talk to me, bob

You had fallen asleep curled on your side in a tight ball beneath them with your cheek pressed hard into the cushion instead of the pillow that had slipped halfway off the edge. The shirt you were wearing was his. He knew it by the frayed edges at the sleeves, the ones he had always picked at when he was thinking–removing the stray threads until they unspooled. 

The sight of you in it undid every ache that had been riding him since the last chute.

He was exhausted, his body spent from a full week of travel and competition that hadn’t let up once. Arena dust sat thick under his fingernails, and a deep bruise along his ribs had been spreading with every mile of the drive home. His wrist was throbbing steadily inside the brace he had put on before leaving the arena, and the long hours behind the wheel had settled into the muscles of his lower back until they screamed for a mattress to lay down on.

But looking at you made it all recede, even as he toed off his boots and crossed the living room toward the couch. 

A mug waited on the coffee table beside your phone–tea that had gone cold hours ago–and three messages from him still glowed unanswered on the screen when he tapped it awake.

Headed home.

Running a little late, lot’s of traffic tonight, think there’s an accident.

Don’t wait up, Sweetheart. I’ll see you in the morning.

Rhett lowered his head, a tired smile pulling faintly at one corner of his mouth.

“You never listen to me,” He murmured, lifting his hat off his head and setting it carefully beside the mug. Even through the pain he crouched beside the couch, as the floorboards under his boots giving a loud, familiar creak. He sucked in a sharp breath and held still, his eyes snapping at you for any sign that he disturbed your sleep. But you only shifted deeper into the cushion, your face turning further into the plushness of it.

Up close he could see the faint crease pressed into your cheek from the pressure, and the soft furrow that lingered between your brows, like some part of you had kept worrying about him long after sleep had taken you.

Rhett let out a quiet sigh and reached for you slowly, curling his dirt-dusted fingers so the backs of his knuckles could brush along the cool skin of your temple. He eased your hair away from your face so he could see you better–so he could take in the sight he had missed the most this week. His skin was rough, calloused in spots where callouses shouldn’t have been, but his touch was painfully gentle–the way it always was with you.

“Hey, darlin’,” He whispered, watching as your eyelids fluttered at the sound of his voice, even though they remained closed. Rhett dragged his knuckles slowly across your forehead, before bringing his hand down to cup the side of your face–his large palm dwarfing the size of it. You tilted into the warmth without waking–as if you were a sunflower and he was the sun–nuzzling closer like you had been waiting for this contact. He could feel his heart seize at that moment, stopping in the caverns of his chest at the way you responded to him regardless of your alertness.

He had spent the last seven days getting thrown around under bright arena lights, sleeping on narrow motel beds that never held enough heat, eating alone with the television running just to fill the silence. Every night without fail he would call you from a parking lot or those cheap rooms, pretending the sound of your voice was enough to make the distance bearable for him, but it had never been. Because nothing compared to walking into this house and finding you waiting for him like this–even if it was against his wishes.

“Should be in bed,” He said, though there wasn’t any real scolding in the comment. You made a quiet sound, a small hum, and your outstretched hand shifted until your fingers brushed his bicep beneath the soft cotton of his button-up. As if you were testing to see if what you were feeling was real, your touch slid down the length of his arm, closing loosely around the hard plastic of his wrist brace–though your fingers couldn’t touch.

“Rhett?” Your voice was thick with sleep, and he could hear the confusion lacing the edges of it, and his throat tightened at the relief he could sense beneath it.

“Yeah, baby,” He answered, stroking the soft skin under your eye with his thumb, “It’s me.” He confirmed. Your eyes opened only halfway, peeking out through your lashes, and for a long moment you just looked at him, completely dazed, as though you needed to make sure you weren’t still dreaming. Then your mouth curved into a small smile.

“You’re home.” He nodded once, his hair falling out of it’s slicked back form while doing so.

“I’m home.” You hummed at that, as your eyes slipped shut again, but your fingers began to absentmindedly rub along the thick plastic of the brace, like you were trying to keep yourself from falling back to sleep.

“Took you forever.” You murmured.

“I know…”

“I tried to stay awake…Wanted to see you…” The words came out drowsily and soft as you made futile attempts to fight against the exhaustion that was plaguing you. Rhett smirked and leaned in, pressing his chapped lips to your forehead. He stayed there long enough to breathe you in–the faint scent of your honey shampoo and all the other hair products you piled on after a shower, mixing with the spicy, pine and woody cologne that he owned, all of it mixed with the unmistakable warmth of home, of comfort, of love.

“You’re seein’ me now,” He replied, easing back just enough to look down at you, noticing that your eyes were still closed.

“Barely.” You muttered, and a soft laugh escaped him.

“Well it would help if you would open your eyes, but I can tell you’re too tired for that…So let’s get you to bed, sleepin’ beauty.” He stood carefully, gathering the quilts tighter around you so nothing would fall as he was walking, tucking the fabric in until you were fully cocooned. Once he was satisfied with his work he slipped one arm beneath your knees and the other around your back, then lifted you off the couch slowly, making sure he wasn’t triggering the ache that was still pulsing in his back. Even with him keeping all his injuries in mind, his muscles and bruises still protested, but he ignored every one of them as he drew you close, feeling the heat of your body soaking straight through the fabric that separated the two of you.

Immediately, you curled into him, your cheek pressing against the hard muscle of his chest as you nuzzled closer into him, and without thought, Rhett’s arms tightened around you.

“Did you win?” You asked, the words muffling against the fabric of his shirt.

“Stayed on.” He answered as he began to walk.

“Wasn’t my question.” You shot back, and a small smirk tugged at his mouth at the quiet jab.

“Yeah…Yeah I won.” He said, glancing down to caught the soft smile that touched your lips.

“Knew you would.” 

The certainty in your voice made his heart clench. You had never doubted him–not once, not through any of the long sessions of training or the hard falls that you had beared witness to. You had watched him win enough buckles that he made most of these circuits look easy from the outside. But that never stopped the worry in you. The wrist brace along was proof enough that the work he put in took its toll, and you couldn’t yet see what was waiting for you under his clothes. But that would be tomorrow’s problem–you would nurse him back to health when he allowed you. Tonight you just wanted him–his presence, his body, his arms, everything.

Rhett carried you down the hallway with careful steps–mindful of how narrow it was–keeping you tucked securely against him so you didn’t accidentally knock against the walls. The navigation of the dark house was only amplified by the soft creak of the floorboard under your combined weights, and halfway to the bedroom your fingers found the greasy strands of his hair, tangling into them.

“Missed you,” You murmured, and Rhett’s jaw flexed at that, as he tilted his face down to rub his chin against the top of your head.

“Missed you too…So damn much.” 

There were things he had never learned to say easily, even after five years of being together. He could take a hard fall without making a sound. He could carry every expectation his family stacked on his shoulders without complaint. Tenderness, though, still sometimes caught behind his teeth like it was too fragile to risk letting out those feelings. But with you half-asleep and warm in his arms, the words came easier.

