folding paper planes

You had pretty much dropped everything the moment you saw Bradley's name flash across the screen of your phone. The relief that washed over you at the sound of his voice- at his Hey, kid- nearly sent you to the floor.

While it had been another few days before you were able to get on a plane- he'd told you there were still some debriefs and paperwork that still needed to be done before him and his team could take leave- but you'd started packing your suitcase the moment the call ended.

You were antsy the entire six hour flight from Boston. You'd apologized more than once for nudging your neighbor's arm as you shifted and squirmed in your uncomfortable seat.

Hearing that final ding of the seatbelt off sign was music to your ears.

You'd called him the moment you stepped off the plane and Bradley picked up on the first ring.

"This feels familiar, doesn't it?" he rasps over the phone. You know he's thinking about the Spring Break you'd went to visit him at UVA. He'd picked you up at the airport then, just like he was doing now. "When is it my turn to be picked up at the airport, kid?"

Of course they'd dropped you off at the furthest gate in Terminal 1. You let out a huff and then set about threading your way through the throng of people standing between you and your best friend.

"Please, when's the last time you flew commercial?" you tease. "And it's not all of us can just waltz onto a Naval Base anytime we want."

"Hey, no one's stopping you from joining up. I'll even write you a letter of recommendation."

You weave around a stroller.

"Hmm, pass. But thank you for the generous offer."

And then past a couple holding hands.

He chuckles. "Guess that means I get to keep my title as designated chauffeur, huh?"

"Lucky you," you sing.

If you weren't on a mission, you'd consider stopping at the coffee shop that you're briskly gliding past for a quick cappuccino. But you had other priorities.

"Such a smart ass." You can practically hear the smirk in his voice.

You speed up your steps, the glimmer of the exit now in sight. "Why don't you say that to my face, Bradshaw."

"I'm trying to, but you're taking forever," he grouses, famously the more impatient one of the two of you. "I'm to the left of Arrivals gate, by the way."

You smile to yourself. Knowing him, he has probably been there for at least an hour keeping tabs on you with some flight tracker app he'd downloaded on his phone.

"It's a good thing you told me, I'm not sure if I'd recognize you with that bold fashion statement you're sporting on your face now."

Bradley scoffs indignantly. "You haven't even been here thirty minutes and you're already dunking on the 'stache, kid? It looks better in person, give it a chance."

You pull over just to the right of the Terminal exit, tucked next to a potted ficus, taking a moment to scan through the crowd of people waiting for their own travelers. He's not hard for you to find, standing head and shoulders above everyone else in the area.

Whole and healthy and here in front of you.

It's been a little over two years since you've last seen Bradley in person, he'd been stationed in Japan before his return to Top Gun. It was still hard to believe that the lanky boy you'd grown up with had become the well-built man standing across the way from you.

During his time in the Navy, he'd truly come into himself. The easy confidence in his posture was well earned and looked good on him. But you had to stop yourself from laughing and giving yourself away when you see him impatiently tapping his toes. Because no matter how much some things change, there are some things that will always be the same.

"I don't know about that," you muse, still taking him in because there was a moment there when you weren't sure you'd ever get to see him again. "I can see it from here and I'm still on the fence about it."

You see him look around, confused for a moment, head swiveling trying to spot you. You don't keep him waiting long, stepping out from your hiding spot and into view.

You mouth hi and give him a little wave.

"Hey, there you are." There's no missing the wide grin on his face. "You going to stand all the way over there or are you going to come see the mustache up close and personal?"

You laugh and shake your head making your way to him. "I guess I might as well considering I did fly all the way across the country to see it."

"And me, I hope."

"And you," you confirm.

You end the call, tucking your phone into your bag as you close the gap between him and you.

Those whiskey brown eyes are one you've known your whole life. His curls looked like they've seen some sun, as did the rest of him. And the soft smile he had directed at you looked like contentment.

What stops you in your tracks are the fresh cuts that mark his face, new scars to be mixed in with the ones you already knew so well. They're shade of bright pink that's impossible to miss.

"Oh my god, Bradley."

He doesn't say a word as you gently take his face in your hands, tilting his head this way and that, inspecting him for yourself. He just gazes at you, reading every emotion as they run across your face, as you try to hunt for any clues to an answer about what happened that you know you'll never get.

"I'm fine, I promise," he murmurs.

"It doesn't look fine," you press.

He grasps you wrists with his warm hands and coaxes yours down between the two of you.

Too close. Whatever it was was too damn close. The evidence is right there on his neck and behind his ear, and you hate it.

Bradley squeezes your hands reassuringly. "I'll have you know passed the concussion protocol with flying colors." He tries to play it off as a joke, but the dark circles under his eyes and the weariness you see around the corners of his eyes tells a different story.

"Does it still hurt?" you ask, trying not to let your voice wobble.

"Well, I do feel a little better now that you’re here.”

You let out an exasperated sigh. "You're so-"

Ridiculous. Frustrating. Important to me.

You don't get to finish you sentence because Bradley is tugging you into his broad chest. The arms that wrap around you are fuller now, but his hug is as just a familiar as it's always been.

Yours thread themselves around his waist instinctively, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt.

He holds you close, holds you tight. Bradley's always been the type to really hold on tight because he knows what it's like to have to let things go.

People come and go. There's the sound of departure and arrival announcements on the speakers overhead. Some people are saying their goodbyes, and some- like the two of you- are saying hello.

All of it happens around you and Bradley. As you hold him and he holds you. Both of you all too aware that this moment hadn't been a given.

"Thank you for not standing me up," you whisper, throat thick.

"I wouldn’t dream of it, kid," he says, taking your chin between his thumb and index finger, and gives it a little wiggle.

You blow out a breath, not wanting a raincloud of what-ifs to damper your golden afternoon.

"Hi," you say again.

"I'm happy to see you," he replies, earnestly. You just nod your head because the feeling is so, so mutual. "You just gained three hours, you up for a little adventuring?"

"I’m all yours, Bradshaw."

It didn't matter to you what you did for the four days you were in town, just that you got to spend it with him.

"Good." He drapes a heavy arm over shoulder and reaches for your suitcase. "Because I'm pretty sure I owe you a milkshake."

You let him steer you towards the exit, to where you assume the short term parking garage is located, and ask, "Can I drive the Bronco?"

Bradley pauses. "We'll see."

You grin because it's not a no.

The California sun hits you in full force as you step out the automatic doors. You reach up and tug out the sunglasses that had been haphazardly tucked into the pocket of his silly Hawaiian shirt- that you were definitely going to tease him about later- and slip them on your face.

Bradley smiles over at you.

"I think California is going to suit you, kid."

Robert Floyd was an idiot. He was also so fucked.

From his spot in the Hard Deck, he watched you laugh with your teammates and flit about with a sweet little sundress on that Bob desperately wanted to get his hands under. His grip on his drink tightened as Hangman slipped behind you, toothpick swirling in that loud mouth of his, to “show you some moves.”

“Thanks, Texas, but your moves just aren’t doing it for me.” You’d teased, twirling right out of his grip. Bob smiled into his drink. Seresin laughed like you hadn’t just turned him down in front of the entire team.

You might not be his, but you certainly weren’t Jake’s. That was a fact Bob knew as well as he knew his own name.

Bob’s eyes were glued to your legs whenever he knew no one was watching him, which was pretty often. He had the uncanny ability to hide in a crowd, something he was thankful for tonight. Because your toned legs? They looked like sin.

Usually, your legs were hidden with a uniform or the basketball shorts he’d seen you wear when you did PT together. Baggy shirts and sports bras usually hid your figure, but tonight? Oh, you were playing dirty.

Your eyes flickered up from the bar where you’d been ordering another drink and met his, and he watched that flash of mischief cross your features.

So, yes, Bob was fucked and he knew it. You knew it too.

You’d been playing this cat and mouse game since Lemoore and the secret of it all was the most exciting. Because you? You were a little better at communicating with people, a little more out there with the team because you wanted their respect. Whereas Bob got their respect in other ways. And he’d gotten yours one night at a bar when you’d been out with some of your old coworkers. He’d complemented a particular call of yours that he thought was brilliant and you’d turned to him, whiskey in hand, and thanked him.

You had noticed him before, obviously. But there was a quiet confidence about him that really drew you in. There was more under the surface and you were determined to figure it out. So you’d invited him back to your place, slammed him against the wall of your studio apartment, and promptly had your way with him. Bob still jacked off to that night and the thought of it again was causing a problem the longer he focused on those memories and the way you looked tonight.

Almost as if you knew what he was thinking, you maintained eye contact at the bar as you drew one finger up and down the side of your glass, condensation dripping from your fingertips. And suddenly, Bob had way more than a little problem. He spread his legs wider on his stool to compensate and sent a quick glare your way, your laugh sounding in response.

No one else had noticed, and that was how he liked it. Because the both of you? There was no label. If either of you felt like it, you spent the night together. There was no domestic bliss, no strings, no morning regrets. You were both free to do as you pleased, but Bob couldn’t help but like that you’d been spending more time in his bed lately than ever before. He hadn’t really had the time to focus on it, but it was nice.

“Fellas, Bagman,” you greeted when you walked back over to the crew who were still hogging the pool tables, “I’m gonna call it a night. Phoenix, you’re in charge.”

“Hey, c’mon,” Jake smirked, stepping closer to you, and Bob decided he really wanted to snap that toothpick before it offended him further, “we all know Trace can’t keep these losers in line.”

“She’s in charge, Seresin, especially since she’s the only sober one left.”

“Baby-on-Board’s always sober and we don’t put him in charge.” Jake flashed a sideways glance at Bob to find Phoenix’s backseater giving him the most unimpressed look he could muster.

“Bob’s driving me home.” you said sweetly, patting Jake’s chest with such a look of false pity that it almost made Bob burst out laughing. Mickey did, and quickly hid his laughter into his beer. That was two for you, and none for Bagman.

“You’re letting Floyd take you home?” Jake quirked an eyebrow and you just knew he was making an innuendo. Bob watched your eyes roll.

“He’s my neighbor, you idiot. And he drove me here?” you sighed and downed the rest of your drink, leaving Hangman and Bob to watch the tepid water on the outside of your drink slide down your chin and onto your chest.

Bob quickly looked away, knowing the attention was turned a little too close to him and his reactions right now. Besides, he knew how to hide his feelings about you. He’d been doing it for a year and half and figured he’d probably be doing it for the rest of his life if he couldn’t figure out how to make your little situationship a bit more permanent.

“Ready?” he asked quietly, keys at the ready along with your flight jacket which you’d left beside him when you came in. Your smile was bright as you took it from him and waggled your fingers back at Hangman. It felt like a threat and the cocky man scoffed at your retreating form.

Bob didn’t say another word and neither did you until you got into his truck. He’d never been more thankful for a bench seat than when you started your little rendezvouses and you were next to him each time.

“God, Jake was insufferable tonight. Kept staring at my ass and trying to touch me,” you frowned, turning on the radio and settling on some station. It was just background noise.

“He wasn’t the only one.” Bob said, turning out of the Hard Deck and back towards your shared apartment building.

“No? See something you liked, Floyd?” Your grin was lethal as you slid all the way over to him on the seat and settled a hand on his thigh. It was far too close to where he really wanted it and he looked at the space between when he hit a red light.

“You’re playing with fire.” Bob muttered, jaw tightening. Because you always did this. You riled him up and let him get all hot and bothered, like you enjoyed when he lost control. He never knew how to feel about it, but he knew he loved being with you.

“Drive faster.” You warned him, fingers inching dangerously close to the bulge straining beneath his jeans.

He made the normally twenty minute drive in about fifteen, breaking at least two traffic laws in the meantime. You’d just smiled, smug like a cat, as you kept your hand on his thigh and drew circles on the denim. A fucking tease, Bob thought, teeth gritted.

And as he shifted into park and turned off the vehicle, he didn’t have to wait before you were kissing his jaw and spreading your whole palm over the crux of his jeans.

“Inside, now.” he snapped, his control hanging on by just a thread. There was that flash in your eyes again as you both climbed out of the truck and headed inside.

“Yours or mine?” you murmured, pressed against him in the empty elevator. You both lived on the third floor, right across the hall from each other, so it wasn’t like you’d travel far either way.

“Mine.” he bit out, key already at the ready. Your giggle nearly set every last ounce of his self control on fire.

He didn’t even get a chance to lock it behind you both before you were tearing into his button up, unbuttoning each one as fast you could.

“Off,” you gasped, trying to pull it away from his arms.

“Stop.” Bob trapped your hands and stopped your frantic movements. “I don’t want it fast tonight. Wanna take my time.”

Your eyes darkened and you resigned yourself with leaning against the wall, that fucking dress on full display. Bob’s eyes raked across the sight and let go of your hands.

“What’s gotten into you, Floyd?” Your smile was soft all of a sudden, comfortable, and he wanted to kiss it off. He needed to make you moan, hear those noises escape your lips like he needed air.

“You wore this for me.” Bob smiled as he dragged his fingers over the soft material of the skirt.

“Maybe,” you quipped, trying to drag him closer but failing. He stood just a step apart from you, but he was unmoving. “Robert, c’mere.”

Bob shook his head, staying exactly where he wanted. With you. Squirming and right where he wanted you.

“You teased me all night. Messing around with Hangman, flirting with the others, dancing around in this fucking dress. Made me want to take you outside and press you up against a wall at the bar.”

“Penny wouldn’t have liked that.”

“We’re not talking about Penny right now.” Bob groaned, finally giving in and leaning in to kiss you. The kiss was hot and messy and your tongue slid against his like a promise, tasting of whiskey and something else he couldn’t place. “I’m gonna take my time with you.”

“Do your worst, Floyd.” You whispered into the dim light of his living room lamp, the one he always left on. It illuminated you both just enough and that soft smile came back. Bob couldn’t have that.

The dress was held up by a zipper on the side, not on the back, and Bob had realized that about fifteen seconds after he saw you at the bar. Because you’d Ubered in just so he wouldn’t see your dress until you were walking into the bar. And Bob had spent the next three hours figuring out exactly how he wanted to take it off you.

He undid the zipper in silence, watching intently as the fabric gave him enough space to then unhook the little eye at the top. The strap on that side was now draping just low enough that he could see the truth. You weren’t wearing a bra. The groan that escaped his lips was painful, and he didn’t waste any more time pulling it down to expose your chest to his wandering gaze. A quick kiss pressed between your breasts was all you got.

And then he dropped to his knees. Bob Floyd on the floor in front of you. Your breath caught, your eyes staring deep into his as he knelt before you and reached between your legs to pull off the skimpy bit of underwear you’d worn just for him, though you’d deny it if he asked. He removed it in ten seconds flat, chucking it over his shoulder. You’d have laughed if the sight wasn’t so hot. But Bob wasn’t done.

His hands, the ones you were so obsessed with. Not huge, but large enough to encompass parts of your body you didn’t even know existed. Those hands were on your hips and between your legs and then he was using his mouth. His tongue.

He was right there, beneath your dress where you couldn’t see him anymore, kissing and licking and his nose was pressed right where it needed to be. The pleasure was immediate, Bob knowing exactly what to do with your body, and he played it like an instrument. His movements were fine-tuned.

“Floyd. Robert,” you moaned, writhing above him. With one hand, he was pressing inside you, making sure you were ready for the main event he was mentally planning in his bedroom, and with the other he was holding your hips in place. He was strong, you remembered in your haze. And just when your moans reached their highest pitch, right before you fell off the cliff, he stopped. He pressed a kiss to your clit and stood up abruptly, glasses fogged.

“What—“

He cut you off with a wet kiss and promptly dragged you onto his bed. Your head was still reeling with the ruined orgasm when you landed on the plush surface. He abandoned his glasses on his bedside table and caged you in.

“Told you,” Bob grinned between kisses, “you’ve been teasing me all night. I wanted to take my time.”

You groaned as he kissed down your face, your neck and that spot that made you keen, and down your chest. He attached his lips to your right nipple, tweaking the other with his fingers and eliciting yet another deep moan.

“I don’t care,” you whined, “just want you.”

“Patience.” he chuckled and let you go.

Your eyes raked over his body and you shuddered. Bob looked dangerous like this. No glasses, gelled hair all messed up. His button up still hung from his shoulders and he still had his jeans on. The effect was sinful.

“Fuck it,” you snapped, launching yourself at him and knocking him over. You succeeded in straddling him and Bob settled in for the ride with a smile like he knew he wouldn’t let you do this for long. “Take these off.”

Your hands shoved the rest of his shirt off and your fingers flew to the buckle of his belt while you pressed kiss after kiss to his toned abs.

Finally, you got the buckle loose and unzipped his pants, gaining a hiss from the man beneath you when you brushed your fingers over the part of him you wanted most right now. And Bob Floyd was not tiny.

“Off off off.” you muttered, yanking the fabric down towards his knees. Bob helped, shoving his jeans and boxers off while you ripped your dress off your body. Both bare, you straddled him again and let yourself slide over his huge dick. He handed you a condom and you wordlessly stretched it over him.

You remembered the first time you’d seen his dick and how you’d fallen in love with the stretch. No man had compared since, which was something you didn’t want to think about right now when you had him under you.

“Not gonna let me take my time with you, are you?” he laughed, leaning in to kiss you again.

“Absolutely not.” you declared, reaching down to position him where you wanted. The head brushed your clit and finally slid between your folds. 

Then, he slid home. The first slide was always the most devastating as he filled every inch of you so deliciously. Your moans bounced off of each other as you pulled yourself up and down on top of him. Sure, every position was fun with Bob, but this one? It was a personal favorite. It never lasted long before he’d flip you and fuck you harder.

You decided to make it last by alternating thrusts and grinding, making him emit a string of curses you didn’t even know he knew.

“Y’know, I love that you wear your t-shirts all the time.” you gasped after a particularly deep and heavenly spot was touched on inside you. “Means I can leave as many marks as I want on you and no one but me will see it.”

To make your point, you leaned down and dragged your teeth over one of his nipples. Bob shuddered. Then you attached your lips just above his pectoral, sucking a mark just above his heart. That sealed the deal.

Bob’s eyes glittered as he flipped you over and pulled out, slamming back into you and sucking the breath from your lungs. Taking his time was forgotten as he rearranged your insides and smiled while he was doing it. Robert Floyd was dangerous and he took you apart so thoroughly that he ripped your orgasm out of you before you even sensed it coming.

“Oh, God,” you moaned, clutching onto his shoulders as he continued his punishing pace.

“I’m close.” he whined, reaching a hand between you to brush against your clit. You were still sensitive, but he launched you into yet another orgasm as he shuddered inside you and painted the inside of his condom, his moans settling deep into your skin. When he peeled himself off of you, you whined at the loss of contact until he smiled dopily at you and kissed your forehead.

He always smiled the same way each and every time after your little trysts, but this time the sight punched a hole in your very being.

