest, chin resting on your shoulder, head touching yours.

All your muscles stiffened on instinct. The contact took you by surprise and you stayed frozen like that for a second, letting him hold you without reciprocating the touch.

He was warm, very warm. His arms were tightly wrapped around you, one draped across your shoulder blades and the other one across your waist. His body was firm against yours and for a moment, you almost thought you could feel the thumping of his heart against your chest. Your head was resting just shy of the crook of his neck, on his shoulder, and despite yourself, you caught a whiff of his smell, residue of jet fuel, his expensive cologne, the warmth of his skin and something so undeniably him it almost made your head spin.

“Thank you,” he whispered shakily, a small crack in his Hangman armor.

Those words and his tone felt like a detonator, hearing him sounding so small almost broke your heart. It only took a second after that for your arms to wrap around his neck. And as soon as your arms made contact, you felt his whole body relax and melt into you.

“You don’t have to thank me,” you whispered back, rubbing his back comfortingly.

He seemed so small in this moment and it pulled at your heartstrings to know he was letting you be the one to seem him like that.

“You don’t know how much this means to me.” He murmured into your neck.

Oh, but you did. That was the whole reason you had done it.

It seemed as thought the entire bar had gone quiet, leaving only Jake and you, wrapped up in each other. You had no idea how long you stayed like that. But you certainly weren’t complaining, your arms tightening around him was met with the same intensity from Jake.

But the sudden sharp sound of a glass hitting the floor and shattering in pieces took you both out of the peaceful and comfort trance the embrace had took you both in. And you both found yourselves pulling away, reluctantly.

You noticed the slight pink hue dusting Jake’s cheeks, and his green eyes were bright, almost glassed over, shining with unshed tears.

God knew that if you had the courage you would take him into another embrace right here and then, and not let him go until the first rays of sunshine peaked through the windows, or realistically, probably until Penny kicked you out.

But unable to succumb to your deepest desire, no matter how much you wanted to, you instead fell back into your old ways.

“Try not to lose it again, cause I won’t get it for you next time.” You warned, though your tone was missing its usual bite.

You would.

You would do it all over a hundred times if needed.

Jake let out a laugh, a bit choked up, but a genuine one nonetheless.

“I promise.” He said in a smile as bright as a thousand suns.

And you had a scary realization then.

That in fact, there was not a lot you wouldn’t do to see him smile like that again.

–––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––

author's note : I have had this fic idea for literally forever and I’m so happy I finally got down to write it.

I really wanted to kinda ‘dig deep’ into Jake’s character here, I hope it worked and that I was able to do him justice. He’s my baby I love him so much.💞

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.