“Hated wakin’ up without you,” He said quietly, “And I definitely hated comin’ back to an empty motel room.” Your hand slipped from his hair and smoothed slowly down the side of his neck, resting your fingertips over the steady thunder of his pulse.

“You don’t have to now.” Rhett closed his eyes for a brief second and let out a long breath.

“No…I don’t.”

He crossed the threshold into the bedroom, angling carefully around the hefty basket that was stacked high with neatly folded laundry and the sharp edge of the dresser. When he reached the bed he pulled the covers back with one hand without ever letting you go, before lowering you onto the plushness softness of the sheets, putting in more care than he used for almost anything else in his life. But the second his arms started to ease away you made a small, protesting sound.

“I’m right here baby.” He promised, as he began to unravel you from the quilts, tossing them haphazardly on the floor, before crouching down to pull off your socks one at a time. HIs thumb rubbed slowly over the faint indentations each elastic had left around your ankles, kissing the marks, and nuzzling against them, feeling the way your muscles jumped at that. When he was finished he drew the duvet up to your chin and tucked you in, smoothing it around you.

Your eyes opened again the moment he was levelled with you, and he watched concern pull across your face–your brows drawing together, and your mouth parting slightly on a breath. You hadn’t seen the bruise blooming along his jaw when he had been crouched beside the couch, but now that you were in a room that had enough light–from the moon that peeked through the curtains–you were able to identify the purple shadow that stood out beneath the stubble. Your hand came out from under the covers and your fingertips traced the edge of it, watching as Rhett’s eyes closed at the contact and feeling him leaning into the touch even though the sharp pinch of pain made him flinch.

“You’re hurt,” You whispered, your voice cracking a little on the discovery. You wondered how this happened, but deep down inside you didn’t really want to know, especially when you weren’t there when it happened. He looked at you through his lashes, his blue eyes catching the light.

“Just sore…It’s nothin’ to worry about.” He replied, turning his head to press a kiss into your palm before easing back. If the exhaustion hadn’t already settled so deep in your bone you might’ve sat up and followed him–wrapped your arms around his neck to pull him back down so you could hold him. But as it was right now, the attempt died before it even started and you only managed another soft whine.

“Come back…” Rhett let out a short huff of a laugh and shook his head at you.

“Baby, I need a shower.” You mirrored him in those moments, shaking your head against the pillow.

“Tomorrow.” His brows lifted at that.

“Y/N, I smell like a stockyard and I’m covered in dirt.” You only shrugged at him.

“Don’t care, we can change the sheets tomorrow and I don’t mind if you smell bad.” The corner of his mouth twitched.

“You will in about five minutes.” He mumbled, as you shifted under the covers to make room before opening them up toward him, quietly inviting him in the space you made.

“C’mere and I’ll prove you wrong.” There was no demand in your voice–only that soft, teasing affection that always managed to cut every argument out from him–and he gave in with a gruff sigh.

“Alright…It’s your funeral.” He stated, as he worked his belt open and unbuttoned his jeans, letting both of them fall into a careless heap he already knew you would give him hell for in the morning. The buttons of his shirt took longer as he undid them with one hand, before shrugging it off his shoulders to let it join the rest of the clothes. Once he was down to just his boxers he climbed carefully onto the mattress beside you, feeling your body moving in close immediately, dragging the duvet over the both of you. Rhett stretched his arm out so you could fully settle against him, as your leg slipped between his while you tucked your head beneath his chin. His body loosened the second your full weight rested against him, closing both arms around you–surrounding your body and covering you completely–sliding one hand up under your shirt until his palm pressed against the small of your back. 

Your fingers began tracing slow, idle patterns across his chest while you breathed him in deeply, letting his scent fill your lungs.

“You don’t smell like a stockyard…You smell sweaty.” You corrected him quietly, pressing your nose against the dark lines of the bull-rider tattoo over his heart and inhaling again on purpose, “Love that smell.” He hummed low in his throat and shook his head once.

“I think you’re so tired that your sense of smell has gone off its rocker.” You glared up at him, a small smirk curving your mouth, before leaning in to press a soft kiss right at the base of his throat, tasting the saltiness of his skin.

“Maybe…But right now…I like it a lot.” Rhett sighed, clenching his arms around your body to embrace you even further.

“I told you not to wait up for me…If you hadn’t you wouldn’t have been so tired, and you wouldn’t be waking up smellin’ like a farm.” He said, and you hummed again.

“I wanted to be the first thing you saw when you got home.” You replied softly, feeling Rhett’s breathing halt for a moment beneath your head, as your eyes began to close again, feeling the heaviness of sleep washing over your body and invading your mind. You could feel Rhett’s hand slowly sliding upward, coming to cradle the back of your head. He gently tipped your face upward towards his and kissed your forehead, then the corner of your eye, then your cheek, then finally your lips. He kept it tender, and unhurried–touches that asked for nothing but made him feel like he was reuniting with you in a far more intimate way, like he wanted to complete it.

You loved the Dagger Squad. But being with them almost constantly was kind of exhausting. With mostly the same hours and mostly the same schedules week in and week out, you still ended up spending loads of time together outside of work.

Hikes in the surrounding area, trips to the beach, visits to new restaurants and bars, or even just visiting the Hard Deck after work some nights; you name it, you were all there. And somehow in the midst of being thrown together and reassigned to the new squadron under Maverick, you all became a family, though some of you were closer than others. It was natural.

You’d become closest to Phoenix and when the time came to relocate to California permanently, you both decided to get an apartment together. It saved on rent and the grocery bills, so it made sense.

The complex you’d gotten an apartment in happened to be mostly military due to its proximity to the base, but that wasn’t an issue. What was an issue was that you weren’t the only Daggers in the place and that meant your apartment became a hangout zone even when you weren’t prepared for it. Hangman got a one bedroom somewhere on the third floor of the building right next to yours, Payback and Fanboy were in the apartment right above yours, and the topping on the cake? Rooster and Bob had gotten the two bedroom two doors down. You’d told Natasha when you’d all decided to rent in the same area that it felt like the worst twist of fate to be so close to everyone, but it was actually kind of nice. Overwhelming sometimes, but nice.

Even though half the group was off, somehow you ended up grocery shopping alone, which was a miracle in and of itself. Someone was always there, berating your food choices or dumping junk in the cart that no one needed. But, just to be nice, you’d texted in the group chat that you were going shopping and asked if anyone in the building needed anything. No one responded, so you ignored it.

You were halfway through the produce section when your phone started buzzing in your pocket. Bob’s profile photo filled the screen when you pulled it out to look at it.

“Hello?”

“Hey! Are you still at the store?” Bob asked, sounding breathless. You checked your watch and realized he’d probably been at the gym with Mickey. They had a standing date most times to work out together.

“Yeah, did you need me to grab something for you?” You cradled the phone between your shoulder and your ear as you surveyed the bunches of bananas and hummed when you found a bunch you approved of.

“Do you mind picking up a few sweet potatoes and a bag of regular ones? I promised I’d grill tomorrow night and forgot to pick up potatoes. I was going to stop at the store after the gym, but if you’re already there . . .” he trailed off, tone hopeful. You rolled your eyes even though he couldn’t see you.