Bob was right that you’d worn that dress for him. You had. You’d been hoping he’d be watching, had even contemplated not wearing underwear at all just to be able to flash him a peek and make him lose control sooner. Each time you teased him, you hoped he’d break and decide he didn’t want this to just be a friends with benefits thing and maybe he’d want more. But he never said anything. It still stung.

“Same time next week?” he laughed, climbing out of bed to get you both a glass of water. You threw on his button up and stumbled into the bathroom to clean yourself up. But as you looked at yourself in the mirror, you grimaced. How much longer could you keep doing this?

After you’d finished, you left the bathroom to find Bob who was clad in a new pair of boxers and his glasses, sitting on the edge of his bed with a glass of water for you in hand.

He stood up and handed you the glass, pressed a kiss to your temple, and entered the bathroom himself. As you sipped the water, you listened to his movements, sounds that were so familiar to you. You heard the shower turn on and he popped his head out to ask if you’d like to join, but you shook your head.

“Mav asked me to come in early tomorrow for a simulation exercise, so I’m gonna shower at my place and crash. This was fun, though.” You smiled, giving him a once over again. God, he looked good. He always did after sex when his skin had that sweaty sheen and his lips were swollen and his hair was all mussed. You missed the disappointed flash in his eyes when you turned him down, but he helped you gather your things anyway and lent you a pair of his boxers to walk across the hall in.

And when your own door shut behind you, you wondered just how you were going to get over this man when you never really had him in the first place.

----------------------------------------------------------

The next morning, you were determined not to make it weird. You’d caught feelings, but you knew Bob hadn’t and that had to be okay. So you’d do your job and let him do his. You’d turn down the flirting a bit and see how things went if you didn’t take Bob home for the next week. Or maybe a month. You weren’t sure how long you’d last without giving in.

And Bob? He was none the wiser. Back to his controlled state, he worked alongside Phoenix and made training plans with Maverick silently, just like normal. He didn’t notice anything might be wrong until you didn’t flash him your usual smile when saying goodnight for the day.

That caused him to pause, but he knew you were probably tired so he brushed it off.

“Still up for movie night later?” he asked, hoping you’d say yes. “I’m ordering pizza.”

“Sorry, buddy, but I think I’m gonna go to bed early. Mav wore me out today.” you shrugged, climbing into your own car and leaving the lot before he could try to reschedule. As he stared at the spot where your car had been, he frowned. 

You had never cancelled on him before, but maybe you just needed a night. Mav had run you ragged making you do a hundred pushups when you’d failed to master your training simulation. He decided not to let it bother him. But buddy? When had you ever called him that? He shook his head and climbed into his own truck.

Meanwhile, Hangman and Phoenix stared at the man from twenty yards back, coming to a conclusion both you and Bob would be mortified to know about.

“D’you think they’re fucking?” Phoenix asked, eyes bright with mischief. She’d had her suspicions, but she certainly never thought she’d share them with Bagman of all people. She wished it were Rooster.

“Oh, a hundred percent. Why do you think I fuck with them all the time? Haven’t you noticed they sneak off sometimes? Eight out of ten times, she drives with him. And, oh my god, he’s always staring.” Jake drawled, getting his own suspicions off his chest. While he liked to have a good time, he was very aware of when people weren’t on the market and you both were off the market. “Also, that little dress situation last week at the bar? Dude left with a boner and he kept smiling when I was flirting with her, like he knew she wouldn’t be going home with anyone but him.”

“Holy shit.” Phoenix swore. “Do you think they’re just fucking or are we all idiots and they’ve been together this whole time?”

“Bob’s a fucking idiot, so I think it’s just friends with benefits. He’ll never man up to that. Y’know, we could—“

“Get a fucking grip, Bagman.” Natasha cut him off with a fake gag thrown in for good measure. “Some of us have higher standards than you.”

“Whatever.”

It had been a week, and you’d somehow managed not to let Bob in your bed. A very difficult week. And not for lack of him trying, either. He was teasing you just like you’d teased him, hoping you’d break.

He showed up for PT in a tighter shirt than normal, a white Navy shirt that was just threadbare enough that you could see the mark you’d left on his chest right between the V and the Y. When he caught you staring, he had the audacity to wink. You walked away, guzzling your water.

At the Hard Deck, on karaoke night, he brushed a hand down your spine during one of Rooster’s songs that caused shivers to run down your whole body and almost drenched your khakis. He barely touched you and you reacted like that, and it made you leave early. You didn’t let him come with you, claiming a headache from the noise.

He texted you, and you didn’t want to make it weird, so you kept texting back. But absence was making this a whole lot harder instead of easier.

“So, how long have you been in love with my backseater,” Phoenix asked during your run the next morning. You pulled up short.

“Excuse me?”

She shot you with a knowing glance when she circled back to you, not expecting your abrupt stop. “Y’know, Hangman was the one to figure it out. I just started watching and the signs are all there.”

“Hangman thinks I’m in love with Bob, so you listened to him? C’mon, Phoenix. The dude’s demented.”

“No, he brings up some excellent points. Bob’s always staring at you and you’re together more often than you’re apart. It makes sense. And that’s not even mentioning that dress situation two weeks ago.”

“What about my dress,” you deadpanned.

“You left with Bob and he had a boner the size of Mount Everest. So either you’re fucking or you’re in love with each other and we’ve all missed it.” She finished with a smirk.

Your eyes widened.

“Oh my god, do you think he knows?”

And there it was, your almost confession. Natasha’s eyes softened.

“Knows what, babe?” She asked, sitting down on a bench in the park and patting the space next to her.

“I’ve never told anyone. But Bob . . . we’ve been hooking up for about two years.” you sighed, head in your hands. “At first, it was just fun. Everyone expected me to end up in the bed of these fucking hotshot pilots and I ended up in his. It was like an ego boost. I had a secret and so did he and we were just having a good time.”

“But then you fell for him.” Natasha finished.

You nodded miserably.

“I did. He doesn’t know. Or at least, I don’t think he does. I mean, who am I to try and break two years of some of the best sex I’ve ever had—friends with benefits basically—to tell him I’m in love with him? He’s always so careful and purposeful that I figured, if he really wanted me as more then he would say something, right?”

“Well,” Phoenix started, “I haven’t known him as long as you have, but I think we’ve all noticed that he doesn’t look at anyone else but you. When you turned him down for your weekly movie night last week and just left? He stared at your parking space for like five minutes while Hangman and I speculated. That doesn’t look like friendship to me.”

“I just can’t keep doing this. I want him so much, but I’m—“

“Afraid of getting hurt? Listen, in our line of work, I don’t think I need to tell you that tomorrow isn’t guaranteed. You should tell him.” Natasha nudged your shoulder with a smile, “Just don’t tell anyone else for another week at least. I kinda made a bet with Bagman.”

“You’re the worst,” you laughed. But in your head, her words made sense. You needed to talk to Bob.

You sent the text before you could overthink it. “Still on for movie night at my place tonight? I’m making spaghetti. Garlic knots or bread?”

“Absolutely!” he texted back immediately with a second one coming right after, “garlic knots pls.”

The first part of your plan was now done, but now you had to ply your man with food and talk to him instead of him ending up in your bed or on the couch where your movie nights always ended up with him inside you. You never thought you’d be telling yourself that sex needed to be on the backburner.

The night started with him showing up freshly showered with a bottle of wine. That was normal. He wore an old Star Wars t-shirt and these grey sweatpants you usually couldn’t get him out of fast enough. Judging by his smug expression when you poured the wine, you knew he was thinking that too. You didn’t give in to his blatant teasing.

He picked some action movie to watch while you plated up the spaghetti and garlic knots, and you took them over to the couch where he was sprawled like he owned the place, bare feet on your coffee table.

“Heathen,” you sniffed like you did every week, and he grinned up at you. He took his feet off the table, but you knew they’d be right back up there as soon as the movie started.

“Food smells amazing, thank you. It’s been awhile since you cooked for me.” Bob’s smile was easy as he took his plate from you and placed it on his lap.

You shrugged, “I wanted real food.”

And despite your uneasiness about finally confessing your feelings tonight—if you got the chance—the night passed normally and comfortably. You both ate your food and stacked your plates on the coffee table, you ended up comfortably tucked into his side, and his quips about the inaccuracies in the film just endeared you both further.

“You’re thinking loudly.” Bob murmured during the film credits, dragging the back of a finger down your cheek. You turned in his arms to face him and your gaze slipped to his mouth. Big mistake.

He surged forward to kiss you, but you stopped him, hands splayed on his chest. He stopped, curious.

“We need to talk.” You stated, and you both winced at the way it sounded.

“Okay.” Bob let you go and turned to face you, knee bent and body leaned against the back of your couch. He looked like he belonged there all the time, and your heart did a painful little squeeze knowing he might not ever again if this didn’t go the way you wanted it to. “Hey, whatever it is, you can talk to me about it. Did I go too hard two weeks ago? Is that what this is about?”

“No, no two weeks ago was perfect.” You muttered, heat rising to your cheeks as you tried to find your words. “I’m just gonna say it.”

Bob looked at you expectantly, quietly, waiting for you. God, he was perfect. You hoped you didn’t ruin him.

“I’m in love with you.” The words left his mouth, not yours.

You blinked at him. “What?”

“It’s true. Took you not really being around for the last two weeks for me to figure it out, but I needed to say it before you ended whatever it is we’ve been doing for the past two years.” He said calmly, like he hadn’t just flipped your world upside down.

“I wasn’t going to end it.” Your smile was watery, “I was going to tell you that I love you.”

“Oh.” Bob said, the words not registering, “oh!”

“We’re such idiots,” you laughed. “Wasting all this time instead of just talking and—”

“Fucking more often?” Bob grinned. You slapped his chest, right over the mark you’d last left on him. He had the audacity to look wounded. “What? I’m just saying that, as my girlfriend, you have a few more perks than I’ve been allowing.”

“Allowing, hmm?” You smiled, and finally leaned in for that kiss he’d been angling for all night. He hummed into it. “You get so crude when we’re alone. Hangman’s really wearing off on you.”

“Don’t bring him up right now.” he groaned, head falling back on the couch cushions behind you. “If he touches you again, I now have the right to pummel him.”

“Well, babes, he figured us out before we did so . . .”

“Don’t you dare tell me Hangman is responsible for this sudden confession.”

“He’s not, but Phoenix is. And we can’t tell anyone about this for at least another week so Phoenix can win the bet they made. I’m sorry!” Bob leveled you with such an unimpressed look that you started pressing tiny little kisses all over his face just to make up for it. You could feel his smile under your ministrations.

“Fine, but I get to kiss you in the Hard Deck the next time he runs his mouth around you.”

“I think that can be arranged.” Your smile was brilliant as you nuzzled your face into his chest, both of you shifting positions so you practically laid on top of him on your oversized couch. Bob’s hands wandered towards your backside.

“Do I get to smack your butt during—”

Looking at Rhett doesn’t help either. Usually, all you needed to feel better was to get a good look at your cowboy and a soft, comforting warmth filled you instantly, but not when he’s like this. So beaten and bruised. Wrapped up in gauze and surgical stitches, with a bunch of tubes and IVs attached to him.

He’s never looked so broken before and it fills you with dread when you think about how close you were to losing him tonight. If that bull had hit him a couple inches to the right, you would’ve been watching him from the window in the morgue instead of his bedside. You try to distract yourself with sleep, but it’s futile.

The accident is all you can see when you close your eyes.

You still see the bull, a mean son of a bitch, jumping out of its cage with Rhett on its back, the feeling of nerves filling you because it just feels wrong. And then you hear it. A sound you wish you could unhear, but it’s always there. The gasps as Rhett’s thrown off the back of the bull and sickening crack as its hooves land on his shoulder not once, but twice.

It was a blur after that.

Onlookers standing in shock, medics and Royal rushing to Rhett’s side, and Cecilia holding you back from running out there, her words of comfort doing nothing of the sort. One minute you were watching him being carried up on a stretcher and the next you were in the hospital waiting room, clutching Cecilia’s hand as she prayed next to you and now here you were, alone and waiting for him to wake up.

Royal tried to get you to go home, the doctors tried to as well, saying he was going to be out for likely the whole night sleeping off the anesthesia, but you refused, stating you weren’t going anywhere until he woke up. Shrugging and mumbling something under his breath about you being just as hardheaded as his son, Royal and Cecilia went home with the promise of returning in the morning.

Waiting for him to come out of surgery was the worst. Just sitting there, knee bouncing as anxiety brewed in the pit of your stomach of all the ways tonight could’ve gone differently, of how surgery could go wrong, overthinking is what you do best. And it doesn’t stop when the doctor gives you updates or when they let you come in and see him.

It only subsides when those blue eyes you’ve been in love with since you were fifteen blink open, confused and groggy as he groans awake, voice hoarse and tired, “W-what the fuck?”

If this was any other situation, you’d probably laugh and tease him at the fact those were his first words waking up from a nap, but all you can muster is a light, barely-there chuckle, “He-Hey cowboy. How you feelin’?”

Rhett groans and tries to mask the ache and soreness he feels with a boyish smile, but you can see the pain hidden underneath, “Not too bad for someone who just got stomped on by a bull.” He laughs again, but winces this time, clutching his side as the pain in his ribs makes him wheeze.

That seems to throw you over the edge for some reason. Seeing your Rhett, who’s usually the epitome of strength, always gritting his teeth and brushing off injuries that would make most crumble in pain, flinch and grimace, breaks the damn you’ve been trying so damn hard to keep standing.

Eyes widening in panic, he tries to stop your tears, “Hey, hey, I’m okay darlin. I’m sorry it was a stupid thing to say -”

“N-no, no, it’s not that,” you sniff, wiping the tears from your cheeks. You try to smile, but fail, “It’s just that, seeing you like this and not being able to help – it breaks my heart.” You confess, voice wavering, hands shaking as it hovers over his arm, afraid to touch him. Afraid to hurt him. Your eyes burn as you try to blink back anymore tears from falling.

Rhett’s throat tightened as you cried. He hated seeing you like this. Not caring about the dull pain he feels in his ribs, he reaches for you, wrapping his hand around yours, pulling you closer to the bed, “I – I’m sorry I scared ya -”

“No, no, don't apologize. It was that damn bull and now I just feel helpless and now I’m fucking making this about me when you’re the one in the fucking hospital bed!”

You take in a sharp breath, pinching the bridge of your nose. You take a moment to collect your thoughts, your feelings. Rhett needs you right now, and you need him. Stroking his cheek, you whisper, “Just, just get some rest, alright? We can talk more once the doctor comes to check up on ya, okay?”

Rhett nods, turning slightly so he can kiss the palm of your hand with his slightly cracked lips. You walk back to the plastic chair you’ve been resting on for the last few hours. It’s not the most comfortable, but you don’t care. You’re not the one who just went through hours of surgery, you can handle some discomfort.

Not liking how far away you are, Rhett beckons you over, patting the spot next to him on the bed, “Get over here.”

“Rhett no. Your stitches and your shoulder – I don’t want to -”

“Ya can’t hurt me anymore than I already am. Now get in the damn bed and hush.”

You roll your eyes at his attempt to scold you but comply, coming over and being careful not to touch any of the tubes they got connected to him as you slide in next to him. Kissing his bruised cheek, you get as comfortable as you can next to him.

The beeping of the hospital machines hooked up to Rhett lull to the background as you speak in hushed voices, talking about what you’re going to do once he can go home, how you need to get his truck back from the rodeo parking lot since you had to leave it there, being in no state to drive when the accident happened, and sharing quiet laughs when Rhett jokes about you being his in home nurse, joking that he’s going to have to order you a nursing outfit for you to wear as your nursing him back to health. You’re tempted to flick his forehead at that but restrain yourself. This close call has shaken you both to the core, but you know you’ll be able to get through this, as long as you have each other.

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You placed the empty glasses on the counter, taking in a deep breath. Anything to center yourself on how cute Bradley was in this very moment. When Penny asked if you could pick up a shift at the Hard Deck tonight after a bartender had bailed, you knew damn well that the chances of running into your boyfriend was far from zero.

What you hadn't expected was for Bradley to find reasons upon reasons to situate himself at the bar, no more than four feet away from you.

"Yes, you do. Every day. Multiple times." You reminded him, trying to focus on the new recruits' drink orders than you adorable boyfriend.

"Bradshaw, did you come here to order or just to stare at your girl?" Penny asked. Normally she found you and Bradley cute. But tonight it was slammed and she wasn't in the mood.

"Actually, I do!" Bradley stated, his brown eyes shining, "Bob needs another Diet Coke."

You looked over Bradley's shoulder to find the bespectacled WSO with Jake's partner, Venus, along with another girl. No doubt Venus' latest attempt at setting Bob up with someone.

"Does he want some vodka in it? To help him get through Venus' latest matchmaking attempt?"

Bradley shook his head, "Nah. I already told him that if he needed an out, he could come up to you to help you with something at your house," he paused, "Your house in Stardew Valley. I fix your actual house."

You giggled as you extended your arm out to Bradley, a glass of Diet Coke in your hand, "Yes you do. Now why don't you go play that song that bothers Jake?"

Bradley took the drink from your hand, quickly clasping it with his, allowing him to bring your wrist up to his mouth, placing a long kiss on the sensitive skin. The hairs of his mustache tickle, and you would laugh if it weren't for the downright sensual look in his eyes.

"I'll be back soon with Nat's order," Bradley placed one last kiss to your hand before giving you a wink and leaving you speechless and hot all over.

Instead though, they threw you headlong into the heat of strangers, into the chaos of sweaty bodies and sticky floors, into a dive bar where the air itself reeked of beer that had been spilled too many times to ever be properly cleaned away. They had mentioned they had been planning this for weeks, which added a layer of guilt that made you stick around.

The first stop was The Alibi, a bar just outside of town that looked–from the road–more like a building waiting for demolition than a place anyone would willingly gather in. The siding had gone gray decades ago, warped and bowing like an old man’s back, and the neon sign that was buzzing above the doorway only worked in little fits, the “I’s” flickering every so often that the name sometimes read ‘The Alb.’ The gravel lot was cratered and uneven, patched by the half-hearted dumping of concrete bags that had long since cracked back to dust, and a single lamppost leaned at an angle with a stuttering bulb that threw more shadow than light into the area.

Inside, though, was something else entirely. The Alibi was worn down to the bone but it felt lived in. Its character was stitched together from a hundred bad nights and just as many good ones. The floorboards sagged and creaked with every step, scuffed with boot soles and barstools that had dragged across them. The air smelled of fryer grease, stale smoke, spilled whiskey, and something faintly medicinal–wintergreen gum chewed by someone who had left hours ago. Over the bar hung a collection of trophies and oddities: a cracked saddle mounted like wall art, a dartboard that was riddled to splinters, and a Polaroid wall of regulars that were caught in their best or worst moments–passed out in booths, singing on tables, or dancing.