“I can’t believe you forgot the second most important thing for grilling.”

“Give me some credit. I got the steaks and Rooster stocked the fridge with so much alcohol I can’t even find the rest of the food I bought last week.”

“Yeah, yeah,” you laughed, “I’ll get your potatoes. Payback’s making his mom’s mac and cheese, right?”

“I think so.” Bob’s voice sounded more muffled for a second and you imagined him using his towel to wipe off gym sweat and, nope, you didn’t need to think about that in the grocery store of all places. “What are you and Nat bringing?”

“Ha, I put Phoenix on watermelon duty. You know damn well she can’t cook. I’m making s’mores brownies. And I think Hangman said he’d grab a vegetable tray or something, but that’s typical for him. I bet he shows up with a bag of broccoli or something. Is Javy going to make it?”

“He said something about his son being sick, so I don’t think so.”

You hummed and started choosing sweet potatoes, trying to pick ones that wouldn’t take too long on the grill but still had enough potato to make it worth cutting into. Coyote was the only one on your squad with a family, so he wasn’t always able to make it to your team dinners or extra events, but it was nice to know that at least one of you wasn’t going to die alone. “That’s too bad. I’ll have to check in and see if they need anything. I know he mentioned something about not having the same support system they had at their old posting.”

“It can’t be easy starting over with more than just yourself to worry about.” You could hear cars driving by and figuring Bob was now walking back to the apartment block from the gym in the community center.

“No, I bet it isn’t.” you murmured. Even though you had just seen him yesterday at work and even afterwards when all the boys had ended up on your couch drinking beers and watching some comedy show Jake was streaming to your tv from his phone, you held up conversation really well about other things and you kept Bob on the phone as you went around the store getting what you needed and what Nat had added to the list. But then you were in line at the registers and you didn’t want to be rude to the high school kid ringing you out, so you shifted the phone again. “Hey, I’m about to check out. I’ll see you in a bit when I get back, yeah?”

“You have the potatoes?”

“Yes, Robert,” you sighed, “I have your potatoes. You have such little faith in me. I was literally on the phone with you when I picked them up and I told you I’d get them.”

“Okay, I believe you,” he laughed. God, you loved his laugh. You were smiling into your phone like a teenager, happy just to hear it directed at something you said.

“I’ll be back in twenty and you can help me carry the groceries in. Consider that your second workout for the day.”

“Alright, let me know when you’re back.” You heard the door to the apartment shut with the outside world's sounds stopping immediately in favor of their air purifier’s hum. “Love you, bye.”

You didn’t even get a chance to say anything back because he hung up the phone immediately. Had he meant to say that? You stared down at the blank screen for a second before someone cleared their throat behind you and you realized you were holding up the checkout lane. Embarrassed, you quickly finished paying and exited the store.

The whole drive home you wondered if he meant to say that or if it was just a reflex. You’d certainly done it before by accident, usually after talking to your mom. By the time you parked in the lot right outside your building, you resolved not to say anything about it. If he didn’t mean to say it, you didn’t want him to feel bad about it. However, you couldn’t deny that you wished it was something he’d planned to say.

You shot him a text and three minutes later, a still sweaty Bob was bounding down the stairs to help bring up the groceries. The view stopped you in your tracks. You’d seen him sweaty before. There were only so many PT sessions and pushups a girl could watch him do before being in danger of passing out from how good Bob looked when he did physical activities, but today? It was devastating.

Whoever let Bob wear grey sweatpants needed to be put in prison. Because he was wearing them and an athletic sleeveless top that showed off his muscles and down below he was showing something else off. Bob was packing. He had to be doing this on purpose, right? No one just casually put on sweatpants that hugged the curves that made one practically indecent. Was he even wearing underwear?

You could feel heat rush to your face just from the act of tracing your eyes over the very clear outline in his pants that was more than just little, so you hid your face in your trunk in the guise of organizing your reusable grocery bags. The cashier had just chucked everything in there and you hadn’t taken the time to reorganize them in the store because you’d been so embarrassed about holding up the line.

Bob sidled up next to you and took three of the bags, leaving you with two.

“Potatoes?” he asked with a grin.

“Jesus, Floyd, if you ask me about the goddamn potatoes one more time, I 'm going to lob one at your head. As soon as I find them.”

He just laughed and started carrying his bags up the stairs, leaving you to close the trunk and carry the other two bags up. When you got upstairs just after him, he was waiting patiently for you to unlock the door.

“Nat’s home. You could’ve knocked.”

“Oh.”

“Or, I know you know the keycode to the door. You could’ve typed it in.”

“With Phoenix in there? Alone? No. She might’ve attacked me with a frying pan.”

A laugh escaped your mouth as you typed in the code and walked inside.

“Nat! I’m home! You better be decent because we’ve got company!” you shouted. You heard her door slam and grinned, turning back to Bob who was right behind you. “She definitely wasn’t decent so maybe you’re right.”

“I’m always right.” he muttered, heading into the kitchen to help you put the groceries away. It was like a choreographed ballet, the way the two of you seamlessly moved around your kitchen putting away vegetables and meats and the dry goods for your pantry. He even helped reorganize a section of your freezer so you could put your ice cream in there.

And then he found the potatoes and grinned that dopey smile of his as he held them up.

“What did I tell you, Floyd? I bought your fucking potatoes.”

“And you are a life saver. Need any more help?”

“Nope,” you said as you closed the pantry door, “you are relieved of your duties. Take your goddamn potatoes and go take a shower. You stink.”

“Hey,” he whined. “I—”

“Was at the gym, yeah, yeah. Go shower. Besides, I think Payback said something about the boys ordering takeout and watching some documentary, so I know you won’t want to miss that.”

“Are you and Nat coming up?”

“Absolutely not.” you sniffed, nose wrinkled. “It’s wine night and we’re polishing off a bottle and watching one of her trashy tv shows. I think she’s making me watch Love Island or something.”

“Sounds like fun.”

“You’re not invited.”

Bob had the audacity to actually pout. And it was freaking adorable.

“Go take your shower! I’ll see you tomorrow. Have fun with the boys.”

Three minutes later, you were alone in the kitchen and Bob was heading back to his place. Truth was, he could’ve stayed, but you were worried you’d jump his bones if he kept getting close to you with those sweats on. They really left nothing to the imagination and you contemplated getting off to the image that was now seared into your brain when Phoenix came out of her room with a devious smile on her face.

“Go take a shower!” she crooned in a horrible imitation of your voice, “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

You fixed her with a blank stare and she grinned.

“You’ve got it so bad for him.”

“I do not.”

“Yes, you do, but it’s fine. You’ll admit it later after I’ve gotten a few drinks in you. You always do.”

You sighed, because yeah, you always did. She had a video of you drunkenly waxing poetic about Bob’s eyes and hair the last time you drank alone with her and you knew she also had video evidence of you saying you’d climb him like a tree if he’d let you. Drunk you was honest, which was definitely going to be your downfall one day. Though, if you were better at holding your liquor, you’d also have videos of Nat talking about how badly she wanted to bed Rooster. To you, that was even more gross than your pathetic crush on Bob Floyd. But maybe it wasn’t that pathetic if he’d told you he loved you on the phone. Even if it was a reflex.

“Maybe I won’t this time.”

“Please, I’m already prepared to listen to you whine about his sweatpants.”

“You didn’t even see them.” you blinked.

“Oh, I saw them. I just didn’t interrupt. Because I'm a great wingwoman.”

“Then you saw the front?”

“Honey, I didn’t need proof that Bob was hiding a monster down there. The boys have talked about it before. How did you miss that?” Phoenix laughed, going into the fridge to grab one of her smoothie drinks that you’d just restocked the fridge with.

“Well, it definitely adds to the appeal.”

Nat rolled her eyes and downed half her drink in one go. You must’ve made a face because she waggled her eyebrows at you for good measure.

“What are you making for dinner?” she asked.

“You really need to learn how to cook something other than box mac and cheese.” you groaned, stepping back into the kitchen to start pulling stuff out of the fridge to make dinner. “What if I left you to your own devices?”

“Then I’d starve and die. Why do you think I kept volunteering for deployments? They cook for me even if the food is shit.” She was grinning as she sat at the kitchen counter, tapping away on her phone. She was texting someone and you almost wanted to look over her shoulder to figure out who it was, but you had your suspicions. She’d been awful smiley ever since she found out Bradshaw would be staying on the team for good.

“I’m making cheesy chicken and potato casserole.”

“Delicious. See, this is why I keep you around.”

“Yeah, yeah. So you say.”

Dinner was finished with minimal side-comments and Nat poured the wine while you dished it up. She’d already queued up Love is Blind on your tv and sat there giving you recaps of what you’d missed while she shoveled down her dinner. And, by the end of the night, Phoenix had a new video of you in her camera roll of you whining about Bob’s indecent sweatpants.

It became a habit. Bob stopped texting you about certain things and instead picked up the phone to call you. While he was grocery shopping, about weekend plans or day off plans, whether or not you’d be on the same flight patterns, driving in the car someplace, you name it. And nearly every time he signed off, he signed off with a “love you, bye” like it was a completely normal thing to say. It turned your insides to mush every time. 

After the tenth time he did it two weeks later, you turned it over to Phoenix.

“Nat, he’s killing me.” you groaned, head resting on the counter in front of you.

She hummed noncommittally around her cereal, which was one of the only things she knew how to put together.

“He keeps ending phone calls with ‘love you.’ Does he do that with you?”

“Bob doesn’t call me. He sends texts. Cryptic, horrible texts. He’s a menace and a bad texter. Actually, most of the time I just get a thumbs up emoji or some shit like that. He calls you?”

“Yes! Multiple times a week. And we talk.”

“You’re fucking blind.” she stated simply. “And deaf.”

“I am not.”

“You are too. The man’s got it as bad for you as you are for him. He’s practically admitting it—actually he has admitted it multiple times—and you’re over here whining about it.” She snorted and shook her head, scooping up more half-soggy cereal. “Woman up and go kiss him.”

“What?” you spluttered.

“You want to.”

“It’s not a matter of if I want to.”

“Mmhhmm.” she hummed, still engrossed in something on her phone. “Anyway, I’m going to be out tonight after work. Don’t wait up.”

“Where are you going?” you asked, eyes narrowed. Was this why she’d been on her phone lately?

“I’ve got a date.” she shrugged. “Might end up going really well if you know what I mean.”

“With Bradshaw?” Your mouth gaped. You never thought she’d admit it. Nat leveled you with a glare.

“No.” she gritted out. You watched her and decided you didn’t believe her. You’d definitely be checking her location later and texting Bob to see if he knew anything.

“Sure.”

Twelve hours later, you had your answer. Bob was knocking on your door with a grimace. He had a backpack slung over his shoulder too.

“What’s up, Floyd?” you asked, leaning against the open door. He rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly and readjusted the strap of his bag.

“So, it seems like our roommates are ‘getting busy’ and I need a place to sleep. Can I crash on your couch?”

“No shit. Her and Bradshaw are doing it?” you gaped, and peeked your head out of the door as if you’d be able to hear them going at it. You weren’t sure you wanted to anyway, but the vindication of being right was right there.

“Do you really need proof?” he asked weakly. “It’s, uh, pretty loud. I’m not sure I can look her in the face again after what I’ve heard.”

“Nah, I believe you. She said she had a hot date and she lied to me. Even turned off her location so I couldn’t track her. Lying bastard.” You ushered him in and closed the door. He kicked off his shoes into the pile you had by the doorway. “Anyway, it’s still kind of early. Wanna watch something before you turn in?”

“Sure, movie?” He dropped his backpack on the floor and flopped down on your couch like he lived there and you grinned as you collapsed next to him, nearly on top of him. The two of you settled in easily, right next to each other as you picked up the remote from the coffee table in front of you and turned on the tv.

“What do you want to watch?” You were already pulling up the dock of every streaming service you and Nat had commandeered from the team and your families.

“Star Wars?” Bob asked hopefully and you groaned.

“No. If I have to watch Return of the Jedi one more time this month, I might lose it. You know I love it, but we need some variety in our lives, especially with that marathon we’re doing in like a week. How about we compromise?”

“And what exactly is a compromise in your book?” He quirked a brow at you and your gaze flickered down to his lips for just a moment until you stopped yourself and turned back to the screen in front of you.

“What about Big Hero 6?” You gestured to the screen with the remote. Bob blinked at it. “Have you never seen this?”

“I don’t think I have.” He squinted at the screen and pushed his glasses further up on his nose. “What is that?”

“Well, you have no option now. We’re watching this. Do you want tissues?” Your voice was innocent as you asked and he turned to look at you in confusion.

“Do I need tissues?”

“Nevermind. Don’t worry about it. Pressing play!”

About seventeen minutes in, Bob stared at the screen in horror.

“How could you pick this?” He gaped, watching on as if it were a car crash he couldn’t look away from.

“Oh, keep watching. It gets worse.” you grinned.

“Worse than this? Dude, these people are sick.” He grunted, but settled in closer to you and dragged a blanket from beside him over your laps. You’d seen it at least twice, so you knew what would happen, but it was fun hearing his little quips and comments about each scene. It was always fun watching movies with him.

Towards the end, you caught him. His eyes were glistening with unshed tears and you nudged him carefully.

“Tissue?”

He shook his head and pulled you closer, causing your heart to start beating more rapidly. When had he reached an arm around you? Had you really been so comfortable that you hadn’t noticed? Apparently.

You decided not to overthink it and laid your head on his chest, listening to his heartbeat while the movie played on. It was close to the end and you knew the outcome, but he didn’t and you listened to him sniffle for a second before you carefully tangled your legs closer together. Movie night had been significantly upgraded with this and you weren’t sure you could go back.

As the credits rolled, you moved your head to look up at him and Bob smiled down at you.