The bar itself was a scarred length of oak, its lacquer worn to matte, cigarette burns pocked the surface which had accumulated over the time when smoking was still okay to do indoors. The mirror behind it was cloudy with age, ringing in Christmas lights that stayed up all year round, and plastered with yellowing flyers: a lost dog notice, a mechanical bull ‘retirement’ photo, and a faded poster for a rodeo from ‘97. Two pool tables leaned slightly downhill toward the far wall and someone had wedged a matchbook under one leg so the game was honest and fair.

It was the kind of place where everyone seemed to know everyone. Men in cowboy hats and boots leaned heavily on their beers talking amongst themselves, and women perched on stools chatted with their laughter ringing out across the room. The speakers coughed its way through an array of Classic Rock tunes, one was tinny, while the others were a hair too loud, almost like the sound system was semi-blown but not enough to be replaced.

You and your friends stayed there longer than intended, nursing a drink that was more sour mix than liquors, while your friends threw back shots and called this the pre-game to the main event. Every time you asked what the main event actually was–because The Alibi truly felt like it was an event on its own–they only grinned at each other with a maddeningly unified type of mischief. The most you got was a hint from Mika who said they would be taking you to a newly reopened lounge across town.

They were giddy about it, trading comments and inside jokes that left you sitting uneasily at the edge of their excitement. And though you could have bowed out at any point, you didn’t. You never wanted to be the one who dragged the group down–not even tonight, when you would actually have a respectable reason to do it. You didn’t want to be seen as the party pooper who ruined their own surprise birthday extravaganza on the account of being a little uncomfortable, especially when there were plenty of other times where you had been put into worse positions. So you grinned and bared it.

By the time you arrived at The Lariat Lounge, you knew immediately that this wasn’t another bar or nightclub. Even from the parking lot where the taxi dropped you all off, it was obvious.

The neon sign that glowed in rope-script letters, had a final flourish that looped into a golden lasso, a little wink to the pun that the name carried. Outside, the building was buzzing–women were scattered in groups everywhere. Clusters of them hurried in through the large red velvety doors, laughing, and tugging at the hems of their dresses, their heels clacking loudly against the pavement in little uneven rhythms. In those moments you were thankful you weren’t underdressed–and that your friends forced you to wear the short red dress that you had stuffed in the back of your closet from your high school days that you were able to still fit into somehow–because this place seemed like the type to have a dress code. You noticed other women were spilling out into the lot giggling loudly, their faces flushed and sheened with sweat, as a mix of their perfumes trailed and hovered in the warmth of the night air. You had taken note that the crowd was nearly all women, and that alone made your pulse raise nervously. Most lounges had a balance, a mix that never leaned too far towards one gender. This, though, was evidently different.

For a moment, you thought your friends had found some all-women club, but when you stepped through the red velvet doors you were immediately struck with the realization that this wasn’t just another bar or nightclub. It was a strip club–a cowboy-themed one at that, which wasn’t surprising for Wabang–and they were unapologetically proud of it.

The place was designed to overwhelm the senses. The lights were low, not pitch dark, but dim enough that the room carried a sultry sheen, a golden-amber glow that washed over everything like lantern light in a barn at midnight. It was just bright enough to catch the gleam of belt buckles, the polished tips of boots, and the rippling muscles of the men who seemed to move with deliberate, prowling confidence through the lounge.

The air was thick with cologne, a heady blend that stuck to your skin and slipped down your throat as soon as you entered. It smelled expensive in a rugged way–sharp tobacco softened by vanilla, warm sandalwood, cedar and leather, with the faint sweetness of amber threaded through. It was intoxicating, the sort of scent that reminded you of a man’s jacket after a long night out, or the memory of a hug that lingered even after they walked away. Beneath all of it though, you could still detect a fainter background note of whiskey, and the tang of money that had passed from hand to hand.

The lounge itself was stretched wide, spacious but intimate all the same. Instead of the clinical shine of chrome poles or sleek modern dećor, this place leaned into the theme. The stage was framed by rough-hewn timber posts, rope accents coiled like lassos, and a glowing neon steer’s head mounted above it. The booths were upholstered in dark oxblood leather, their high backs curving to create private alcoves where women were tucked away with drinks, laughing and shrieking as bronzed cowboys leaned over their tables. The bar gleamed faintly at the back end of the room, its counter a long slab of dark glossy wood, with small little indents from glasses being put down too hard on it.

And then there were the men–and they were something else. They weren’t just attractive; they were sculpted, and deliberately chosen, each one larger than life. Broad-shouldered, sun-kissed, and cut with the kind of physiques that looked half-bodybuilder, half-farmhand, they wore pieces of cowboy attire in suggestive fragments: open plaid shirts hanging loose over bare torsos, denim slung low on their hips, leather chaps framing thighs that looked like they could crush steel. Cowboy hats tilted at teasing angles shadowed sharp cheekbones, and boots stomped to the beat of the low country-rock baseline pumping from the speakers. They didn’t just walk around the room–they patrolled it, weaving between tables and booths like predators circling their prey, stopping to bend low into a woman’s ear, to tip their hat, to flash a grin that could split a heart in half.

The longer you stared, the warmer you became. It was like the air itself was conspiring against you–thick with heat, and heavy with laughter and music–and every time one of the dancers passed close enough that you caught the brush of their scent of the shadow of their body you pulse hopped. Embarrassment rose sharp in your chest, mingled with an anxiety you couldn’t quite shake. You weren’t a prude–never had been, even though you presented yourself as such on the outside–but you had never stepped foot in a place like this before. The sheer boldness of it, the unabashed confidence dripping off every man who prowled the room, made you feel like a turtle retreating back into its shell, your shoulders curling ever so slightly as if to make yourself smaller. You swallowed hard, the sound of it too loud in your own ears.

“Whose bright idea was it to go to a strip club?” you blurted out, your voice cracking slightly at the end. As if the universe were mocking you, one of the dancers passed just then. He was broad, his chest slick with a faint sheen of sweat that caught the light as he tipped his hat your way, a slow smile tugging at his mouth. His eyes flicked across yours in passing, just long enough to make your heart thump erratically in your chest. Your friends exchanged glances, their grins equal parts guilty and delighted.

“Well, technically it was both of our ideas,” Beck admitted, lifting her hand to wave at the same dancer like she was already a regular here. “We thought it would be fun! And, I mean–we heard pretty good reviews from other people, so why not try it out?” Her tone was so breezy you wanted to throw a napkin at her from one of the tables. Your cheeks were scorching. You pressed a palm against one as though you could cool yourself down, but it only made the heat worse, your skin hot under your own touch.

“Don’t you think it’s nice?” Mika asked tentatively, her brows pinched as if suddenly worried that they’d made a mistake. You bit your tongue, forcing a smile you didn’t quite feel.

“Yeah, of course…I–uh…I’m going to get a drink, though. Do you guys want anything?” The words tumbled out quickly, a desperate diversion, anything to keep your gaze off the cowboys who seemed to fill every corner of the room. Your heart was hammering hard against the inside of your chest, each beat like a warning drum. Maybe it was because you had been tucked away too long in your routines and hadn’t been out it so long, or maybe it was just the sheer, dizzying proximity of so many impossibly good-looking men in one place, but you swore your body was betraying you, it was as if you were going to have a heart attack or you were going to explode from the weight of it all.

“We’ll take our usual. Here, put it on my card.” Beck slipped her wallet out with the ease of someone perfectly at home, handing you her debit card between two fingers. You took it gratefully, your muttered “thanks” nearly lost beneath the bassline vibrating through the floor, before you slipped away toward the bar.

The bar stretched long and solid at the back of the room, glowing faintly under a string of amber bulbs. Behind it stood a large man, dressed incongruously in a crisp white button-up that made him look more like he belonged behind the counter of an upscale steakhouse than in the haze of a cowboy-themed strip club. His hair was streaked faintly with silver at the temples, and his smile was warm, patient, almost fatherly in its kindness. He was the first calm presence you’d seen since stepping inside.

You cleared your throat, voice catching slightly. “Hey, can I please have two beers–whatever you’ve got on tap–and a lime margarita? Without the salt on the rim, if that’s possible?”

He nodded, repeating the order back with ease, his voice a deep rumble. “Coming right up. Want me to start a tab?”

“Yeah, that’d be great,” You said quickly, sliding Beck’s card across the bar. He tucked it into a small lockbox under the counter, careful and methodical, before turning to pour the beers with practiced precision, filling them up to the rim so the foam threatened but never spilled. You exhaled, trying to steady yourself, but the sensation of eyes lingered–a prickle down the back of your neck, the instinctive awareness that someone was watching. A moment later, the feeling solidified into presence: a tall shadow, a warmth that radiated close enough to disrupt your fragile calm.

You glanced sideways and nearly choked.

The man who had stepped beside you was enormous, his chest bare beneath an open leather vest, skin glistening faintly under the low light. His buzzcut emphasized the sharp line of his jaw, his eyes bright and a little mischievous. He was still a little sweaty from moving around, and it seemed to roll off him like heat from a bonfire. Chaps framed his thighs, the dark leather leading the eye down to worn boots, and beneath them–just underwear, a snug cut that left little to the imagination.

“Need some help bringing those to your table?” he asked, voice pitched low, a teasing smile curving his mouth. Your stomach twisted instantly, your throat tightening.

“I–I think I’ll be okay…” His brows lifted, amused.

“You sure? I’ve got some big hands that can carry all three for you.” He spread one palm open, large and calloused, as if to prove his point. A nervous laugh slipped out before you could stop it, brittle and small. You turned back toward the bar just as the bartender set the drinks down neatly in front of you.

“…Alright,” you muttered, the word escaping before you could swallow it down. “I guess.” He grinned like he’d been waiting for you to change your mind. Then, with surprising care, he arranged the drinks into a neat triangle, wrapping those broad hands around them effortlessly before lifting them from the counter balancing them perfectly.

“Lead the way, little lady,” He drawled, mock-formal, with a wink that should’ve made you roll your eyes but instead made your stomach tighten further.

You could feel your palms dampening, sweat slicking across the skin there. Every step back toward your friends felt too long, too revealing, the weight of him following close behind like gravity itself had fixed on you.

When you reached the booth, his voice boomed cheerfully, drawing your friends’ attention instantly: “Hello, ladies! I come bearing gifts!” He set the drinks down on the table with a flourish, leaning in just enough that you caught the faintest trace of sweat and leather and cologne mixed together–a scent so heady it nearly buckled your knees. Your friends beamed, already charmed. You, on the other hand, sank a little deeper into yourself, your heart still drumming furiously.

You slipped into the booth beside Beck, the leather biting against the backs of your thighs as you settled into the space. Without hesitation you reached for your drink, fingers tightening around the glass almost to a point where you feared you might break it in your hands. The margarita was mercifully cold, the condensation beading and slipping down your palm. You took a quick sip and let the lime hit your tongue like a blade, sharp and tangy before the tequila burned its way down your throat. The sensation was so immediate, and extremely grounding, that you nearly sighed aloud in relief, your chest loosening just enough to draw a full breath in.

Across from you, your friends were already in their element. Beck tucked a few bills with shameless flair into the waistband of the dancer’s underwear, giggling when he leaned in with a wink. Mika followed suit, sliding her folded cash with a shy smile that turned less shy the longer his hand lingered near hers. He played along, flashing teeth in a grin that probbaly undid half the room on any given night.

”You ladies enjoy the show,” He rumbled before moving on, his broad back flexing as he prowled toward the next booth. Immediately, a shriek of laughter and squeals followed him, dollar bills already fluttering around his hips like moths to flame. You lifted your glass again, lashes fluttering as the ice shifted against your lips. This time, one cube slid into your mouth, and you caught it between your teeth, biting down hard, the crack echoing faintly in your ears. The sharp chill gave you something to focus on, a counterpoint to the warmth prickling over your skin.

And then the room shifted.

The lights lowered another shade, dimming into a golden dusk that pooled in corners and clung to the stage. Conversation ebbed, replaced with the rolling murmur of anticipation. The low throb of bass deepened, steady and deliberate, rattling in your chest like the hoof beat of something barreling closer.

A microphone crackled alive, the voice that followed was rich and amplified, filling every pocket of the lounge:

”Ladies…You’ve been waiting patiently, and it’s finally that time again. The man you came here for, the one who never disappoints…Give it up for our hometown favourite. He’s a retired bull rider–but trust me, he’s still got plenty of ride left in him. Put your hands togehter for the one, the only…Rhett Abbott!”

The room erupted.

The sound was deafening–cheers, whistles, the snap of bills pulled from clutches and waved high. Women rose half out of their booths, hands clapping above their heads, voices tangling into a chorus that shook the floor beneath your shoes.

And then he stepped into the light.

At first, it was the silhouette: broad shoulders framed beneath a plaid shirt, buttons loose halfway down his chest. The fabric gaped enough to reveal the swell of his pecs, a very light dusting of hair, with freckles scattered over the planes of it, and the bold lines of a tattoo inked into his skin–a bull rider on a bull that was mid-ruck, wild and stark against his sun-kissed chest. Above, the shadow of a Stetson tilted forward, the brim catching the spotlight.

The crowd howled when he lifted his head, and right then and there you would have known instantly that he wasn’t like the others. His presence didn’t demand attention–it drew it in, effortless as breath. The shirt clung where it needed to, loose where it teased, and his jeans rode low on lean hips. His frame wasn’t the bloated bulk of a bodybuilder–it was built from something realer. Muscle earned from years of work and rodeo grit, from the strain of holding onto something determined to buck him into the dirt. His body was hard, yes, but whipcord lean, honed for endurance more than show.

As he moved, the crowd moved with him. He didn’t strut like the others. He didn’t need to. He let the beat guide his hips, let the roll of his shoulders pull the audience forward until the entire room seemed caught in the gravity of his orbit.

And then he turned.

The light carved across his front and you caught a scar that wrapped around the front portion of his shoulder, it was gnarly, but it gave him something that drew your eye in closer. He had quite a few scars surprisingly, and it dawned on you that the announcer had mentioned that he was a retired bull rider, meaning he must’ve got a career ending injury. The scars may have not been performative but it certainly added a layer of mystery to him, and you couldn’t help but feel a pit forming in your stomach as the curiosity ate away at you.

The women screamed louder. Bills showered down like confetti, some caught in his shirt, others slapped against the stage where he scooped them up and let them dangle teasingly from his mouth. He spun his hat once in his hand before tossing it into the crowd, revealing tousled light brown hair damp with sweat. The spotlight caught it, turning strands this honeyed color for one suspended heartbeat before the shadows pulled them back.

Your eyes stayed on him. You couldn’t stop them.

Every line of his body drew your gaze like iron to a magnet. The curve of his jaw, the slope of his nose, the freckles faint along his cheeks when the light hit just right, and the way his shimmering blue eyes practically glowed beneath the lighting. The lean planes of his stomach flexed when his shirt slid open farther with his movements, exposing more skin and more ink and more scars to the people in front of him.

The crowd roared, but you couldn’t hear them. Not really. He was the only thing in the room.

Five minutes. That was all it lasted. Five minutes of him on stage, hips rolling, scars glinting, tattoos flexing as his muscles shifted beneath it. But in those five minutes, your body began to really display its discomfort to you. Your chest tightened, your pulse leapt, and the knot of heat and panic in your sternum wound tighter and tighter until it was unbearable.

Your hand pressed flat over the spot, rubbing at the burn as though you could soothe it away. Your breath came shallow, trembling, you were having an episode, maybe it was of anxiety, you had no idea, all you knew was that you needed a break.

“Guys,” You said abruptly, your voice thin and tight. “I’m just going to grab some air. I’ll be back in a bit.” Both Beck and Mika whipped their heads toward you, concern etched in their faces.

“You alright?” Mika asked, her voice gentle, worried. You forced a nod, already sliding out of the booth.

“Yeah. Just a little hot. You guys stay, though–I’m just going to take a breather.” Before they could argue, you were moving, weaving through the press of bodies, past the stage where women hollered Rhett’s name, past the bar where bills changed hands. The velvet doors loomed, heavy and red, and you shoved them open with more force than you meant to.

The night air had turned cool over the time you had spent in the club and slapped against your skin providing a relief so sudden you almost staggered. You didn’t stop until you rounded the corner of the building, pressing yourself into the shadowed brick where the lamplight didn’t reach. Away from the line of women filing in, away from the shrieking laughter.

You pressed a trembling palm to your sternum and dragged in a breath that scraped the edges of your lungs. Another followed–thin, wheezy, like your ribs had been laced too tight. The night smelled like damp asphalt and the faded bite of bleach, a clean ghost beneath the heavier drift of fryer oil from the kitchen vent above your head. You pressed harder against your body.

“Fuck,” You muttered to yourself, heat climbing your cheeks even though you were alone. “You’re such an embarrassment. It’s just a fucking strip club.” The words blew white, and then finally the alley gave you what the lounge wouldn’t…Stillness. No clatter of glass. No flash of teeth. Just a flickering security bulb at the far end, a moth knocking itself silly against plastic, the hum of distant traffic. The bass inside kept thrumming–steady, subterranean–through the wall at your back, but out here the sound rounded off, almost in a helpful way. You found it and matched it with your breathing: in for two, out for two; in for three, out for four. Your heartbeat, which had been punching like it wanted to break loose, eased its fists. And air finally went in without snagging. Your fingers uncurled from the hem of your dress. You tipped your head until the brick caught the back of your skull, the stone cool and dimpled, and closed your eyes. For a few long beats you did nothing but breathe.

“You alright?” The voice came from the side of you–rough-edged, unhurried–threading into the quiet. Your eyes snapped open. Down the short service corridor, where you hadn’t noticed a door at all, you could see a little bright orange dot in the shadows–you assumed it was from a cigarette–and it flared with a drag. Heavy footfalls followed, soft but certain on concrete, the rocks crunching beneath each step. The motion light hiccuped, then steadied, washing the alley in a hazy rectangle.

It was Rhett.

He’d thrown on a denim jacket to cover himself up, it was the sort of one you didn’t buy distressed because life would do it for you anyway–the seams had gone pale, the cuffs were darkened where hands had worked them, and the collar was shaded by old cologne and sweat. The cigarette he was smoking rode easy between two large fingers. His hair had been raked back by someone’s hand–likely his own–with rebellious strands already falling forward to snag on his sweaty forehead. Without the hat and the roar of the crowd, he somehow looked broader and quieter all at once. Your breath caught on instinct and released as a cough you tried to disguise as throat-clearing.