“That was good. And we are not going to talk about me crying.” he said sternly. Playfully. You laughed, the sound rolling over him in a delightful wave. His gaze slipped back down to your mouth and you found yourself doing the same thing, watching his lips like they were your favorite show.

Then, he did something brave and he brought his mouth down to meet yours. The hum you emitted was contented as you smiled into the kiss.

“Took you long enough, Floyd.” you murmured, reaching up to stroke a thumb along his jawline. He laughed quietly and leaned in again.

“Wasn’t sure if you were really interested. Rooster kept saying you were, but you know.” he mumbled between kisses. “Been trying to tell you for weeks on the phone.”

“So you really did mean to say ‘love you’ at the end of all our calls?”

“Yeah.”

“And are Bradley and Natasha really getting it on in your apartment or did you come over here with different motives?” Your eyes narrowed playfully and he pressed a quick kiss to your jaw that had you almost immediately forgetting what you’d asked.

“They are. It’s disgusting.” He answered. You groaned and climbed out of his arms, causing him to let out a noise of protest. “Where are you going? I wasn’t done with you yet.”

“I’m not done with you either, but if we stay on that couch then we’re both going to wake up with sore necks and bad backs. C’mon, Floyd. I’m taking you to bed.”

“To bed or to sleep?”

“To sleep. We have to be up early for work, remember?”

Bob sighed and hauled himself up from the couch, picking up his backpack and stretching his arms in the process. Your brain almost shorted out at the view of his muscled arms and the stretch of skin at the base of his shirt where it rode up.

“Besides, Mav’s not allowed to kill you before I tell you I love you back.” you said nonchalantly as you stepped into your bedroom.

His eyes nearly bugged out of his head when he heard the same words he’d been telling you for the past few weeks repeated back to him.

“Now, hang on.” he protested, following behind you. “You can’t just walk away after saying that.”

“Then you better hurry up and change and get into bed so I can tell you again and kiss you.”

Bonus:

Meanwhile, ten miles away at a local bar, Nat was looking down at her phone where your location and Bob’s were right on top of each other and grinned. She sent a quick text to her partner in crime, who was two doors down from the dots in question.

Trace: Mission accomplished. You can turn off the audio now. Bradshaw: You sure you don’t want to come over and make the sounds a reality? Bradshaw: Floyd will be gone all night ;)

It’s kind of the last thing you expected.

This week was supposed to be about soup and board games and helping your aunt clear out her garage. It was supposed to be about sourdough starters and running errands.

It was not supposed to be about open mic nights at bars and hot strangers with guitars.

And voices that tickle your spine until you have goosebumps all over.

And blue eyes you could sink into and drown like you never learned how to swim.

It was not supposed to be about one night stands.

But, alas.

The blue eyes are closed. He’s still sleeping.

Cameron.

That’s his name.

Cameron.

You can still remember last night in flashes. His voice through the microphone. The scrape of his thumb over guitar strings.

The way he looked at you across the crowded bar like he already knew how the night would end.

And maybe you did too.

You remember his hands around your waist in the kitchen while you laughed into his shoulder. Remember him kissing you slow enough to make you yearn for more.

Yearn.

For a man you’d met less than three hours ago.

You remember thinking: oh, this is trouble.

Now he sleeps beside you completely unaware of the damage he’s done.

Mouth slightly open.

Hair a mess.

One hand curled loosely against your waist.

You should leave now, probably. Before you turn this into something it isn’t.

Instead you stay exactly where you are.

Cameron shifts in his sleep. Closer. His arm against you tightens.

Half-asleep, he murmurs against your neck, “Morning.”

“Good morning,” you whisper, trying to sound like you haven’t been awake for the better part of an hour just staring at his face. You gather the sheet over yourself, suddenly very aware of your own naked body.

He opens his eyes, barely, looking at you like somehow he didn’t expect you to reply. Like he wasn’t sure you weren’t just a dream.

His voice is rough with sleep. “You’re very pretty.”

You snort with laughter.

His brow furrows. “What?”

“Is that your go-to?”

“My go-to?” he repeats, visibly offended.

“Yeah. Your morning-after line.”

“You say that like I have a system.”

“You don’t?”

He shakes his head. “This doesn’t happen to me often.”

“Uh-huh,” you say. “I bet I can predict your next move, though.”

“There are no moves.”

“Right. So you’re not going to get me a cinnamon roll for breakfast?”

“No, I’m not—” He pauses abruptly. “Wait, what? How did you—”

“Last night, I told you I’m new to town and you said…”

Your voice trails off. That’s enough to spark his memory.

“That you should try the cinnamon rolls from the bakery,” he concludes.

“And you specifically said they make a great breakfast.”

His face shifts. Like he’s just now putting two and two together.

“But that’s not a move,” he says.

“No?”

“That’s just—”

“Yes?”

“Information that could improve your quality of life.”

“It’s that good?”

He nods.

You consider him for a moment. He seems sincere, and even if it is a move, like some sort of thank you for the sex, have a cinnamon roll and don’t be mad if I never call you scheme, what is really the worst thing that could happen?

That you leave here with two orgasms and a sugar high?

There are worse fates.

“Then I guess we’re having cinnamon rolls,” you say.

“Give me thirty minutes.”

He gets dressed like he’s already late for something—and for a moment you think he’s freaking out that you might not be here if it takes him a minute longer than he’s promised. You shrug off that thought as quickly as it comes.

Before he’s out the door, you realize that while last night has left you happy and satisfied and relaxed beyond measure, it has also left you icky. Dried sweat. Remnants of perfume. Whatever is left of your makeup.

“Uh, Cameron?”

He turns quickly. “Yeah?”

“Can I take a shower?”

“Sure. Through there,” he says, pointing to a door in the hallway. “Extra towels in the cabinet.”

You nod.

He leaves.

Thirty minutes doesn’t leave you with a lot of snooping time—not that you would, anyway, but you do glance around as you head to the shower, making a few accidentally-on-purpose stops along your way. The house is nice, well built, with a lot of wood and knickknacks that don’t really scream Cameron, but you just met the guy so what do you know? Maybe the little horses have a story behind them. Maybe the framed cross-stitch pieces were passed down to him. Maybe he got the place furnished and hasn’t had time to redecorate anything besides his room.

Maybe—

Maybe it’s been fifteen minutes and you still haven’t gotten to the shower.

The water pressure is bad. Like, really bad. And he doesn’t have nice products, but other than that it’s a fairly uneventful shower until—

The front door slams shut.

And just before you have a chance to call out his name, someone else does it for you.

“Cameron?”

It’s a woman’s voice.

A chill runs through your body.

You don’t reply.

You run through the possibilities in your head. This isn’t his house. He’s house sitting. Or he’s a burglar. A scammer. A real estate agent with boundary issues.

Or—

He’s married.

You don’t like any of the options.

Not because of him—God, no. If he’s a liar or cheater or whatever, good riddance. You do not care.

But simply because now you’re complicit. And naked. In a stranger’s house.

That’s the kind of thing that gets people shot.

“Your car isn’t out front,” the woman calls out.

The voice sounds frail, a little hesitant too. And it’s getting closer.

You turn off the shower. She knocks on the door. Your heart jumps and your eyes flick to the handle.

Locked. Thank God you had some sense.

“Cameron, are you in there? Is everything okay?” the woman asks. 

“No, sorry, wrong person,” you blurt out, because you have to say something.

There’s a long pause.

“Who’s in my shower?”

“Funny story. I thought this was Cameron’s shower and not, um—I’m sorry, who are you?”

“I’m his grandmother.”

He lives with his grandmother?

Weird.

And sweet.

And—

Oh, for fucks sake. Get out of the bathroom.

You look around frantically only to discover that your clothes are exactly where you left them.

On Cameron’s floor.

The only thing you have is panties. Skanky panties.

That’s what your aunt had called them when you were unpacking. Then she’d laughed and said you would not be needing such things in Sowell Bay.

Joke’s on her.

You toss them on and reach for a towel, starting to wrap it around your chest before it hits you.

Modesty, maybe.

Or just the possibility of getting shot, which is still very real, and if that happens you do not want to be wearing skanky panties and a towel and end up the star of the most unfortunate crime scene photos.

Because the woman outside the door may very well be Cameron’s grandmother and she may be sweet and understanding to naked strangers and not shoot you—but what if the man you met isn’t Cameron at all? 

What if the real Cameron is dead and stuffed in a closet somewhere and you were just a bit of entertainment for Scameron while he waited for grandma to come back so he could finish what he—

Oh, God. You have to stop listening to true crime podcasts.

And you can not go out there in a freaking towel.

There’s another knock at the door.

“Whoever you are, will you please come out?”

A quick glance around the bathroom proves most unhelpful to your current predicament—until you spot something hanging from a hook on the back of the door. A shapeless lump of dark fabric.

A sweatshirt.

Cameron’s, most likely. Unless his grandma is secretly an oversized sweatshirt kind of baddie.

You snatch the sweatshirt off the hook. It’s soft, probably from years of washing. Still warm, somehow, from the shower steam.

And before you can stop yourself, you bring it up to your face.

Big mistake.

It smells like him.

Not gross, sweaty boy smell. Just—him. Faint detergent, subtle woodsy cologne and skin.

Your stomach flips immediately.

“Oh, you are pathetic,” you whisper to yourself.

Cameron’s grandma clears her throat outside the door.

You pull the sweatshirt on quickly and then, carefully, crack the bathroom door open.

The woman waiting outside is about five feet tall with silver hair, a cozy cardigan and practical shoes. Her eyes glaze over you—bare legs, Cameron’s sweatshirt, wet hair—and for a moment you expect a scolding.

But then, she simply tilts her head to the side and mutters, “Oh, dear.”

“I’m sorry, I—” you stammer, but the rest of the words fail to materialize.

“Oh, don’t worry,” she says. “I’m not even supposed to be back yet.”

She starts walking down the hall, gesturing for you to follow. You do.

“I’m Tova,” she says.

You reach the kitchen. Tova starts putting on a pot of coffee.

You stand there awkwardly.

“And you, dear?” she asks. “What’s your name?”

“Oh, I’m—”

The front door opens. Both of you turn to look.

Cameron walks in carrying a stack of two white bakery boxes.

He’s smiling. Actually smiling. Hair damp from the rain, cheeks flushed from the cold.

“Okay,” he starts, “I was just gonna get cinnamon, but they were doing something new with pistachios, so I—”

He freezes.

You and Tova stare at him from the kitchen.

He walks over, eyes peeled on you and your bare legs and the whole situation at hand, and sets down what he’s brought on the counter.

“Uh, so, uh—”

“Relax, Cameron, we’re all adults here,” Tova says and begins unpacking the contents of the bakery boxes onto a decorative plate.

He rubs the back of his neck. “You said you wouldn’t be back until tonight.”

“Margaret’s husband developed chest pain, so we all came back early.”

“Oh.”

“He’s fine.”

“Great. Awesome. Fantastic for him.”

Tova walks over to the cupboard to grab coffee mugs.

Cameron leans into your ear and whispers, “Why aren’t you wearing pants?”

“I don’t know,” you whisper back, “why didn’t you tell me your roommate is eighty?”

“Fair point.”

“I haven’t seen you around Sowell Bay before,” Tova says, gesturing for both of you to sit down, and you feel obligated to obey.

“I’m just visiting.”

“Mm,” she says, pouring coffee into three mismatched mugs. “Sowell Bay has a habit of keeping people who need keeping.”

Cameron looks at her like she’s practically arranging a marriage.

You laugh.

“I’m going to take my coffee outside,” Tova says. “You two can pretend I’m not even here.”

“It’s raining,” Cameron tries to argue.

“There’s a roof over the deck,” Tova replies. “Don’t be so dramatic.”

And then, wearing another cardigan on top of the other one, she goes out into the cold misty air where rain is still falling and disappears from view.

Cameron nudges the plate of baked goods closer to you. You grab a cinnamon roll and take a big bite. It is exactly as good as he has described it to be.

He watches you and the way your lips can’t help but curl into a smile. You wash the bite down with coffee.

“She seems really nice,” you say, nodding your head towards the window. “Did you grow up here?”

He shakes his head. “We only met about six months ago.”

“Oh?”

“It’s a long story.”

“I have time.”

“You do?”

“I mean, my aunt is expecting me to go list all her Beanie Babies on Facebook Marketplace,” you say, unable to hide the hint of amused disdain in your voice. “But I think that can wait.”

“Alright.”

“Unless you’re scared, of course,” you add quickly.

He looks into your eyes from over the rim of his coffee mug. “Scared of what, exactly?”

“I don’t know. The longer I spend here, the more I like it,” you say. Then, you bite your lip. “I might fall in love with Sowell Bay and never leave.”

He quirks an eyebrow. “Is that so?”

“Good cinnamon rolls.”

“Can’t argue.”

“Nice scenery.”

He shrugs. “When you can see it through the fog.”

“Friendly people,” you say.

Your cheeks are burning. He can see it, you know he can. He’s staring, now, and you don’t know if you’re supposed to break the silence or—

He clears his throat.

“Friendly octopuses, too,” he says.

You blink. “What?”

“Like I said,” he says. “It’s a long story.”

“Well?” you ask.

“Well what?”

“Go on, then.”

Cameron smiles.

This week was not supposed to be about cinnamon rolls, grandmothers and blue-eyed boys with stories to tell.

But, alas.

This was all in the name of finding the lipstick. The one that not only matched the dress you were wearing to the PR gala tomorrow, but one that was also smudge-proof. You didn’t want feathering, or fading, and you certainly didn’t want it transferring onto napkins, glasses or people.

You wanted security.

You knew you should’ve started this task earlier in the week, but between back-to-back recon debriefs, endless intel meetings, and mediating three separate team arguments that nearly ended in Walker and Yelena actually strangling each other, the lipstick trials had fallen to the bottom of your to-do list.

Now there was less than twenty-four hours to go, and you were elbows-deep in swatches and stress.