“Yeah…Yeah, I’m okay.” You somehow found a voice that didn’t wobble and offered it up to him. “Just…Needed some air.” His gaze took you in–not the sweeping catalog men do when they think they’re alone, not the hungry appraisal you’d seen inside, but a steady read. The way your shoulders stayed too high. The way your left hand still worried the hem of your red dress while your right flattened your heartbeat. The way you kept your weight on your heels like you were braced for a wave that had already passed. He adjusted to your body language without comment, stopping a step out of your space. The opposite wall caught his shoulder and he leaned there, easily, the toe of one boot idly skimming grit. He turned his head before he took a drag, and sent the smoke outward toward the parking lot.

”This your first time here?” He asked after a breath, that southern vowel drag softening the corners. “Haven’t really seen you ’round here before.”

“Yeah.” You let your palm fall from your chest, felt the low roll of bass through the brick again like the purr of a big engine at idle. “First time. My friends brought me.” He nodded, as if that answered more than one question.

“Special occasion?” He asked, curious rather than nosy. He tilted his head and mirrored you on the opposite wall, denim rasping softly as he settled. For a second, he studied the moth batting mindlessly against the plastic guard around the motion light. When he looked back, the blue of his irises caught the yellow wash and went pale as frost. You swallowed, feeling your pulse thumping a little too high in your throat. Those eyes were worse out here, or better–if only you didn’t feel like you were having an allergic reaction to socializing.

“No, no special occasion.” The lie tasted small. “They just read some reviews, and got curious.”

“Reviews,” He echoed, mouth cinching at one corner. “Reckon that’s one way to pick out how to spend your Friday night…” He added, and then smiled “Did it not spark your curiosity?” Your cheeks heated in a way that had nothing to do with embarrassment and everything to do with being placed under the spotlight.

“Not really my scene,” You admitted, your nails pressing crescent moons into your palm before you made yourself stop. “I haven’t been to a strip club at all, actually, so…”

“So it all came at you at once.” He flicked ash with a quick snap, then wiped the spent cylinder on the brick so it wouldn’t fall hot. His drawl thickened a shade, warmer. “First time’s like grabbin’ an electric fence…Lil’ shock to the system..” A startled laugh slipped out of you–small, unpretty, honest, and the tight band of anxiety across your ribs loosened another notch. He watched that happen, and the tiny easing in his shoulders said he’d been waiting for it. He lifted the cigarette, then paused halfway and held it out across the little gulf between you with two fingers.

“Want a drag to iron things out?” You shook your head.

“I don’t smoke. Thanks, though.” He nodded.

”Figured I’d ask,” He said, and brought the filter to his mouth. His lips–smaller than the stage would’ve had you think, soft-lipped and a little pouty at rest–closed around the paper. He drew in a slow breath, and when he exhaled, he turned away from you again, a neat curl of smoke drifting out of his mouth, “Sometimes the quiet ones are the most surprisin’.” The words landed heavier than they should have, his tone pitched low enough that it seemed to tuck beneath your skin. Your lashes fluttered at the remark–betrayal in the smallest muscle, and his eyes caught the motion with an interest that was sharper than the lazy lean he held against the wall.

”Unfortunately for you there’s not many things to be surprised about when it comes to me…I’m an open book.” You managed to say, the words pushing out on a thin breath that felt scraped from your throat. He let out a short huff of laughter, head tilting so that his hair slipped loose against his brow.

“Darn,” He said simply, though the drawl stretched it into something softer. “And here I thought you had some mystery to you.” You smirked despite yourself, your lips twitching before you could reel them back in.

“Sorry to disappoint.” His head shifted in an almost imperceptible shake, the corner of his mouth tugging upward.

“No need to apologize,” He replied, voice low and steady, a current beneath the night air. “I’m sure you’ve got more surprises that’ll even shock yourself.” The certainty threaded through those words lit your cheeks hotter than the nicotine haze between you. You felt the heat climb into your ears, into the hollow of your throat. He didn’t grin at your reaction, didn’t push it further–he just let the weight of his gaze hold steady until you had to glance down, your hands finding the hem of your dress, worrying at it again. With an ease that came from repetition, Rhett lifted the cigarette for its last drag, drawing in until the ember flared. He exhaled slowly, and then he licked two fingers, quick and practical, before pinching the glow out. The faint hiss of it dying was louder than it should have been. He tucked the flattened filter into the pocket of his jacket, a motion so simple it shouldn’t have felt like punctuation, but it did–the little end mark to the conversation you hadn’t wanted to end.

“Anyways…” He pushed himself off the wall with a quiet rasp of denim against brick, his boots grounding with a hollow scrape against the concrete. The easy shift in his posture made the space between you feel suddenly too empty. “I better get back in there, or else my boss is gonna be askin’ where I am.” His tone carried no urgency, just reluctant obligation, as if he’d linger longer if he thought he could. He started to move, then paused, glancing back over his shoulder.

“Hope to see you in there.” His gaze skimmed you again, deliberate but not heavy, before he added, “I didn’t quite catch your name, by the way.” Your hand rose instinctively to scratch at the back of your neck, a nervous tell you couldn’t quite break.

“It’s Y/N.” His mouth softened into a small smile–nothing like the flash of charisma he’d given the stage, nothing like the teasing grin you’d seen him wear with the crowd. This one was quieter, steadier, like he meant to hand it to you alone.

“Y/N,” He echoed, letting the sound roll slowly, “Very sweet name.” And then, with the simplest, most devastating wink, he turned and walked back up the alley. His boots struck against grit, his broad frame swallowed gradually into the amber spill of light, until he entered the building again.

Only then did you let yourself breathe. It came out in a long shudder, your ribcage loosening for the first time since you’d left the booth. The anxiety that had chased you out of the club hadn’t vanished, but it had…Changed. It had softened, bled into something warmer, something that spread heat through the rest of you instead of binding you tight. You pressed your palms flat against the brick at your back, trying to ground yourself again, but the sensation still lingered–his voice, his eyes, the little flare of amusement at your smirk.

It took a few moments before your legs trusted you to move but when you finally rounded back toward the entrance, the red doors loomed brighter than before, and stepping through them felt heavier than the first time. The air swallowed you up immediately–thick with perfume, laughter, leather, smoke, the steady pulse of music–and the hazy heat wrapped itself around your shoulders again.

Your friends spotted you instantly. Beck’s face lit up as you slid back into the booth, Mika leaning forward with concern, her hand brushing your arm.

“You alright now?” Mika asked, voice gentler than the raucous noise around you. You nodded, snatching up your half-forgotten margarita and tipping it back. The ice had melted, watering the drink to a pale shadow of itself, but the sting of lime and tequila still hit enough to ground you. You wiped your mouth with the back of your hand, setting the glass down with a faint thud.

“Much better than before,” You admitted, breath still a touch uneven. “Guess I just really needed that air.” They seemed satisfied, diving back into their chatter, already flagging down dancers with the ease of regulars. You sat back, your shoulders pressing into the curved leather of the booth, and tried to force yourself into their rhythm. The room surged around you–laughter, shrieks, bills flashing green as they were tucked into waistbands–and though the nerves never quite let go, they loosened. At least enough to sip, to watch, and to breathe.

Some time passed without any issues, that was until Mika spotted the person she had been waiting for. Her gasp was sharp enough to turn heads, her hand gripping Beck’s arm as she half-stood in the booth.

“Oh my god! That’s him!” She exclaimed. You followed her gaze and felt your stomach drop. Rhett had returned to the floor, back in his stage clothes–though now his plaid button-down hung open completely, nothing hiding the firm planes of his chest. Sweat still glistened faintly over his freckles and scars, catching the golden light in shifting glimmers as he moved.

“Apparently the regulars say he’s one of the best dancers here,” Mika whispered like she was revealing a secret. Then, without hesitation: “I have to get you a dance from him.” Your head snapped toward her, heat flooding your face.

“Mika, no–“ But Beck was already waving her arms, joining in with Mika’s whistling until Rhett’s blue eyes cut across the room and landed right on your booth. And on you. Your chest clenched watching as he prowled through the lounge until he stood at the edge of your table. He braced one palm on the wood, leaning in just enough that the cologne clinging to him–warm leather, tobacco, vanilla–wrapped around you, heady and consuming.

“Hello, ladies.” His voice curled warm and low. The muscles in his forearm flexed as he balanced against the table, his height casting the three of you in his shadow. “Anything I could do for you tonight?”

Beck and Mika were nearly vibrating with excitement. Beck grinned, teeth flashing, and Mika was quick to blurt, “We’re celebrating her birthday tonight!” Her finger pointed at you like she was announcing you to the whole room. Rhett’s eyes followed the gesture, landing squarely on you. For a moment, the noise of the lounge seemed to dull. His brows lifted, a slow curve tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“Birthday, huh?” Your chest tightened, cheeks scorching hot as you squirmed against the booth’s leather, caught in a white lie.

“Well…” His voice dropped lower, pitched in that easy drawl that seemed to wrap around your ribs. “Here at The Lariat Lounge, we take our birthday celebrations very seriously. Might need to take your friend to one of our VIP rooms for a little complimentary dance, if y’all don’t mind, of course.” You shook your head quickly, words stuck somewhere behind your throat. But Beck and Mika had already squealed their approval, hands tugging at your arms as if they could shove you out of the booth themselves.

“Yes! She’ll go!” Beck announced, far too pleased with herself.

“Go on!” Mika chimed in, grinning wide. You wanted the floor to swallow you whole and engulf you completely, but instead, Rhett extended his hand, palm broad, steady and calloused, his blue eyes fixing on yours with something calmer than the teasing grin his mouth carried.

“I don’t bite,” He said softly, just for you. “C’mon. It'll be fun.” Your pulse hammed as you gave in and slid your hand into his. His palm was rough, warm, grounding in a way that steadied your legs as he helped you out of the booth. He didn’t tug, didn’t rush–just guided. You let him lead, weaving through the crowd until he stopped at a staircase tucked into a shadowed corner of the lounge with a velvet rope that was hooked across the bottom. You hadn’t noticed it when you came into the lounge, which made you a little more nervous, but you kept your composure as much as possible. Rhett unlatched the rope with casual ease and gestured for you to follow.

The air softened as you climbed the stairs, the heavy bass fading into a low, pulsing thrum. He led you into a smaller room–a VIP booth glowing faintly beneath black lights. There was a leather couch curved along the wall, lit violet-blue under the glow, and the shadows seemed thicker, more private.

”You can sit…” He murmured, and you obeyed instantly, sinking into the couch to brace yourself into something before your shaking legs gave out beneath you. Your red dress had turned neon under the lighting, glowing like a beacon against your skin.

Rhett crossed to a small console tucked against the wall and just as he reached for one of the buttons, the words tore out of you quickly: “I-I really don’t want a dance.” He stilled for a moment, and glanced over his shoulder before letting out a quiet laugh.

“I know,” He said, voice threaded with amusement and something gentler. “I’m just turnin’ on the music so it seems like I’m givin’ you a dance.” Your brows pulled together.

“You don’t mind?” He shook his head, pressing the switch. A lazy country-rock rhythm trickled from hidden speakers, low and sultry, filling the silence.

“I’d rather not have you die of a nervous breakdown ‘cause I swung my hips in front of your face,” He joked, a smirk tugging faintly at his mouth. Then his tone shifted, warm, sincere: “And also…I don’t want to make you uncomfortable either.” The honesty in it made your throat tighten.

“Well…That’s very nice of you,” You murmured. He crossed back to the couch, dropping onto it with a heavy sigh that rattled the leather. His body sprawling loose, but his eyes staying sharp on your figure.

“It’s really nothin’,” He shrugged. “I think I’d be a little shy if my friends were pushin’ me into a complimentary dance too.” Heat prickled your cheeks, and you turned your face away, hoping the glow of the black lights might hide how flushed you were. But you could feel his gaze–steady, studying, burning right through the fragile wall of composure you tried to hold up.

“They just like to push me out of my comfort zone sometimes,” You muttered, voice low. He hummed, the sound deep and rumbling in his chest.

“Well, a strip club is definitely one way to do that…” A pause. His tone softened, the teasing edge gone. “But it’s evident you don’t really want to be here.” He pointed out. The silence that stretched next wasn’t uncomfortable, but weighted. Then, in a voice quieter than you expected, he asked:

“So…If you had an actual choice, where would you want to be right now?” You knew exactly where you would’ve wanted to go if your friends had given you the chance to tell them, but the words felt too small in comparison to the room, too fragile against the thrum of low music and the weight of Rhett’s steady gaze. Your hands worried against each other in your lap, nails grazing over knuckles, and you finally let out a breath that sagged your shoulders.

“It’s kind of stupid…” You admitted, eyes fixed on the neon glow of your dress. He shifted beside you, the couch sighing with his weight as he leaned a little closer. Not enough to crowd, but enough that you felt the faint brush of his shirt against your arm, the whisper of plaid and heat.

“Try me,” He murmured, his voice rough-edged but patient. “I’ve probably heard stupider things.” You glanced at him then, half-expecting mockery, but his expression was open–curious, softened by the casualness of the conversation. It tugged the truth out of you before you could retreat.

“If I had a choice…” You sighed, your lips twisting faintly. “I probably would’ve just wanted to go to this little diner in town. The Cozy Fork. Their pie slices are…Fantastic.” A beat of silence stretched, and then the corner of his mouth hitched. He eased back, draping one arm across the backrest of the couch, his posture sprawling in a way that seemed both casual and deliberate. His knuckles rested close behind you, not touching, but near enough that the warmth of him ghosted along your shoulders.

“How about you stay till close,” He said finally, his tone low, unhurried, “And then I can take you there.” You blinked, startled, your brows rising.

“Really?” He gave a lazy shrug, like it was the simplest thing in the world.

“Why not? I wouldn’t mind havin’ some dessert after a long shift.” The way he said it made something coil warm and tight low in your stomach, the word dessert carrying just enough weight to make your breath falter, like it had a double meaning in a sense. You felt your cheeks flare instantly, and you were absurdly grateful for the shadows that cloaked your face, hiding the heat that had crawled up into your ears. Your throat worked around a swallow, the sound loud in your own head.

”Well…As long as I’m not imposing on anything…I would be up for it.” Rhett’s mouth tugged into a grin, wide enough to flash teeth, the kind of smile that felt disarming in its honesty.

“You definitely wouldn’t be imposin’,” He drawled, his voice carrying a lazy confidence that still managed to feel gentle. “Ain’t like I typically got anythin’ planned at two in the mornin’.” The joke landed smooth, and a laugh bubbled out of you before you could stop it–lighter than the shaky giggles you’d let slip earlier, more real this time. The sound made his eyes brighten, a spark catching there like he’d been waiting on it.

“That’s true, I guess,” You admitted, still smiling, your shoulders loosening against the leather. “I didn’t really think of that.” He gave his head a slow shake, strands of damp hair slipping loose across his brow.

“Most people don’t,” He said, his tone tilting wry, “But that’s alright–I’ll give you a pass.” Another giggle escaped you, softer, but it hit him like a hook in the chest. He didn’t show it, not outwardly, but inside he felt the pull of it–how clean and unforced your laugh sounded, how it wasn’t laced with expectation the way the noise inside the lounge always was. It stirred something restless in him, something he hadn’t felt in a long while.

He stretched a little deeper into the couch, his arm draped along the back of it, his knuckles hovering just shy of your shoulder. For once, he didn’t feel like the dancer on stage, the man women clawed at bills for. With you, in this smaller booth tucked away from the chaos, he felt like himself again–quieter, steadier, a man who wasn’t being chased, just sitting beside someone who wasn’t asking for anything more than his company.

——————

Rhett had driven Mika and Beck home before doing anything else, brushing off their protests with an easy shake of his head. He wasn’t about to let them waste money on a taxi, not when he had his truck and more than enough space. More than that, he didn’t want to leave them waiting shoulder-to-shoulder in the crowd of people who were trying to make their way home just like them. He said as much, matter-of-fact but kind, and your friends had swooned over him all over again.

The thirty-minute ride back to their place was nothing short of an interrogation for him. Beck leaned over the seat like a reporter with a recorder, firing off questions without pause: craziest customers, biggest tips, strangest requests. Mika’s laugh kept bubbling through, sharp with disbelief every time Rhett answered one of them straight. He never bristled at the curiosity–he answered easily, his drawl curling around stories with the kind of smoothness that came from being asked these questions before. You sat quietly, hands clasped in your lap, sneaking glances at the way his profile caught the wash of passing headlights, the way he seemed so casual, and naturally charming even when people were prying into his life.

By the time he pulled into their driveway, your friends were flushed with exhaustion and still giggling. They promised again and again to text you tomorrow, to demand details, to drag you back out with them sometime soon. Their last words as they clambered out were almost a chant: text us when you get home–or wherever you end up at the end of the night. Which earned a laugh from Rhett and a reassurance that he would get you home safe.

He waited until Beck and Mika got into the house and the door closed behind their retreating forms before glancing over to you.

”Well,” He started, his voice quiet and uneven, “They’re energetic.” A laugh slipped out of you before you could swallow it back, softer than anything you’d let them hear all night.

“Yeah,” You admitted, the corners of your mouth tugging upward, “They’re the life of the party, sometimes it’s hard to keep up with them.” He smirked, just a little, fixing his Stetson on his head so it wasn’t falling off his head, before returning his hands to the wheel.

”I can tell, even I was struggling.” He commented, shifting the truck into gear with a low growl as he pulled back onto the road.

The drive to The Cozy Fork wasn’t long from Mika and Beck’s place. The night outside thinned into rolling darkness, the county road stretching ahead in long quiet ribbons. The cab felt different now–emptied of chatter, stripped of perfume and laughter–quieter, heavier. The radio hummed a low country tune, volume softened enough that it faded into the background, more pulse than sound. Cool air drifted through the slightly cracked windows, brushing against your bare arms, tangling faintly with the lingering warmth of Rhett’s cologne that clung to the seat beside you.

Without your friends filling the space, you didn’t know what to say. But Rhett didn’t press. He didn’t fumble for conversation or force small talk. He just let the silence sit, comfortable, unbothered, like he understood the weight of it wasn’t something to break–it was something to bask in. So you allowed it to settle, listening to the faint music.

The Cozy Fork sat at the bend of the highway like it had always been there, waiting. The building wasn’t flashy, but it carried the kind of presence that made everybody in Wabang know this place, because even if you had only been there once, you wouldn’t forget about it. A wide neon sign glowed over the lot, its fork logo glowing steady in pale blue and pink, buzzing faintly as if it had been shining for decades and would for decades more. The parking lot was gravel packed into asphalt, patched so many times it looked like a quilt. A handful of trucks and cars were scattered across it–late-night regulars who came as much for the coffee as for the company, and to catch the late night grub after a bar crawl. The faint smell of frying bacon and buttered griddle cakes drifted through the night air as Rhett rolled into a spot near the entrance.

The diner itself was squat and rectangular, its big front windows glowing warm with light that spilled across the lot. The door was framed by a faded awning striped in red and white, edges frayed but still standing against wind and weather. Even at nearly two in the morning, it buzzed with life inside.