You capped one more tube with a dissatisfied sigh and reached for the next–

Only to pause at the sound of a soft knock on the bathroom door.

“Y-Y/N?” Came Bob’s voice–muffled, hesitant and laced with that familiar nervous warmth. “I-I need to come in and get my brush. I forgot it after my s-shower…” You froze, mid-reach, one hand hovering over a berry toned satin finish tube. Your lips curled into a slow smile.

Perfect timing. For you, anyway. For Bob? That remained to be seen. You crossed the small tiled room in a few barefoot steps and swung the door open with a grin.

“Excellent! You’re just who I need.” Bob blinked at you like a deer caught in LED headlights. His shirt–black, baggy, and soft–was damp around the collar, clinging to his skin and chest in a way that made it impossible not to look. His light brown hair curled at in little waves at the ends, still damp from his shower that was still kissing the walls, and the navy sweatpants sitting low on his hips were hugging him far too well for a man who clearly didn’t see himself in the way you were seeing him in.

”…Wh-What?” He asked, brows furrowed, gaze daring from your eyes to the mess of tubes on the counter.

“Come in,” You said smoothly, reaching out and tugging him gently by the wrist, guiding him over the threshold with ease, “Sit on the toilet lid, and hurry up with the hair brushing…I need a test subject.” He obeyed-but only in the way someone might follow a siren calling them to certain doom. He moved like he wasn’t sure if he’d stepped into a trap or a daydream.

”L-Last time I heard the words ‘test s-subject’ I ended up getting injected with a sun god…” He mumbled, grabbing the brush from the hanging organizer on the shower door. You laughed, warm and low at the comment.

“Relax. I’m not injecting you with anything. You’re perfectly safe with me.” Bob sat down slowly, brush limp in his hand as his gaze swept across the counter again, scanning over the contents that you had lined up with such care.

”S-So what is all of t-this?” You turned slightly towards him, unscrewing a velvet-matte red as you spoke.

“I’m trying to find the perfect lipstick for the gala tomorrow,” You said matter-of-factly, swiping the colour gently across your bottom lip, “It has to match my dress and it has to be smudge-proof.”

Bob tilted his head, watching your quick movements intently, “Smudge-proof?”

“Yes. I don’t want to be constantly running to the bathroom to check for fading or fix transfer stains. I want to actually enjoy the night. Have a drink. Maybe dance. You know…Breathe.” He gave a thoughtful little nod, bringing the brush through his damp hair.

”D-Didn’t really think about that, a-actually…” You turned away from your reflection to look at him, a coy smile peeling onto your lips.

“Most guys don’t.” But Bob wasn’t most guys of course, and as expected, a beat later he added to the conversation again…

”…W-Wait…Why does it have to be completely smudge-proof though? I mean if you’re just–“ You shrugged, letting your gaze flick toward the mirror, while your lips pressed together, transferring the color over to the bare one above.

”You never know,” You said casually, “I might be planning on kissing someone.” Bob froze like someone had yanked all the oxygen out of the room. His cheeks–already pink from the post-shower warmth–turned a deeper, rosier red in seconds. It bloomed across his cheekbones, dusting the tips of his ears, and spread like a sunburn. His mouth opened slightly like he meant to say something, but all he managed to get out was:

”O-Oh…” He choked, swallowing the lump of nerves in his throat. The brush in his hand was still mid-motion through his damp locks, but it had stopped moving entirely. You smiled at him.

”Alright,” You started, twisting the lipstick down and putting the cap back on with a soft click, “First one. You ready?” He nodded slowly, like he couldn’t trust his voice. His eyes tracked you as you stepped forward–deliberate and unhurried–until you were standing directly between his legs.

His brush lowered slightly, and then the wave of your scent hit his nose.

Your perfume was warm, and sweet, with a hint of plum riding off of the tail end of each inhale he took. Beneath the main notes there was something tropical–maybe coconut from your makeup remover, or the vanilla-tinged balms you always wore when your lips were bare.

But now your lips weren’t bare at all. They were red, and bold, and smooth, just like fresh velvet. He looked up slowly, through his lashes, and found you were already staring down at him. You tilted your head, smiling, the curve of your mouth smug in a way that made something tighten in his chest.

You didn’t say anything as you reached forward–fingers brushing gently along the side of his jaw, your thumb just beneath the hinge of it. He let you tilt his head more toward you like he was made of clay and you were the ceramicist.

He dropped the brush into his lap, forgetting about it completely.

Your face hovered near his and he could feel his breath hitch audibly. You leaned in slow enough that he swore he could hear his own heartbeat ringing through the room.

Then your lips pressed to his cheek.

Warm, firm and lingering. It wasn’t a quick peck either. Not an innocent brush. It was a kiss.

You lingered just long enough for him to feel the curve of your mouth, and the faint stick of product with the pressure of intention behind it. He could smell the stain now–berries and heat, sharp pigment and your sweet breath that had a faint scent of strawberries from the gum you chewed on. If he was a sailor and you were the siren…He would be dead at sea.

When you pulled away, he swore the room was spinning a little. You cocked your head to the side and looked at the mark you had left just above the apple of his cheek. A bright, undeniable red, plastered on his pale tone.

“Hmm,” You said thoughtfully, “Definitely transferred.” Bob sat in stunned silence, skin still tingling from where your mouth had been–he didn’t know whether it was because he was allergic to the ingredients or because it was just him buzzing from all the adrenaline, though he would find out in due time. You dabbed at your own lips with a tissue saturated in make-up remover, wiping the colour clean.

“Not a keeper,” You mumbled, “It’s a shame–it was a really good match.” He didn’t say anything. He couldn’t find words, nor could he find a way to breathe. He didn’t even know how he was still alive at this point, all he knew was he saw you reach out again.

You selected the next shade carefully.

A sultry plum–deep, and elegant, with just enough bite to stand out. You rolled the colour across your lips in smooth, practiced strokes, then blotted once on a folded tissue before turning back to him.

Bob still hadn’t moved an inch. He was still sitting frozen on the seat, brush limp in his lap, his shimmering blue eyes flickering between your mouth and the floor. The cheek you had kissed was flushed a bit deeper now.

“Test two,” You announced gently, stepping into his space again, until the hem of your t-shirt brushed against his thigh and he had nowhere left to look that wouldn’t betray him in some way. Your hand came up to his jaw again–just two fingers this time, soft and easy, tilting his face the opposite way.

His lashes fluttered under the feeling of your breath brushing over them as you kissed him again. This time it was just below his temple, closer to the hinge of his jaw–closer to where his pulse was throbbing faintly beneath his skin. You pressed a little firmer this time, letting your breath fan against his ear.

Bob inhaled a quiet breath through his nose, attempting to keep himself calm, but in reality he was gripping the fabric of his sweatpants between his fingers like it was the only thing holding him back from collapsing. When you pulled away, you didn’t look at him, you just kept your focus on the mark.

”…Transferred,” You murmured, brushing your thumb lightly over the stain–making sure it was more of a caress than a swipe. You didn’t move back this time, you just grabbed another makeup wipe and removed the color before reaching for another.

It was a dusty rose this time, it was softer, and much more muted than any of the other colors he had seen you in.

Once you had applied it, you leaned in–closer now–and kissed the slope of his cheekbone, just beneath the curve of his eye. Your lips barely grazed the skin there–it was as if you did it to see if he would flinch or move.

Bob’s jaw tensed under your touch, and you were hyper aware of his breath hitting your skin in short, warm bursts, his chest lifting against you. He hadn’t said a word–but his hands had now left his lap and were gripping the edge of the counter, white-knuckled in anticipation.

You reached for the next tube–something far more delicate than the dusty rose before it. A pink so faint it was almost nothing at all. A whisper of colour. You applied it, blotted it, then turned again. Bob had somehow managed to get a handle on his breathing in the moments you were applying the next colour, but it was too controlled. You could practically feel the storm building beneath his skin, golden and humming, and desperate to stay still.

Your thighs brushed the inside of his knees as you tilted his head up to yours again, looking at the way his skin was flushed and warm, beneath the shades of pinks and reds…A gradient of restraint. You leaned in, and this time your kiss landed just beside the corner of his mouth, not touching it, but close enough to tease.

Bob made a sound. It was barely audible. A sof, helpless little nnnnh in the back of his throat–like a gasp that had gotten stuck on the way out. You didn’t say anything. You only bit back a knowing smile, and pretended not to hear it. You just wiped your lips again and moved on to the next shade–a creamy nude gloss, with just a hint of peach.

You came back in and kissed beneath his jaw, where the stubble was soft and patchy and tender. The spot made him twitch, his throat working under the weight of the kiss, like he was trying to swallow air.

His breathing changed then and became heavier and shallower.

And when you came close to him again, in a different shade–this time pressing your lips right onto his Adam’s apple–Bob’s head tipped back instinctively.

Like he was offering himself up to you–surrendering himself completely.

You continued to kiss him, moving progressively lower, marking him up with various shades. Then suddenly you found yourself at the hollow of his throat, just between the lines of his collarbones. His chest was rising faster now, with flush traveling beneath his shirt, like it was echoing the trail your mouth had carved against his skin.

You pulled back slowly, lips hovering about the damp collar of his shirt, bringing your hand up to brush over the fabric.

”Oops…” You murmured softly, putting on a teasing tone beneath your words, “I think I’m running out of room.” Bob looked down at you with eyes that were no longer blue. You hadn’t even noticed he had his eyes closed tightly for the majority of this until now.

There was gold flickering at the edges. Sentry was just barely cresting the surface–quiet, curious, and turned-on by the proximity. He was enamoured by what was happening, and Bob was allowing him to watch through his eyes because he was too focused on trying to keep himself together. The air around Bob was shimmering faintly, vibrating with tension like he was lighting up the room.

The sensation of your lips had done this…You had done this, and you were proud of it.

Your nails dragged gently down the front of his shirt, tracing a circle around the fabric.

”I think you may need to take this off…To give me more space of course.” You whispered, watching as his brain seemed to short-circuit. His eyes were still half-lidded, heavy with heat and something distant and flickering gold. But when they opened fully they met yours with the softest, most terrified kind of care, glancing down at your mouth just as your bottom lip slipped between your teeth…And that’s what did it for him. That was the punch of encouragement to the gut.

He gave you a small nod, then reached for the hem of his shirt. His hands trembled slightly from the kind of overstimulated shyness that lived just under the surface of his flesh, in the space between ‘I want this’ and ‘I don’t know what to do with all of it.’ He peeled the black shirt up slowly, exposing inch after inch of pale skin, dusted with freckles and pure heat. There were a few scars here and there. A mole right near the dip of his sternum. A faint sheen of sweat that bloomed across his chest and shoulders from the heat in the room–or from the heat of your lips…Possibly both.

The fabric came over his head, messing up his semi-brushed hair in the process, and he folded it carefully in his lap like he was going to get up to put it on display or something. You let yourself stare.

At the freckles on his collarbones, the ones on his biceps. The soft stretch marks that feathered under his arms and the little curve of his ribs as they flared gently with each nervous breath he took. You wanted to map everything with your mouth.

So you did.

You leaned in again, with a fresh colour on your lips–deep pink this time, and kissed just beneath his collarbone, then a little to the right, then down the slope of his chest–right over where his heart was pulsating beneath its shield of flesh.

Bob made a quiet sound, something soft and strangled that never made it fully out of his throat. His hands were still in his lap, his thumbs gripping the hem of the shirt like it was the only thing keeping him from grabbing yours. Every part of him was vibrating–his jaw clenched, chest rising, shoulders tense–and still he let you do it, staying perfectly still.

You changed shades, kissing higher, then lower.

A sheer gloss that glimmered under the light as you kissed just below the curve of his pec. A matte brick red as you moved toward the center of his chest. Then you put on something soft again, something nude and barely there, as you pressed your hands against his thighs for a bit of leverage while your lips found the inside slope of his ribcage. You could’ve sworn you felt his knees buckle under your hands.

By the time you reached the underside of his pectoral muscle, you heard the faintest breath catch in his lungs, like he couldn’t even take full breaths anymore. And then you kissed just above it.

One final, perfect kiss.

You pressed your lips down and held them there–longer, slower, firmer–fighting back the urge to mark the skin with something that wasn’t lipstick. You felt the flutter of his pulse beneath it. And when you finally pulled away, you let your lips ghost against him, your eyes trailing down to where you had kissed.

“Ooooh. This one’s good…I think we found it. No transfer!” You announced, looking up at Bob, seeing the ruined look plastered on his face.

His eyes were heavy, shot through with blue and gold. His mouth parted. His skin was flushed a deep red and marked in soft lip stains, all across his chest, neck, jaw, and face. The air shimmered around him like static clinging to the atmosphere, and he was breathless. He let out a sigh.

”P-Perfect,” He whimpered, so dazed his words barely had shape to them. His body shifted, like he was meaning to stand–maybe to retreat, maybe to run cold water over his steaming body, maybe just to breathe–

But you didn’t let him.

Before he could even try to get up, you surged forward and kissed him on the lips. Hungry, wet, and deep. You kissed him like it was the conclusion to a story you had been telling in colour across his skin. Bob let out a muffled, desperate little moan into your mouth, as his hands found your waist, then your back, then your hips–grabbing, pulling, and holding. He crushed you to him, allowing all his restraint to unravel all at once, letting what little control he had slip through his fingers.

You kissed him like you had wanted to from the very start. Like all the kisses around his whole body led to this one final one–this overwhelming, messy, and utterly perfect one.

He kissed you back with awe. With the kind of pressure that said ‘thank you, please don’t stop, I’ve been waiting.’

You pulled back just enough to breathe–barely. Your foreheads bumped, and the air between you was heat, electricity, and trembling silence.

Bob’s lips were swollen now. Kiss-bitten, and wet. But when you looked…

The colour on your lips hadn’t transferred onto his. You smirked, and reached up, gently swiping the faintest trail of spit off his swollen bottom lip with your thumb, tilting your head to the side.