When Rhett pushed the door open for you, the familiar bell above it chimed sharp and cheerful. The air inside was thick with the perfume of diner food–grease, coffee, maple syrup, bacon fat, and that undercurrent of sugar and flour that came from pies cooling in the case by the counter. The floor was checkerboard tile, cracked in places but polished clean. Red leather booths lined the walls, their backs high enough to grant privacy but worn to comfort. The counter stretched long with stools bolted to the floor, their chrome legs scuffed from decades of boots. Behind it, a glass pie case glowed faintly, rows of lemon meringue, cherry lattice, pecan, and coconut cream lined like a crown jewel display.

The place felt timeless, the kind of diner that lived in every small town–the heart of long nights, early mornings, and in-between hours where people came to breathe. A trucker nursed coffee at the far end, head bent low over a newspaper. Two teenagers giggled in the back booth, splitting a plate of fries. The waitress behind the counter–hair piled high in a massive messy bun of greying brown hair, with her apron smudged with flour–looked up as the two of you entered and smiled wide with recognition.

“Well, if it ain’t Rhett Abbott, haven’t seen you ‘round here in a long time,” She greeted, her voice cutting over the soft hiss of the fryers and the hum of the ceiling fans, “I thought you vanished.” She added. Rhett’s smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth, and he tipped his chin in greeting.

“Hello to you too Deloris…Nice to see that you’re still workin’ the late night shift.” You were a little surprised he was a regular. He hadn’t mentioned it in the VIP room, hadn’t given even the faintest hint that The Cozy Fork was a familiar haunt of his. Maybe he hadn’t expected the employees to remember him–or maybe he just didn’t think it mattered. But evidently, even the waitress had been surprised to see him come through the door.

Rhett slipped off his hat, pressing the brim flat against his stomach in a gesture that was both polite and sheepish. The motion sent his hair tumbling forward in damp, mussed strands that he quickly raked back with his fingers. His freckles caught the warm diner lights, and for the first time that night, you saw him look…Not like a performer, not like the man who’d just owned a stage, but just a regular man.

“Once you work the night shift, you could never go back to workin’ regular days, sweetheart. You of all people should know that by now.” Deloris teased, her sharp eyes narrowing affectionately at him. That made him flush faintly, a touch of pink riding high on his cheeks. His mouth tugged into something shy, caught between a smirk and a grimace. You wondered if he’d ever get used to this–how small towns carried stories the way wind carried dust. Everyone knew something about him, and most people probably knew far more than they ever needed to. It wasn’t embarrassment exactly that colored his cheeks, but you could tell he felt on display even here, away from the stage. Deloris didn’t linger on it. She plucked two laminated menus from the counter and gave them a sharp snap against her palm.

“You want your usual spot?” She asked.

“That’d be great, thank you,” Rhett replied, dipping his chin with polite ease. Then his gaze slid to you, catching the small flicker of surprise you tried to mask with a smile. His lips curved knowingly, but he didn’t say anything–just motioned for you to go first.

You followed Deloris through the rows of booths until she stopped at one near the front window, the kind that looked out onto the dark stretch of highway. The view was nothing more than headlights streaking by in blurred lines, but there was something comforting about it–the reminder of movement, of the world still spinning even at this hour. You slid into the red leather booth, the seat cool against the backs of your thighs, and Rhett dropped into the spot across from you, putting his hat off to the side.

“The two of you want coffee, right?” Deloris asked, already reaching for her notepad and pencil though she clearly didn’t need it.

You both nodded, and Rhett added, “And maybe some waters too. I’m a little thirsty. Worked a little too hard tonight.” Deloris let out a short laugh, shaking her head like she’d heard that excuse a thousand times.

“I’m sure you did,” She said knowingly, tucking the pencil back behind her ear. She turned to you then, her tone softer but still teasing, “If you’ve got any questions about the menu, sweetheart, don’t hesitate to ask him. He’s basically had everything that’s on it.” With that, she shuffled away toward the coffee pots.

When the both of you were left alone your eyes wandered back to Rhett. He was rubbing at the stubble along his jaw, his fingers rasping softly against the coarse growth as though the motion might disguise the color still lingering on his cheeks. His gaze dipped to the menu but didn’t really read it.

”You come here that often?” You asked, tilting your head. He let out a huff of laughter, quiet and self-deprecating.

”I used to, yeah.” He shrugged out of his denim jacket, folding it neatly against the open space beside him. Underneath, he’d buttoned his plaid shirt all the way up to his collar, every trace of skin hidden away. The sharp contrast made your stomach tighten unexpectedly–it was strange to think of him closing himself off after you’d just seen him bare and unguarded under spotlights. But here, in the quiet glow of a diner, it made sense. It wasn’t armor so much as a way to breathe again.

”The place stays open when nothin’ else does, so when I used to work the circuits I would come here afterwards to get some coffee and a nice hot meal, it helped me come down from all the adrenaline.” He explained. You hummed softly, the sound low in your throat, watching as he leaned back into the booth. The red leather creaked faintly beneath his broad shoulders, and his posture shifted into something looser, though not careless. He flipped open the laminated menu, the glossy pages catching the overhead lights, his blue eyes scanning over the familiar list of diner staples as though he hadn’t already memorized them.

“How long has it been since you participated in a circuit?” You asked, mirroring his motions with your own menu, though your eyes lingered more on him than the page in front of you. Rhett’s jaw ticked as he rolled his shoulders, the motion slow and deliberate, like his body still carried the memory of tension it could never quite shrug off.

“Been about a year, actually…” He admitted, his voice low, the syllables curling soft with his drawl. Just then Deloris returned, balancing a small metal tray on one hand. She slid two steaming mugs of coffee onto the table, their heat curling immediately into the cool diner air, followed by the soft clink of glass as she set down the waters. A small bowl of creamers and milk packets followed, the faint rattle of plastic against porcelain filling the brief silence.

“I’ll give you two a few more minutes with the menu,” She said with a knowing little smirk, before bustling away again, leaving behind the scent of coffee and fryer oil that seemed permanently woven into her apron. You wrapped your hands around the mug, the warmth soaking instantly into your palms, grounding you. Only when you were sure Deloris was out of earshot did you tilt your head toward him again, curiosity edging past your caution.

“What made you retire?” Rhett didn’t answer right away. He reached for a cream packet, rolling it between his thumb and forefinger until the foil crinkled softly, then set it aside untouched. His gaze dipped to the coffee, dark and rippling faintly with heat, as if the question itself had stirred something unsettled. Finally, he exhaled, slow and resigned.

“Got a few too many injuries,” He started, voice steady but tinged with something deeper. “Dislocated my shoulder a few times, tore ligaments and stuff…Had to get surgery.” As if by instinct, his hand rose to his shoulder, thumb rubbing at the top where you remembered the scar–jagged, and raw under stage lights. The gesture was unconscious, protective, like he was still soothing an ache that never fully left. “So I had to make the decision to end it there.” You bit the inside of your cheek, eyes drawn to that same shoulder, to the way his fingers lingered over the ridge of bone as though he still carried the weight of every fall.

“Do you miss it?” You asked, your voice softening. You knew it was a stupid question to ask, but it was already hitting the air, so you let it settle over the both of you. He didn’t answer right away. Instead, he lifted his coffee, blowing gently across the surface before taking a careful sip. The steam clouded faintly in front of his freckled face, hiding him for just a second. When he set the cup back down, his eyes didn’t meet yours immediately–they drifted to the window, to the blur of headlights carving through the dark highway beyond, his blue irises shining in the dimmed lighting.

“Yeah,” He replied finally, the word heavy but honest. “I sometimes wish I could go back in time so that I was payin’ more attention to the signs my body was givin’ me. I think if I actually took breaks and let myself heal properly…I would’ve been able to stick to it for a little longer.” His shoulders shifted faintly with a shrug, but it wasn’t casual. It was the kind of shrug that carried regret, the kind that sat heavy even when spoken lightly. You frowned, gaze dropping to the swirl of cream you’d just stirred into your coffee. The spoon clinked softly against ceramic, a rhythm to distract yourself from the ache you felt for him. He’d said it so simply, but you could hear what was unspoken–the years, the dedication, the sacrifice, all unraveled by a body that demanded more care than he’d allowed. He took another sip, his throat working as he swallowed, then cleared it gently, like he wanted to brush away the weight that had settled between you.

“But…What’s done is done. Can’t rewrite the past. Can only learn from it, right?” You nodded, lifting your mug to your lips, letting the bitter edge of the coffee slip across your tongue. But your eyes stayed on him over the rim, catching the way he rubbed absently at his jaw again, like if he kept his hands busy he could keep the past from clawing too close.

“Sorry if I overstepped or something…I was just curious about it,” you said at last, breaking the fragile quiet that had settled between the two of you. Your thumb traced the rim of your mug, chasing a bead of coffee that slipped down it as if it could keep your nerves busy. “Especially because the announcer at the club mentioned it.” Rhett immediately shook his head, his hand dropping from his jaw.

“Honestly, it’s okay. I know I may look sad when I talk ‘bout it, but at this point I’m used to it bein’ brought up.” His words came low, steady, with just enough truth in them that you believed him, though the flicker of his eyes toward the window told you it still carried weight.

“Does it really come up that often?” You asked carefully, lifting your gaze just enough to catch the faint shine of the diner’s lights reflecting in his eyes.

“Definitely.” He leaned back, the booth sighing under his weight. “Every time I go to the feed store for my parents I’m bound to run into someone who’s either seen me at the club, or who hasn’t seen me at the circuit in a long while. Always one or the other.” You bit the inside of your cheek, feeling the awkwardness on his behalf.

“That must be a little…Strange.” You commented

“Sometimes, yeah.” He shrugged, the motion easy, unbothered in a way that told you he’d rehearsed the sentiment a hundred times over. Then, after a pause, he added dryly, “When a good chunk of women in town have seen you almost completely naked, it does tend to cause a little bit of awkwardness.” Your laugh broke out before you could swallow it back, sharp and surprised, bubbling through the tension in your chest. The sound drew his eyes back to yours, and the faintest grin curved across his mouth like he was quietly proud of pulling it out of you.

“I never thought of it that way…” You admitted, hiding your smile against the rim of your coffee cup.

“Most people don’t.” His voice was warm with humor now, threading into your laughter until the two sounds tangled together. It felt easy, unforced–like you had slipped into the beginning of a rhythm neither of you had expected but both of you welcomed. The spell broke only when Deloris returned, balancing her notepad against her hip.

“You two ready?” She asked, her sharp gaze flicking between you like she’d caught the thread of something but didn’t comment on it. Rhett motioned with a nod for you to go first.

“Could I get the Pancake Special, with scrambled eggs if that’s possible.” You smiled, pushing your hair back away from your face.

“Is white toast okay with that?” Deloris asked.

“Yes please, that would be great.” Her pencil scratched once across the pad before she turned toward Rhett with an expectant brow.

“I’ll take the same as her, please,” He said, leaning forward against the table like he’d known his order all along. “Just with some extra bacon and sausage if that’s possible, sunny-side up eggs, and white toast as well–with extra jam.” Deloris smirked knowingly.

“Still have that empty abyss of a stomach, huh Abbott?” Rhett let out a laugh that shook through his shoulders, rich and unguarded.

“Course I do. Not much has changed,” Then, softer, almost sheepish: “Oh, and could we also get a slice of pie to go? I know you guys close for turnover at some point, so I don’t wanna be in your hair all night.” She jotted it down with a nod.

“Sure, of course. Which pie would you like?” Rhett’s eyes flicked toward you almost instantly, the corner of his mouth tugging faintly like he was handing you the choice without question. The quiet expectation in his gaze made your stomach flutter.

“Oh, uh…Apple? If you guys have it,” You said, your voice lifting at the end like you weren’t sure if it was the right answer.

“Great choice,” Deloris said without missing a beat. “I’ll bring that with the bill once you’re done with your food.” She gathered the menus from the table, her apron rustling faintly as she tucked them under her arm before bustling away again, leaving behind the faint rattle of her pencil against her notepad. The moment she disappeared, you glanced back at Rhett.

“You’re not going to have one for yourself?” He shook his head, his lips curving into the faintest tease.

“I’ll probably be too full from all that food. And if I’m not…” He leaned back, draping one arm casually across the top of the booth. “I’ll just steal a little forkful from you.” A laugh slipped out of you, small but bright, and you ducked your head as though you could hide the warmth creeping into your cheeks.

“You won’t be getting it so easily, so you better be ready to fight for it.” He huffed, amused, the sound low in his chest.

“Noted…” He bit the inside of his cheek, shifting in his spot as if weighing a thought he wasn’t ready to say aloud. The booth creaked faintly when his leg brushed yours under the table, denim scraping lightly against your calf. It wasn’t an accident–you could tell by the way he didn’t pull back, by the casual ease of his body sprawling into the space between you. You didn’t move either. Instead, you found yourself grounding in the quiet, steady heat of it.

“So how ‘bout you…?”He drawled, his blue eyes flicking up to yours, “What do you do for work?”

You took a sip of your coffee to buy a second of time, the mug warm against your palms, before answering. “I’m a receptionist at a real estate company, actually.” His brows lifted a fraction, curiosity sparking in his expression.

“Really? So you answer phones and organize meetings then?” You gave a little shrug, lips quirking.

“More like I sit at a computer and wait for people to come in and ask for an agent. It’s…Not that fun, but it pays the bills, so I don’t take it for granted.” Rhett hummed low in his throat, leaning forward a bit, his forearm braced against the table. His hand brushed his coffee cup but didn’t lift it.

“But if you had a choice…Would you do somethin’ else?” The question landed heavier than you expected. You bit the inside of your cheek, staring briefly into the swirl of cream that had floated in your cup just above your coffee.

“I don’t know, actually. I love drawing. Painting too. But…It’s not really something I could live off of, y’know? Wabang isn’t exactly known for its artists.” The corner of his mouth lifted, not into a smirk but something gentler, more sincere.

“You never know,” He said, his drawl softening like he was letting you in on a secret. “You could become the first person who pulled it off.”

You rolled your eyes, but it wasn’t dismissive–it was shy. “Sure, Rhett.”

Before the conversation could deepen, Deloris reappeared, balancing two heaping plates with practiced ease. She slid them onto the table, the scent of pancakes, butter, and bacon instantly crowding the booth, making your stomach twist with hunger. A small bottle of ketchup clinked down between the two of you, followed by a brisk, “You two enjoy,” before she shuffled off again. The plates steamed, golden pancakes stacked high and glistening with butter that pooled along their edges, scrambled eggs fluffed yellow on yours, his sunny-side up glistening in their centers. The bacon crackled dark and crisp, the sausages gleamed with grease, and the toast sat stacked neatly beside pots of jam. You dug in with a hum, nodding in satisfaction after the first bite.

“Nothing like breakfast at…” You glanced at the old clock hanging crooked on the wall behind Rhett, its second hand ticking sluggishly past the half-hour. “Three-thirty in the morning.” He let out a laugh, deep and low, shaking his head as he forked up some eggs.

“Couldn’t agree with you more.” He murmured. For a while the table was quiet but not empty–filled instead with the scrape of cutlery against porcelain, the shuffle of toast being buttered, the occasional small sound of contentment when one of you tasted something especially good. Every so often, your knees knocked lightly beneath the table, but neither of you pulled away. You cleared your throat softly after a few bites, setting your fork down for a moment.

“I’ve actually got another question for you…” Rhett hummed, busy spreading jam across his toast. He took a big bite and chewed before swiping his thumb across the corner of his mouth to clean a smear of red. The casual intimacy of the gesture made your stomach dip.

“How did you go from bull riding to stripping?” He washed down the toast with a swig of coffee, setting the mug down with a soft thud before answering.

“It was good timin’, I guess. After I got my surgery and recovered, I couldn’t really do much around my folks’ ranch for a while. I was gettin’ the itch to do somethin’, though. So one day I saw an ad in the classifieds section for The Lariat Lounge and thought it wouldn’t hurt to try out…” His grin turned a little crooked, boyish. “Already had half the job down by bein’ a country boy. All I needed was rhythm.” You raised your brows, cutting into your pancakes with a smirk.

“So now you’re a rancher by day, stripper by night?” He laughed, almost choking on air as he coughed lightly into his fist.

“Yeah, I guess you could say that.”

“And how does your family feel about the job?” You asked, glancing at him through your lashes. He shrugged, a motion that was almost careless but not quite.

“Think they were a little concerned at first, but they realized a job is a job. Couldn’t really do much about it at that point.”

“That’s true, I guess…” You both kept eating, talking between bites, the conversation slipping into something easy–lighter in tone rather than an array of questions. By the time your plates were empty and you leaned back against the booth with a sigh, Rhett was sopping up the last of his egg yolk with toast. Deloris came by to clear the table, stacking the plates against her arm with the kind of strength only waitresses developed.

“I’ll bring the bill,” She said, already moving.

Before you could open your mouth to protest, to say the bill would be split, Rhett said smoothly, “Just one bill, Deloris. Don’t listen to the little lady here.” You raised your brows at him, caught between a frown and a smile, watching as he pulled his wallet from his back pocket.

“You really don’t have to…” He raised his hand to stop you, his blue eyes steady on yours.

“Hey, technically this is your little makeshift birthday celebration, that was technically my idea. So…Let me treat.” The heat rushed up your neck before you could stop it, flooding your cheeks. You ducked your head, fiddling with the napkin in your lap.

“Alright…” When Deloris returned, she set down a plastic takeout container with your slice of apple pie between you, with two forks inside it just in case. Rhett slipped a few bills onto the tray that held the bill, more than enough to cover the meal, plus a tip that made Deloris smile as she tucked it quickly into her apron.

“I’m hopin’ to be back more often, Deloris,” Rhett said easily, his grin tugging wider. “That meal just reminded me how good this place is.”

“I’ll be anticipatin’ your next visit,” She said warmly, before heading off to another booth.

You picked up the pie container, pressing the warmth of it between your palms, and followed Rhett out into the cool night–with his jacket over his arm, and his hat in his hands. The bell above the door jingled sharp and sweet, and the air outside kissed against your flushed cheeks, carrying the faint smell of hay and asphalt instead of grease and sugar.

When you reached his truck, Rhett was already moving ahead of you, his hand steady as he opened the passenger door. The motion was almost instinctive, like muscle memory rather than a thought. He helped you up into the cab with an easy strength, his palm warm as it cupped your elbow for balance. Once you were settled on the bench seat, he draped his denim jacket across your bare legs. You weren’t sure if it was simply because you’d taken the spot where he normally kept it, or if it was his way of keeping you warm against the late-night chill–but you appreciated the sentiment all the same.

“Thanks,” You murmured, fingers smoothing over the rough fabric. He only tipped his chin in acknowledgment before closing the door with a solid thunk. When he slid into the driver’s seat a moment later, he replaced his hat with care, tugging the brim until it sat at just the right angle. He rolled his shoulders once, loosening the tension in them, the subtle scrape of fabric against the leather seat filling the cab.

“You don’t mind if I smoke, do you?” He asked, glancing at you with a quiet sort of courtesy.

You shook your head. “Not at all.” He nodded once, then pulled a crumpled pack of cigarettes and a lighter from the pocket of his jeans. The flame flickered bright against his freckled face as he lit one, then he rolled the window down a few inches. Smoke curled out into the night, thin and silver against the dark. He took a slow drag, exhaled it out the window, then turned the key, the engine rumbling to life beneath you both.

“Could I take you to one more place before droppin’ you off?” He offered, his drawl carrying a note of something quieter, almost careful. Your brows lifted, curiosity sparking.

“Sure…Where are you going to take me?” He shrugged one shoulder, lips quirking faintly around the cigarette.

“It’s a surprise. You trust me?” Your lip caught between your teeth, teasing your nerves into a bite of caution and intrigue.

“I feel like you’re setting me up for something…” He rolled his eyes, dragging from the cigarette again before blowing the smoke out quickly through the crack in the window.

“I can assure you I’m not.” You studied him for a beat before nodding.

“Alright. I’ll hold you to that.” He smirked, satisfied, and shifted the truck into gear, pulling out of the gravel lot. The radio hummed a low tune again, soft against the growl of the engine. The night swallowed the two of you, long stretches of county road winding out under the quiet glow of stars. The drive took twenty minutes, and then he pulled into a lookout perched high above Wabang, a place that only he seemed to know about. The town lay sprawled below, lit in scattered clusters of gold and silver, the glow of streetlights and storefronts twinkling faintly against the black curve of the horizon.

“Woah…” Was all you could manage, the word leaving you in a breath that fogged faint against the cool glass.

“Pretty nice, hm?” His voice was steady, but there was a flicker of pride there too, the kind of warmth that came from sharing something personal. You nodded slowly, eyes still fixed on the view.

“It’s beautiful.” He smiled faintly, almost boyish in the shadows.

“Let me adjust the truck so the trunk’s facin’ it.” He eased the gearshift into reverse, maneuvering the truck with careful turns until the bed pointed toward the overlook. Gravel crunched softly beneath the tires, then stilled. He cut the engine, and silence pressed in–thick but peaceful, broken only by the faint sigh of night wind. He left the driver's seat and came onto your side. You climbed out with his hand steady at your elbow again, your shoes scuffing against the grit, as he put his denim jacket over your shoulders to keep you warm. He lowered the lip of the truck bed with a hollow clang, then brushed his palms together.

“Let me grab a blanket from the back seat.” You nodded, watching him quickly climb into the cab for a moment, before returning with a heavy blanket, the edges frayed but warm and worn in. He spread it across the bed in broad sweeps, then helped you up, his hands guiding you with quiet care. You adjusted your dress as you sat, crossing one leg over the other.

“Oh, forgot something…I’ll be right back,” He murmured. Your brows pinched with curiosity, but you let him go. He moved to the front of the truck, opening the driver’s side door again. The sound of shuffling carried faintly, then the door clicked shut again. When he came back, he was holding a sparkler. You blinked, your lips parting in surprise.

“Where’d you get that from?” He climbed up beside you, sitting close but not crowding, the warmth of him seeping through the blanket.

“Had a private party,” He explained with an easy shrug. “Didn’t use all the sparklers for their cake. This was an extra.” His mouth tugged faintly upward. “Now…Can you hand me that piece of pie?” Reluctantly, though amused, you passed him the little plastic container. He popped the lid, pressed the sparkler into the soft center of it, and held it out just far enough that it wouldn’t singe either of you. With a flick of his lighter, the sparkler sputtered to life, showering gold sparks that hissed and danced in the dark.

Then, without a hint of embarrassment, and like he did probably thousands of times before, he began to sing Happy Birthday to you. It wasn’t loud–it wasn’t meant to be. His voice was low, steady, carrying that worn drawl that curled around every word. The sound wrapped around you in the stillness, warm as the sparks that lit his face in bursts of gold. You couldn’t stop the smile that bloomed across your lips, couldn’t stop the way your chest loosened until your laughter tumbled soft into the night.

When the sparkler fizzled out, Rhett plucked it free, tossed the charred stem aside, and set the container gently in your lap. He handed you one of the forks with a small smile.

“That was really nice, Rhett…Thank you.” Your voice was quieter than you intended. He tipped his head, his smile softening at the edges, pushing his hat up a bit so you could see his eyes.

“Hope I made up for your friends draggin’ you to my part of town to watch me strip on stage.” You let out a small laugh, shaking your head.

“I’ll be honest…It wasn’t all that bad.” His brows lifted, the corners of his mouth tugging sly.

“Oh yeah? Not all that bad, huh?” Your cheeks warmed instantly, heat rushing into your ears. You cleared your throat.

“Well, I mean…I met a pretty nice employee there who took me out for my birthday without even knowing me, so…He definitely made my night better.” He smirked, ducking his head as he used the side of his fork to scoop up a bite of pie, shoving it into his mouth.

“Sounds like he made a good first impression on you,” He said around the mouthful, the words muffled, a little boyish. You smiled, slipping your own fork into it as well.

”He definitely did.” The pie was sweet, cinnamon-heavy, with a flaky crust that melted against your tongue. You ate in silence, passing the container back and forth, until only a few crumbs were left and you tucked the empty box aside.

The quiet stretched again–but it wasn’t heavy. It was warm, threaded with the hum of crickets, the faint rustle of wind against the truck, and the steady presence of him beside you. You turned your head to look at him, and found he was already watching you, his blue eyes steady, reflecting starlight.

“It’s gettin’ pretty late… Or…Early, technically,” Rhett murmured at last, his voice low and a little uneven in the quiet. His eyes lingering on you for a beat before glancing back out over the glow of Wabang below. “I better get you home.” The words hit you like the dull drop of a stone into water. Disappointment tugged heavy at your chest, sinking deep. You almost didn’t want the night to end–not when it felt suspended outside of time, caught between stars and laughter. But you knew it had to. Eventually, all nights had to end. You drew in a small sigh, fighting the instinct to stall, and nodded.

“Yeah… You’re right.” Rhett gave a slow exhale, bracing his hands on the lip of the truck bed as he slid off in one fluid motion. His boots crunched softly against the gravel. When he turned back, he expected you to be climbing down after him. But you weren’t. You stayed put, perched on the blanket, your shoulders huddled in his jacket, your mouth tilted into the faintest frown you hadn’t realized had given you away. He noticed it almost instantly, ever the observer. His brows pulled in slightly, blue eyes softened by curiosity.

“You alright?” You straightened, blinking quickly, and nodded too fast.

“Yeah. Yeah, I’m fine.” He studied you for a moment longer, like he could see through the quick answer, then said nothing more. Instead, he lifted one hand toward you, palm open and steady. His fingers curled slightly, a quiet offer. You slipped your hand into his, and the warmth of him was immediate–calloused, solid, grounding in the cool night air. He helped you slide off the truck bed, guiding you down gently until your feet touched the gravel. But when you landed, you realized how close he’d pulled you. Close enough that your body stopped just shy of his, close enough that you had to tilt your chin to look up at him.

The moment hung sharp, fragile. His gaze caught yours, steady and searching.

Rhett swallowed–an almost imperceptible bob of his throat that betrayed the sudden thrum beneath his quiet composure. His lips parted, his eyes flicking once down to your mouth, then back up. The air between you crackled, soft but undeniable.

And then he kissed you.

It was gentle at first–tentative, careful, as though he was giving you the chance to pull away. His mouth was warm and soft, tasting faintly of coffee and smoke and the sweetness of the apple pie you’d shared minutes ago. His lips pressed against yours with a slowness that made your chest tighten. You leaned in without hesitation, your hands lifting almost instinctively to settle against his torso. The cotton of his plaid shirt was warm under your palms, stretched over firm muscle, and as you pressed closer, Rhett let out a low, unguarded sound against your mouth–a rough little groan that vibrated through him and into you. The sound made your knees go loose, your stomach flip, heat rushing up to your cheeks.

That single noise shifted the kiss. It deepened, not into something hurried or hungry, but into something sure. His lips moved against yours with a tenderness that stole your breath, coaxing you rather than taking. He tilted his head just slightly, angling to fit more closely, and the brim of his hat brushed faintly against your hair. His free hand hovered at your waist, fingers brushing over the denim jacket he’d draped across you earlier, as if reminding you it was his. As if grounding himself in the nearness of you.

Your breaths tangled, shallow and quick, and the world beyond the two of you–crickets humming, town lights glimmering far below–seemed to blur into nothing but the press of his mouth and the warmth of his chest beneath your hands. Every detail sharpened: the faint rasp of stubble grazing your skin when he shifted closer, the smell of leather and smoke and cologne clinging to him, the way his lips softened and pressed again, and again, until it felt less like a kiss and more like the slow unraveling of something inevitable.

When he finally drew back, it was only far enough to let air slip between you. His forehead hovered close to yours, his breath uneven, his blue eyes shining under starlight. His mouth curved into the faintest smile, tugging with a warmth that left you dizzy.

“Feelin’ better now?” He asked, his voice roughened by the weight of the moment, threaded with something unspoken and tender.

Reuben blinks, his smile faltering as his brow creases. “Nice to see you too, Phoenix.” 

She heads back to the couch, Reuben trailing behind. 

“Why’d you knock?” she asks. “It’s always open.” 

“Wasn’t the other day.” 

You sit up straighter, rolling your eyes. “That’s because it was two a.m. and I was home alone—sleeping.” 

Natasha drops onto the couch, a little closer to you than before to make room for Reuben. “Do we seriously not have boundaries anymore?” she asks him. “What could you possibly need at two in the morning?” 

He plucks the popcorn bowl off the table and settles it in his lap. “Fanboy really wanted to watch The Princess Bride, but Netflix logged us out and we couldn’t remember the password.” 

You lean across Natasha for a handful of popcorn. “Then get your own Netflix account, you fucking freeloaders.” 

Reuben gives you a wounded look. “Okay, rude.” 

You roll your eyes again and flop back against the couch, shoving a handful of popcorn into your mouth. 

“What’s got your panties in a twist?” he asks, peering at you from Natasha’s other side. 

Natasha snorts but keeps her eyes on the TV. 

“Nothing,” you mutter. “My panties are perfectly untwisted.” 

Reuben chuckles and shifts his gaze to the screen. “Then maybe someone should twist them up—get some of that tension out.” 

You flip him off without even glancing his way, your scowl still locked on the TV. He just laughs again, and Natasha shoots you a sidelong, knowing smirk. 

Twenty minutes later—and after Reuben has all but annihilated the popcorn—the front door swings open and Mickey breezes in, making a beeline for the fridge. 

“Have you guys eaten?” he calls out. “Because I’m starving. I skipped lunch and Mav still kept me back.” He grabs a beer and spins to face the living room. “Isn’t that, like, illegal? Something about duty of care? I’m about to pass out, and it wasn’t even my fault I got held back. Hangman was the one mouthing off—I just told him where to stick it. But no, now Mav’s all professional, like he’s a real CO with a stick up his ass. Honestly? I liked him better before.” 

He yanks open a drawer, fishes out the bottle opener, and cracks the beer. “Anyway,” he says, glancing up at the three of you, “pizza?” 

A long beat of silence stretches through the apartment as you all stare at him. 

“Jesus Christ, Mick,” Reuben mutters. “Take a fucking breath.” 

Mickey just shrugs, heading into the living room. “What?” 

He drops onto the floor—figuring the couch is already squishy enough—and sets his beer on the coffee table before reaching for the remote. 

“No one’s watching this, right?” he asks—not that it matters. 

He doesn’t wait for a response—just clicks a few buttons and starts scrolling through Netflix. Frustration simmers under your skin, because yes, you were watching that, but you bite your tongue. You know you’re in a bad mood, and it’s not worth taking it out on your friends. No matter how irritating they can be. 

He finally lands on The Princess Bride and makes a satisfied little hum as he hits play. Then he tosses the remote back onto the table, picks up his beer, and leans back against the couch—his elbow jabbing your knee in the process. Your glass, balanced loosely on your leg, sloshes and spills cold liquid onto your lap. 

“Whoops,” Mickey says, glancing back at you. “My bad.” 

“Uh oh,” Natasha mutters, scooting slightly away from you. 

“Seriously, Mickey?” you snap, eyes narrowing. “Could you not act like a clumsy lapdog for five fucking seconds?” 

His eyes go wide at your tone. 

“How the hell did you even get into the navy?” you bite, rising from the couch. “You’ve got the spatial awareness of a drunk oaf and the grace of a newborn deer on ice.” 

You storm into the kitchen, slam your half-empty glass on the counter, and tear off a wad of paper towels. 

“Very descriptive insults,” Reuben mutters. 

Natasha lets out a dry laugh. “Yeah, that’s how you know she’s in a mood.” 

“Why?” Mickey asks, cautiously glancing toward you. 

You shoot him a glare over the kitchen island, dabbing paper towel at the top of your thigh. 

“Bob didn’t talk to her today,” Natasha says. “Like, at all.” 

“Ohhh,” Reuben and Mickey sigh in unison, the sound laced with realisation. 

You toss the damp towel into the sink before turning toward the fridge and yanking it open, bottles rattling. 

“To be fair,” Reuben offers, “you two were on different drills today. He probably just didn’t get the chance.” 

You whirl around, beer in hand, glare sharp. “He asked Phoenix if she wanted to go for a run tomorrow morning—while I was standing right there.” 

You shut the fridge with more force than necessary, then yank open the cutlery drawer and grab the bottle opener. 

“Oh yeah,” Mickey adds. “He asked me too. Wants to do the Coronado Island Loop.” 

You pop the cap off your beer and let it clatter to the floor. “Great. That’s great. Thanks, Mick. Love knowing I was the only one not invited.” 

Natasha sighs, her eyes following you as you trudge back toward the lounge. “I told you—he probably just didn’t think you were interested. When have you ever wanted to go running?” 

Reuben nods. “Yeah, you hate when Mav makes us run laps. You’re always the first to complain.” 

You flop down into your spot and take a long pull from your beer, eyes on the screen. “Yeah, well,” you mutter, “he could’ve asked.” 

“You could’ve spoken up,” Natasha points out. 

You roll your eyes. “Yeah, and invite myself to something I deliberately wasn’t invited to? No thanks.” 

Mickey shakes his head. “Bob wouldn’t leave you out on purpose. He’s too nice.” 

“Exactly,” Reuben says. “It’s Bob. He probably just got awkward about it.” 

You scowl and gesture to Natasha. “He asked Phoenix.” 

“Yeah, but that’s Phoenix,” Mickey says. “They’re crammed together in the cockpit almost all day, every day. She doesn’t make him nervous.” 

You scoff and sink further into the couch. “I do not make him nervous.” 

Natasha sighs again. “Yes. You do. I’ve told you before.” 

“And I don’t believe you,” you say, despite the warmth creeping into your cheeks. “You’re always saying Bob has a thing for me, but I don’t see it. Wouldn’t he actually talk to me if he liked me?” 

“It’s Bob,” Reuben repeats. “He’s not like the rest of us.” 

“Exactly,” Natasha says. “He’s polite and respectful. Way better than the rest.” 

Mickey turns from the TV, shooting her a wounded look. “Ouch.” 

Reuben shrugs. “She’s right. That’s why we can’t tease him about it. We can’t even ask him if he likes you—though we’re pretty sure.” 

You roll your eyes. “How can you be sure when he’s never admitted it?” 

“Oh, it’s so obvious,” Mickey says with a giggle. “He gets all googly-eyed whenever you’re around.” 

You shoot him a sceptical look, brows furrowed. “I don’t see it.” 

“Well, of course he’s not going to let you catch him staring,” Reuben says, a smirk tugging at his lips. “He’s a gentleman.” 

“Yeah, and he’s not stupid,” Natasha adds. 

“But whenever you’re not paying attention,” Mickey continues, “his eyes are glued to you, like a magnet.” 

You roll your eyes, determined to seem unconvinced, even though you can feel the warmth rising in your cheeks. 

“Oh, and every time you’re brought up in conversation,” Reuben says, “he’s locked in.” 

“Unless we’re talking about you and another guy,” Natasha adds with a knowing look “Then he gets all huffy and weird.” 

You snort a laugh before taking another sip of your beer. 

“Why don’t you just ask him out?” Mickey suggests. “Put us all out of our misery. Bob will stop being so awkward, and you’ll stop being so—” He stops when you shoot him a glare. 

“So what, Mick?” 

He turns his gaze back to the TV, muttering, “Moody.” 

You scoff. “Yeah, okay. So, I’m just supposed to believe you guys when I haven’t actually seen any of these so-called signs myself?” 

Reuben and Mickey nod, but Natasha just watches. 

“I’m not doing that,” you say flatly. “I’m not asking him out just to be humiliated.” 

The conversation dies as you turn your attention back to the movie, taking another generous sip of beer. Mickey pulls out his phone to order pizza, and Reuben heads to the fridge for another round of beers. 

You keep your eyes locked on the TV, even though you’re barely watching. Instead, your mind is replaying the day, wondering if you missed the part where it was ‘so obvious’ that Bob has a crush on you. 

It’s hard not to agree with Reuben when he says, ‘It’s Bob,’ because it just is. He’s nice, considerate, raised to respect women and the navy. He’s the perfect officer and the perfect gentleman, and that’s half the reason you’re so damn attracted to him. A gorgeous guy with manners and respect to spare? Yes, please. 

But, God, sometimes you wish he was just a little more basic. A little more in touch with his primal side, instead of always using the higher-functioning part of his brain that most guys don’t even know exists. You’ve never even heard Bob say a woman is attractive, let alone spew some of the caveman shit that comes out of Jake’s mouth. 

And yeah, sure, you could ask him out. He might even say yes, just to be polite. But you don’t want to put that kind of pressure on him or the squad. Him dating you out of pity would be worse than flat-out rejection. 

An hour later, full of pizza and halfway through your fourth beer, you’re curled up with your head on Natasha's shoulder while The Ugly Truth plays on the TV—Mickey’s latest pick. 

“Man, what’s with you and romantic comedies?” Reuben asks, nose wrinkling as he watches Katherine Heigl flail on-screen. 

Mickey shrugs. “Don’t judge. Maybe I’m feeling a little lonely lately.” 

“Aww, Mick,” you coo, voice dripping mock-sympathy. “Better get used to it. You’re going to be alone forever.” 

His head snaps toward you, a scowl forming. “Okay, Miss-I-Refuse-To-Ask-Out-A-Guy-Who’s-Clearly-Into-Me-Because-I’m-Terrified-of-Rejection.” 

A smirk tugs at your mouth. “That was way too long to sting.” 

“Whatever.” He rolls his eyes. “You’re mean when you’re not getting laid.” 

“Hey!” you gasp. “How do you know I’m not?” 

There’s a beat—a static moment where you realise you’ve just fucked up—before they all burst out laughing. And even you can’t help joining in, despite the embarrassed flush crawling across your chest. 

Then suddenly, Natasha jerks upright, knocking your head off her shoulder. Her laughter halts as she stares wide-eyed at the screen, lips parted in a gasp. “Holy shit. I have an idea.” 

“An idea?” Reuben echoes, brows lifting. 

“Yes!” She turns to you, eyes sparkling with mischief. “I know how we’re going to get Bob to admit it.” 

Mickey swivels on the floor to face her. “Admit what?” 

Reuben rolls his eyes. “That he likes Sunny. Duh.” 

“Oh.” Mickey glances your way, then back at Natasha. “How?” 

“He’s only human, right?” she says, and both boys nod. “It’s obvious he likes her—he’s just too damn respectful. He probably thinks she’s out of her league. Or he’s worried about dating someone in the squad. But deep down? He’s still a guy. He has the same thoughts, the same... tendencies. He’s just better at hiding them.” 

Mickey snorts. “Oh yeah. If the way he looks at Sunny in a bikini is anything to go by, he’s definitely got those thoughts.” 

You shoot him a glare. “Don’t be gross.” 

“No, he’s right,” Natasha says quickly. “I hate it, but he’s right. Every time we’re at the beach and you’re half-naked, he looks like he’s barely holding it together.” 

You try to keep your face neutral, but your heart is thudding too fast against your ribs. 

“Wait,” Reuben says, leaning forward. “I think you’re onto something. Like when she squeezes into the booth at the bar and hovers over his lap for a second—he looks like he’s about to combust.” 

“Exactly!” Natasha exclaims. “That’s it. That’s what we need to do—we need to make him snap.” 

You narrow your eyes, ignoring the spark of adrenaline beginning to curl in your gut. “Okay... but how?” 

Natasha turns toward you, her eyes wide and full of focus. The same look she wears just before take-off. “You need to... tease him. Really make him suffer.” 

Mickey’s grin turns wicked. “Oh, this could work.” 

Your brow lifts. “Tease him how?” 

“Tempt him,” Reuben says, matching Mickey’s grin. “Push every button. Get close. Make him want you so badly he can’t hide it anymore.” 

You snort. “So, seduce him?” 

“Worse,” Natasha says. “You’re going to give this man the worst case of blue balls in naval history.” 

Both Mickey and Reuben flinch. 

“He’s going to end up in the hospital with a permanent boner,” Natasha adds, mischief blazing in her eyes. “Crying. On. His. Knees.” 

“Bob’s a good man,” Reuben says solemnly. “He’s respectful. Polite. Sensible. And we’re gonna have to break him.” 

“We?” you repeat, pulse racing. 

“Exactly,” Natasha nods. “If this were any other guy, you could get it done in a day. But Bob? Bob’s built different. If we want to unleash his inner caveman? It’s going to take a team.” 

Your stomach flips, anticipation stirring beneath your skin. 

“It won’t be easy,” Mickey says, his smirk returning. “But it will be fun.” 

“Sunny,” Reuben says, locking eyes with you. “Are you in or are you out?” 

That spark of adrenaline snaps through you like a live wire. 

You nod. “Okay. I’m in.” 

- 

The plan is simple. Straightforward. One objective. Everyone's clear on it. It’s been mapped out and set into motion—now all you have to do is play your part. Which is probably why your heart is hammering against your sternum like a damn war drum. 

“I don’t know, Nat,” you mutter as the two of you walk across the crunchy morning grass. “This feels wrong.” 

“What does?” she asks. “The thong or the plan?” 

You roll your eyes. “Both.” 

“Well, suck it up. There’s no backing down now.” 

You squeeze your eyes shut and take a deep breath. Then you release it and reel yourself in. She’s right. You can’t be a chicken forever—and it’s not like you’re doing anything overtly humiliating. Besides, you’ve got a team at your back, and they’re not going to let you crash and burn. 

Last night, Natasha had texted Bob to let him know she was inviting you on the morning run. He’d replied with a simple thumbs up—something you found a little rude, but the boys insisted he only sends that when he doesn’t know what else to say. Which, apparently, is a good sign. 

This morning, you’d dug deep into your underwear drawer for a lacy black thong you bought a few years ago—back when you were more optimistic about your sex life. You pulled it on, despite the discomfort, and borrowed a pair of light blue workout tights from Natasha. Yep, that’s a black thong under pale blue, skin-tight leggings. 

“Without being creepy,” Mickey says from a few paces behind, “the plan is looking really good from back here.” 

You shoot him a scowl over your shoulder as Reuben smacks his arm, even though he’s wearing the same mischievous grin. 

The four of you wait at a picnic table in the park where you’d agreed to meet, and it doesn’t take long before you spot Bob walking across the grass—dark grey sweats and an oversized U.S. Navy hoodie, his hands tucked firmly into the front pocket. Quite possibly the most innocent, basic outfit he could’ve worn—a ridiculous contrast to yours—and yet you still find yourself thinking wildly inappropriate thoughts. 

About what’s under those sweats. About how good they’d look on your bedroom floor. 

Even the soft smile on his lips as he approaches makes you want to scream. How is one man such pure, soft boyfriend material... yet still manages to awaken your most primal instincts? It doesn’t make any sense. 

“Hey,” he says, eyes skimming over each of you before settling on Natasha. “We ready?” 

Natasha nods, and the five of you start walking off the grass toward the footpath before breaking into a jog. She and Bob take the lead while you hang back, with Reuben and Mickey flanking you like a private escort. Exactly as planned. You might be trying to fluster Bob, but you don’t need half of Coronado getting a look at your underwear—hence the two-man protection detail. 

Two kilometres later, you all stop for a quick stretch. Bob wanders off toward a water fountain, and you seize the opportunity to move up beside Natasha, placing yourself at the front of the group. Again—exactly according to plan. 

When Bob returns and joins in on Reuben and Mickey’s conversation, you and Natasha shuffle a little closer. She props one foot up on the bench, leaning into the stretch as she gives a subtle nod—the signal to begin. 

You let out a shaky breath, then slip on your best cool-and-confident facade. 

“I’m never doing this again,” you say to Nat—loud enough for the boys to hear. 

“I’m just gonna get a quick drink,” Reuben announces, conveniently cutting off their conversation. Right on cue. 

Mickey busies himself with stretching, leaving Bob to ‘accidentally’ overhear what comes next. 

“What?” Natasha asks. “Running? I told you you’d hate it.” 

“No,” you reply, pretending to lower your voice—even though you don’t. “Wearing a fucking thong.” 

She snorts, the laugh surprisingly genuine. Either she’s a fantastic actress, or she’s thoroughly enjoying herself. 

“Why are you wearing a thong?” 

You roll your eyes, falling deeper into the role. “Because I forgot to do my laundry and it was all I had left.” 

She snickers. “Well, have fun on the next eight kilometres.” 

“Oh yeah,” you sigh, “can’t wait.” 

You glance casually over your shoulder—and bingo. Bob’s face is bright red. His lips are slightly parted. And he’s blatantly staring at your ass like it’s the final clue to finding the national treasure—and Nicholas Cage is depending on him. 

Beside him, Mickey looks like he’s about to lose it. 

“Ready to keep going?” Reuben asks, walking back up—perfect timing. 

Everyone nods, and Bob clears his throat, licking his lips quickly. “Yep. Let’s go.” 

You and Natasha take off first, keeping yourselves in the lead. 

Every few minutes, you glance back—and without fail, Bob is staring. Each time, it sends your heart skittering, your cheeks heating, and your thoughts wandering into very unholy territory. 

Maybe your friends have been right all along. Maybe he does like you. Maybe this will actually work. 

By the seventh kilometre—with only three more to go—Bob looks like he’s hanging by a thread. He ditched his hoodie about two k’s ago, tying it around his waist. His hair his clinging to his forehead, damp with sweat, and his glasses are fogging up slightly near the bridge of his nose. 

You glance over your shoulder and give him a small smile. His lips pop open and he immediately averts his eyes, focusing instead on the pavement beneath his feet. You turn back, grinning to yourself, and that’s when he picks up his pace and jogs past both you and Natasha. 

Natasha nearly bursts out laughing, but she smacks a hand to her face, pretending to wipe the sweat from her upper lip. She shoots you a sideways look and a smirk—and the two of you push forward to flank Bob, jogging on either side of him. 

“Hey,” Natasha says, more than a little breathless. “You trying to make this a competition?” 

Bob shakes his head, eyes locked on the path ahead. “Nope. Just staying focused.” 

“What’s so distracting back there?” she asks, fighting a smirk. 

“Is Fanboy being a pest?” you add, giving yourself a layer of plausible deniability—just in case he starts to suspect anything. 

Bob’s gaze flicks to you, then drops briefly to your chest before snapping forward again. “Yeah,” he says, voice uneven. “He’s breathing like Darth Vader.” 

“Hey!” Mickey calls from behind. “I’m not deaf!” 

The five of you share a short, breathless laugh before settling into a comfortable silence. You’re thoroughly exhausted now and decide to give Bob a break for the last few kilometres—merciful, maybe, but also strategic. 

Soon enough, the group slows to a walk as the café marking the end of your run comes into view. 

“Thank God,” Mickey gasps. “I’m starving.” 

“You’re always hungry,” you mutter, shooting him a flat look. 

The café is busier than expected, and you’re about to start crafting a subtle excuse to avoid going in when Reuben steps up behind you and unzips his jacket. 

“Cover your ass up, Sunny,” he says, smirking. “For fuck’s sake.” 

You try—and fail—to suppress your grin as he hands you the jacket. You roll your eyes and tie it around your waist, grateful for the cover. 

Once you’re feeling a little more decent, the group heads inside to order breakfast and find a table out back on the patio. The food and coffee arrive quickly, and soon everyone is digging in, quiet with post-run hunger. Though judging by how often Bob’s eyes keep darting toward you, his appetite might not be entirely food-related. 

“So,” Mickey says through a mouthful of bacon, “are we finishing the Star Wars marathon this weekend, or what?” 

Bob perks up instantly, eyes going bright, the usual stormy blue softening into something more sky-coloured. “Yes. Tomorrow night?” 

Reuben frowns. “But that’s Sunday.” 

“Mav gave us Monday off,” Natasha chimes in. “Weekend rotation, remember?” 

“Oh, right.” Reuben nods. “Yeah, I’m in.” 

“How many are left?” Natasha asks. 

“Six,” Mickey replies. “Not including spin-offs.” 

“We’re not getting through six in one night,” you point out. “We’ll be lucky to finish the prequels.” 

“Unless…” he says, his eyes gleaming with mischief as they flick between everyone at the table, “we had a sleepover.” 

You snort into your coffee before taking a sip, expecting someone—probably Natasha or Reuben—to shut the idea down. But instead, their faces light up with the same devious smirk that Mickey is wearing. 

“We could,” Natasha says casually. “I think it’d be fun.” 

Bob blinks at her. “You do?” 

She nods. “Yeah. Why not? We could play some drinking games and not worry about getting home.” 

“Drinking games!” Reuben echoes with excitement. “You’re a genius, Phoenix.” 

With the way their eyes keep bouncing between you and Bob, it’s clear now: they’re scheming again. Plotting the next phase of Operation Bob's Blue Balls—and your pulse is already quickening with anticipation. 

“We could do it at my place,” Bob offers, earnest as ever. “I’ve got a spare room. Plenty of space.” 

Reuben grins. “What a great idea, Bob.” 

Bob glances around at his grinning friends, the smile on his face tinged with uncertainty. He has no clue what he’s just agreed to. 

- 

“Did you pack sexy PJs?” Natasha asks, her fingers drumming against the steering wheel. 

You roll your eyes. “I don’t own any sexy PJs.” 

She shoots you a sly smirk before her gaze flicks back to the road, her silence thick with something unspoken—as if she already has a plan to remedy your lack of Victoria’s Secret-worthy sleepwear. 

Bob’s apartment isn’t far from yours. In fact, none of you live all that far from each other, but tonight, the distance doesn’t seem to matter. No—the real reason for tonight’s sleepover is something far more sinister. 

You know you’re the last to arrive, not just from the cars parked along the street, but from the group chat where Mickey has been demanding you hurry up so he can order dinner. Your heart beats in your throat as you ride the elevator up, and the ding when it reaches Bob’s level startles you more than it should. 

Natasha’s smirk stays plastered on her face until she knocks on the door, and the second it swings open, with Bob standing there, she’s all business. 

“Hey,” she says casually, walking past him like she’s been here a thousand times. 

A stab of jealousy twists in your stomach—completely unwarranted but sharp nonetheless. Has Natasha been here a lot? 

“Hi,” you mutter, offering Bob a small smile as you follow Nat inside. 

There’s a chorus of hellos from the squad scattered around the living room. Bradley lounges across the two-seater couch furthest from the door, and Mickey is sprawled in a bean bag beside him, grinning like a kid in a candy store. Jake and Javy are tangled together on one end of the three-seater couch, probably having just finished fighting over the remote. And then there’s Reuben, sitting in the middle, with Natasha plopping down beside him. 

“Guess I’ll take the floor,” you mutter, dropping your bag beside the pile of everyone else’s stuff. 

“That’s alright,” Jake says with his usual cocky grin, “You can sit on Bobby’s lap for a bit of comfort.” 

Heat floods your cheeks, but you refuse to let him see the effect of his words. Instead, you roll your eyes and flip him off, then plop down onto the makeshift nest of cushions and blankets on the floor. 

Bob reappears from the kitchen with another round of beers, while Mickey takes orders for dinner. Then Bob settles down beside you, his arm brushing yours just enough to send a sparks crackling across your skin. A moment later, Jake hits play on The Phantom Menace, and the room settles into a comfortable, albeit charged, quiet. 

It doesn’t take long before Jake groans that he’s bored, and Reuben’s eyes immediately flick toward Natasha—like they’d both seen this coming from a mile away. 

“We could play a game,” Mickey offers, all too innocently. 

“Yes,” Jake grins, already invested. “Let’s play a game.” 

“What game?” Javy asks. 

Reuben opens his mouth, but Jake beats him to it. “Truth or Dare, obviously.” 

Natasha snorts and slaps a hand over her mouth, but not before you catch it. That was exactly what Reuben had been about to suggest—and Jake is walking right into whatever scheme they’ve cooked up. 

“How old are you?” Bradley asks Jake, brows furrowing. 

“Not as old as you, Grandpa,” Jake fires back. “But you could at least pretend to enjoy fun.” 

Bradley rolls his eyes but shrugs. “Fine.” 

Everyone else falls in line, shifting around until you’ve all formed a lopsided circle on the floor, your back half-angled toward the movie. Jake claps his hands together like the ringmaster of a circus—which might not be far off from what this night is about to become. 

“Alright. If you’re a chicken and won’t answer the truth or do the dare, you drink. Simple. I’ll go first.” He zeroes in on Bob—poor, unsuspecting Bob, who clearly just wanted to enjoy some Star Wars in peace. “Bob. Truth or Dare?” 

“Truth,” Bob says, almost too quickly. 

Jake leans forward with a shit-eating grin. “Who would you rather go on a date with—Phoenix or Sunny?” 

You choke on nothing, smothering the sound behind your hand and pretending it’s just a casual cough. 

Heat blooms across Bob’s cheeks and starts creeping up to the tips of his ears. He glances your way—just for a beat—then over at Natasha, and your stomach knots. Is he seriously having to think about this? Have your friends been totally misreading Bob this whole time? 

Then, after a moment of hesitation, Bob simply lifts his beer and takes a long sip. 

Jake groans. “Ugh, lame.” 

“Don’t worry, Bob,” Javy says with a laugh. “That was a trap. There was no right answer.” 

Bob chuckles—a low, rough sound right next to you that sends goosebumps up your arms. “I know,” he says, voice deceptively casual. Then he shifts his gaze toward Mickey. “Fanboy. Truth or Dare?” 

Mickey’s face lights up. “Dare.” 

Bob smiles—and for the first time tonight, it’s almost a smirk. There’s something sharp beneath the usual softness, and it makes your stomach flip. 

“Text the last person you hooked up with ‘thinking about you’—no context. And you can't reply until tomorrow.” 

Mickey’s grin drops. “What the fuck, man?” 

Bob just shrugs, raising his beer like it’s a toast. “You picked dare.” Then he brings the bottle to his lips and takes a generous swig. 

And holy shit—you might actually combust from the sight alone. Bob being just a little cocky. Bob utterly destroying Mickey with zero remorse. You know there’s a darker edge beneath that quiet, boy-next-door act. You know he’s got a mean streak. And God, you want to find it. Pull it out of him and ask—beg—for him to do things you can’t even say out loud. 

The group erupts into cackles as Mickey reluctantly pulls out his phone, Reuben peering over his shoulder to make sure he follows through. 

“There,” Mickey mutters, tossing the phone face-down on the floor. “You better watch your back.” 

But Bob doesn’t flinch. He just sits there, calm and collected, with that damn smirk still tugging at the corner of his mouth. 

When you finally tear your gaze away from him, you find Mickey’s eyes locked on you—an evil grin stretched across his face. “Sunny,” he says, voice smooth as silk. “Truth or Dare?” 

You steel your nerves, unsure of what’s coming but already sensing the trap. “Dare,” you reply, trying to keep your voice steady. 

Mickey’s grin widens, tipping his head forward like some sinister villain—and you just walked straight into his web. “Google a dirty line from Fifty Shades of Grey... and whisper it slowly in Bob’s ear.” 

Jake snorts, his face twisted with amusement, and the rest of the group follows—dissolving into fits of laughter. All but Bob, who’s already choking on his beer, turning an even deeper shade of red before you’ve even touched your phone. 

You blink, eyes going wide. “Are you serious?” 

“Oh, I’m very serious,” Mickey replies, practically vibrating with excitement. “And no laughing. You have to sell it.” 

You lock eyes with Mickey, your death-glare sharp as your hands shake slightly while you pick up your phone. Then, you reluctantly tap the search bar and type in ‘dirty line from Fifty Shades of Grey.’ Before you realize what’s happening, Natasha leans over your shoulder. 

“Ooh,” she giggles, pointing at the screen. “That one.” 

You glance up at Bob, your expression a mix of apology and warning. He looks much less confident than before, his lips parted, cheeks flushed, blue eyes wide behind his glasses. His throat bobs as he swallows, and a small part of you—one that feels dangerous—stirs with excitement. 

The room falls into eerie silence, and you realize that Jake has paused the movie. All eyes are on you as you shuffle closer to Bob, getting onto your knees beside him. You plant one hand on his thigh to steady yourself, and you feel the muscles in his leg twitch at your touch. 

His breath hitches, his whole body going rigid. 

You lean in close, your lips barely brushing the shell of his ear as you murmur, “I want your hands on me. Your mouth. I want to feel you everywhere until I forget my own name.” 

A beat of silence stretches, and then Bob exhales sharply, his hand tightening around his beer bottle as if it’s the only thing keeping him tethered to Earth. 

“Jesus Christ,” Jake mutters under his breath. 

“Holy shit,” Reuben says, breaking into laughter. 

Mickey is howling, pounding his fist against the beanbag. “Worth it! So worth it!” 

You slowly pull back, biting back a grin as you settle back into your spot like nothing happened. Bob, however, is still stuck in the mental tailspin you just launched him into, blinking hard and adjusting his glasses like he needs a whole system reset. 

You meet his eyes, and for the briefest second, you see it—buried beneath the shock and heat—that glint of hunger. 

God help you, you're not making it out of tonight alive. 

The game moves on, but you can’t quiet your mind. You’re stuck on the way Bob’s thigh had felt beneath your palm, the way the muscles shifted under your touch. You can’t stop replaying the brush of your lips near his ear, the hitch in his breath, or the way he’d smelled—clean, warm, intoxicating. You don’t just want to fuck this man—you want to ruin him. You want him panting and wrecked, bruised and breathless, oversensitive and spent. There are things you want to ask of him that would guarantee you a one-way ticket to hell. But if he said yes—if he gave you those things—it’d be worth it. 

You’ve never wanted a man the way you want him, and it’s starting to feel like a genuine threat to your well-being. 

“Bob,” Natasha says, her voice snapping you back to reality, “Truth or Dare?” 

You’re not sure how many turns you’ve missed, but Bradley and Reuben seem to have swapped shirts, and there’s a bottle of tequila on the table that definitely wasn’t there earlier. 

“Dare,” Bob replies, seemingly recovered from your whispered indecency. 

Natasha grins. “I dare you to pick someone in this room to do a body shot off of—excluding me.” 

Your heart stutters at the last part. Did she say that because she thought he’d pick her? Would he have? Out of comfort, knowing it wouldn’t mean anything—or for some other reason? 

You shake the thought off quickly and join the group’s laughter, mentally scolding yourself for the jealous spiral. 

“Seriously, Phoenix?” Bob sighs, his brows knit. 

She just shrugs, laughing. “You picked dare.” 

He tips his head back and groans, giving you a perfect view of the long line of his throat, the sharp bob of his Adam’s apple as he swallows. 

“Come on, man,” Jake chuckles, “There’s only one clear choice.” 

Your cheeks flush as Jake nods toward you, green eyes sparkling like he’s the one about to do the dare. 

“As if you’re not going to pick Sunny,” Javy adds, watching as Bob’s eyes slowly scan the room. 

Then his gaze lands on you—soft, but laced with something heavier. Something simmering. 

He licks his lips, and you can’t stop yourself from imagining them on your skin. Imagining his tongue dragging over your body, slow and deliberate. The salt from your collarbone, your abdomen… or maybe lower—right above the waistband of your pants. Would he use the glass? Or would he press his mouth to your stomach, lips sealing around your navel, tongue lapping up the tequila while you tremble beneath him? 

Then the lime—between your lips, waiting for him. His mouth brushing yours as he leans in, breath mingling, tasting more than just the fruit. You imagine the sharp burst of citrus, the tease of contact, tequila heat still slick on his tongue. He’d bite down, lips grazing yours, and it would wreck you more than any kiss ever could. 

“Hangman,” Bob says suddenly, his gaze locked on the man across the circle—who now looks a lot less smug and a lot more stunned. 

Jake’s brows shoot up. “Me?” 

The room erupts into laughter. Bradley throws his head back, already fumbling for his phone to record whatever chaos is about to unfold. Mickey nearly falls over, gripping the bean bag for dear life, and Javy is doubled over, laughing so hard he can’t catch a breath. 

“Why would you do this to me?” Jake gasps, eyes wide. 

“You said there was only one clear option,” Bob replies evenly, the ghost of a smirk tugging at his mouth. “I agree.” 

“You bitch,” Jake mutters. 

“Oh, this is so much better than what I thought was going to happen,” Natasha says. “Shirt off, Bagman. Let’s go.” 

“This could be considered assault,” Jake mutters as he sits forward on the couch. 

“Then press charges,” Bradley says, half-choking on a laugh. “But let him finish first.” 

Natasha bolts to the kitchen for lime and salt, and the rest of the group scrambles to clear space on the lounge like they’re prepping for surgery. Jake peels off his shirt with the theatrics of a martyr, glaring at each of his cackling friends. 

Bob, meanwhile, looks cool as ever—far more composed than Jake. And maybe that’s the point. Picking you would’ve set the room on fire. Picking someone else would’ve gotten laughs. But picking Hangman? That’s just cruel and perfect—and from the slow curl of a smirk on Bob’s lips, he knows it. 

“Let’s go, Seresin,” Natasha says, reappearing with lime in one hand, salt in the other. 

Jake lies back with exaggerated misery, like a man about to be sacrificed at the altar. “I swear to God, Floyd, if you do anything weird with your mouth-” 

“I won’t,” Bob says, calm and unbothered. “Unless you want me to.” 

Your stomach somersaults. He didn’t even look at you—but somehow, it still feels like the line was meant for you. Like he knows exactly what he does to you, without even trying. 

Bob Floyd is fucking smooth when he wants to be. 

The room falls eerily quiet as Bob kneels beside the couch, one hand braced on the cushion beneath Jake’s body, the other holding the tequila bottle. He looks serene—like he’s preparing for a sacred ritual rather than licking salt off another man’s chest. 

“This is happening,” Mickey whispers, wide-eyed. “This is actually happening.” 

“Focus, Bob,” Natasha says solemnly, holding the shot glass as he pours the tequila. “We believe in you.” 

Bob sets the bottle down and leans toward Jake slowly, both hands now braced on the couch as he lowers his head to the other man’s chest. The room is absolutely silent, save for the soft rustle of fabric and the charged hush of everyone holding their breath. 

Jake stares straight up, completely stiff. “Don’t look at me while you do it.” 

“I’m not,” Bob says, deadpan. 

He dips his head and licks the salt clean off Jake’s skin. Jake jerks like he’s been hit with a defibrillator. 

“Oh my God,” Javy whispers, clutching his chest. “This is the best thing I’ve ever witnessed.” 

Natasha hands Bob the shot, and he tosses it back like he’s sampling a fine whiskey. Then he turns to the lime Natasha has jammed between Jake’s clenched teeth. 

“Don’t you dare,” Jake warns. 

“I’m just following instructions,” Bob replies calmly, and leans in. 

There’s a ridiculous half-second where it looks like they’re about to kiss—and everyone knows it. You bite your fist to keep from bursting out laughing… or something else entirely. Because Bob? Cool as ice. Smooth as ever. He doesn’t even flinch as his mouth brushes Jake’s, teeth clamping down on the lime and tugging it free. 

Jake makes a choked sound halfway between outrage and existential crisis. 

Then the room explodes. 

Bradley nearly falls off the lounge, still recording, laughter shaking his whole body. Natasha collapses into Javy’s lap, practically wheezing. Mickey is making noises like he’s being exorcised, and you’re on the brink of tears, shoulders shaking with laughter as Bob calmly returns to his seat, lime in hand, mouth twisted slightly at the tartness. 

Jake bolts upright, wiping his mouth. “I need therapy.” 

Bob frowns. “You needed therapy before that.” 

“Yeah,” Jake spits, yanking his shirt back on. “Well, now I need more.” 

You’re not sure you’ve ever felt it before—and you definitely don’t plan on voicing it—but right now, you are incredibly fucking jealous of Jake Seresin. 

It takes a while, but eventually the group settles down and the game fizzles out—mostly thanks to Jake’s relentless sulking. Not long after, Mickey gets a notification that the food is nearly delivered, and everyone jumps into action to clear the table and grab what’s needed for dinner. 

Less than ten minutes later, you’re all crowded around the coffee table, shovelling Chinese food into your mouths and stealing bites off each other’s plates. Jake’s sour mood has mostly vanished, and everyone is focused on the final battle of the movie playing out on-screen. 

By the time the credits start rolling, most of the food is gone. You and Natasha start carting plates, bowls, and empty containers into the kitchen while the guys finish polishing off their meals, scraping the last of the food off their plates and into their mouths.  

“Did I mention I brought dessert?” Reuben pipes up, eyeing you as you stack a few plates in one hand. 

You raise a brow. “Are you about to make a gross joke?” 

“No,” he laughs, shaking his head. “You know Barb, down the hall?” 

“Neighbour Barb with the yappy chihuahua?” 

He nods. “Yeah. She bakes, like… the most amazing stuff.” 

You narrow your eyes, plates now balanced in both hands. “Do I even want to know how you know this?” 

Mickey answers for him, talking around a mouthful of Mongolian beef. “Because we’re nice to our neighbours.” 

You give him a disgusted look before turning back to Reuben. “Okay. Get to the point.” 

He grins, a smug twist playing at the corner of his mouth. “She made a huge batch of cream pies—I mean, puffs. So she brought some over, and I brought them here. They’re to die for.” 

Your eyes widen almost imperceptibly—but Reuben catches it, and you can see the spark of amusement flash across his face. 

“Have you ever had a cream pie, Sunny?” Mickey asks, beaming up at you with sauce smeared on his face. 

Jake and Javy snort, and behind you—you swear you hear Bob snicker. 

“Yes, Mick,” you bite out. “I’ve had a cream puff.” 

You turn sharply back toward the kitchen, but not before catching the small smirk on Bob’s lips, his cheeks pink as he spoons another mouthful of kung pao chicken into his mouth. 

“That’s not what I asked!” Mickey calls after you, giggling like a grade-schooler. 

You roll your eyes and drop the plates by the sink, where Natasha and Bradley are already washing up. 

“Lookin’ a little red there, Floyd,” Reuben teases, his voice carrying from the living room to the kitchen. 

It’s the chicken,” Bob replies quickly—but there’s something in his voice that makes a stupid, lovesick grin spread across your face. 

Once everything is washed up and everyone has returned to the living room, Jake hits play on the next film. You’re back on the floor, this time with your back pressed to the couch beneath Natasha, who’s curled up with her legs tucked beneath her, leaving you space to lean. Bob is further away now, sprawled on his back across a fluffy blanket, a cluster of pillows beneath his head, hands folded neatly over his stomach. 

You try to keep your eyes on the screen—it really shouldn’t be that hard with both Hayden Christensen and Ewan McGregor to enjoy—but your gaze keeps drifting to Bob. He looks so content, so cute, his lips tipped into a soft half-smile and his blue eyes sparkling behind his glasses. There’s something about him that turns your brain to absolute mush, and you still can’t figure out what. 

Maybe it’s the dichotomy of him. How sweet and quiet he is—some might even say shy, but you know better. He’s just overwhelmingly nice, with a pretty face to match. And yet, you have to remind yourself that this man is in the navy. He’s not spineless—in fact, he’s the total opposite. He’s sharp and quick-witted, strong both mentally and physically. There’s not a single thing about him that’s weak, yet he lets people assume otherwise. 

Maybe it’s confidence. The kind that doesn’t need to be loud. He doesn’t care what people think or say. Not that he isn’t awkward sometimes—he definitely can be—but that’s more about being introverted. He doesn’t need to show off or run his mouth like Jake. He doesn’t need to fly like an idiot to prove himself. He’s just Bob. He knows who he is, and he’s not apologetic about it. 

What is it they call that? 

Oh yeah… big dick energy. 

Your eyes drift down his torso, lingering briefly on his hands—the way his long fingers are laced together—before continuing down to the waistband of his dark blue joggers. There’s a bulge in his lap. A notable one. And a slight outline continuing down the left leg of his pants… 

Wait. That’s like… kind of huge. 

A hard nudge to your shoulder startles you, and you whip around to see Natasha staring at you. Her eyes are wide, her lips pulled into a smirk—half disbelieving, half smug. 

Stop staring, she mouths. 

You press your lips together to hold back a laugh, a little giddy from your fourth—or maybe fifth—beer. Your face feels warm, and you know if you keep looking at Nat, you’ll start laughing, so you quickly turn back to the movie. 

“Okay,” Mickey pipes up, scrambling out of the beanbag and to his feet, “who wants cream puffs?” 

“Only if you serve them warm and full,” Jake shoots back. 

The room erupts—half groans, half childish laughter. Mickey just snorts and disappears into the kitchen, Reuben trailing behind him. A few minutes later, they return, each holding a heaping plate stacked with warm, golden cream puffs. 

“Fair warning,” Reuben says, setting one down on the table, “these things are insane. Like... dangerously good.” 

You grab one without hesitation—soft, golden, still warm to the touch. It’s dusted in powdered sugar and practically bursting with cream. You bite into it and—holy hell—the taste explodes in your mouth. Sweet. Rich. Ridiculously creamy. You moan without meaning to, eyes fluttering shut. 

“Oh, wow,” you say around a mouthful. “That’s... actually insane.” 

The group hums and laughs in agreement, but you barely notice. You take another bite—bigger this time—and it squishes a little too easily in your hand. Cream oozes out the side, trailing down your chin and, with an audible plop, lands squarely between your breasts. 

“Oh, shit,” you mutter, trying to swipe the cream away—but all you manage to do is smear it further. 

There’s a beat of silence, and even the movie playing in the background seems to go quiet. 

“Jesus Christ,” Reuben says, somewhere between impressed and scandalised. “You sure you don’t need a minute alone with that thing?” 

Laughter rumbles around you, and only when you look up do you realise how provocative that just was—the heat in your cheeks deepening. But then your eyes catch on Bob. 

He’s not laughing. He’s not even blinking. 

The lazy smile he wore earlier? Gone. He’s sitting upright now, shoulders tense, jaw clenched. His gaze is locked on you like he forgot what movie is playing, what day it is—hell, maybe even his own name. 

“Floyd?” Mickey nudges his leg with a foot. “You good?” 

Bob jolts slightly, as if waking from a trance. He coughs, shifts, and yanks the blanket from the floor to cover his lap—too quickly to be casual. 

“They, uh...” he clears his throat, voice rough. “They look really good.” 

Your stomach swoops as he leans forward, still holding the blanket tight in place, and reaches for a cream puff from the plate right in front of you—still avoiding your eyes entirely. 

Natasha leans in from behind, her voice low. “You are killing him.” 

You press your lips together to hide your grin, eyes flicking back to Bob—who’s now doing everything in his power not to look in your direction. 

The cream puffs disappear in what has to be a record amount of time. You’re pretty sure you watched Javy inhale at least four, and there was an unnecessarily loud argument between Mickey and Bradley over the last one, which ended in a begrudging decision to split it. 

The rest of the movie plays out without incident, and afterward, everyone decides to change into their PJs for the final film of the night. You’re honestly surprised everyone has made it to movie number three, but you’re not complaining. 

The boys start rummaging through their bags, swapping out jeans for boxers or stretchy pajama pants while Natasha grabs her bag and disappears into the bathroom. You keep your eyes glued to your phone screen to avoid catching a glimpse of something you definitely don’t want to see—because these boys? They have no shame. 

“You can change in my room if you want,” Bob offers. 

You glance up, making sure to keep your eyes fixed on him, because just a little to the left is where Jake is still mid-change. 

“Yeah?” 

Bob nods, a small smile tugging at his lips as he gestures down the short hallway past the kitchen. “It’s the door just after the bathroom.” 

“Thanks,” you mutter, pushing to your feet and grabbing your bag as you slip past the others—now teasing Mickey about his choice of boxers. 

The door is open just a crack, and your heart thuds a little harder than it should as you ease it the rest of the way. The smell hits first—clean and warm, with a twist of vanilla that makes you want to wrap yourself in it and never leave. 

You flick on the light and shut the door behind you, dropping your bag to the floor. You know you should just get changed, but… you can’t help it. You’ve only been to Bob’s apartment a couple times before—once to help him move in (because of course the whole squad helped), and once with Natasha to pick him up before a night out. But never in here. Never in his room. 

It’s almost unusually tidy, but that’s navy life for you. His bed is made neatly, topped with a soft baby blue duvet, coordinated beige and cream pillows, and a throw blanket folded at the foot. It’s a little faded and looks handmade, like something passed down through generations. 

On one side of the room, a bookshelf houses a quiet little collection of well-loved paperbacks, a few aviation manuals, and a line of model planes—some pristine and precise, others clearly glued together by a much younger version of him. A framed photo of a beaming, pint-sized Bob in oversized glasses sits on the dresser, nestled between a small baseball trophy and a display of navy challenge coins. 

A pair of worn sneakers sits neatly by the door, and his uniform jacket hangs off the closet handle, the door slightly ajar. The name tag catches just enough light to pull your eyes toward it. Everything about the room feels like him—modest, thoughtful, quietly proud. It’s the kind of unintentional intimacy that makes you feel like you’ve slipped behind the curtain and gotten a glimpse of the real Bob. 

And somehow… that makes your chest ache. It’s just a room. But it feels so much like him—like you could curl up in here with him for hours, doing nothing but talking and dreaming. Getting lost in each other. Letting the rest of the world wait. And then, later, getting tangled together. Soft kisses, whispered pleas, gentle moans—slow and unhurried, learning one another’s bodies until you know each other better than you know yourselves. 

You shake your head hard and take a breath. You’ve already been in here too long. Pull it together. 

You crouch beside your bag and pull out your pajamas—soft lounge shorts and a matching long-sleeved shirt. It’s nothing special, but a step up from your usual: an old, food-stained navy tee and nothing but underwear. 

You change quickly and shove your clothes into your bag before leaving the room. The lounge room has quieted down, everyone now back in their seats—except for Mickey and Bob, who are in the kitchen grabbing another round of drinks. 

Jake hits play as soon as they return, and everyone settles in again. There’s less chatter now, probably because of how late it’s gotten. Bradley is almost definitely asleep, eyes half-shut on the two-seater, while Mickey is having the time of his life seeing how many of Bradley’s fingers he can get stuck in the top of his beer bottle. 

Natasha is curled up behind you, her head resting on Reuben’s shoulder, and his blinks are getting longer and slower by the second. Jake is surprisingly alert and invested in the film, but Javy looks like his head might lull back at any moment. And Bob—Bob is still wide awake, his eyes sparkling with interest as he watches the screen. 

Halfway through the film, Mickey pushes to his feet and offers another round of drinks, prompting a few sleepy murmurs of ‘yes’ from the others. 

“I’ll help,” you offer, stretching as you rise from the floor and follow him into the kitchen. 

You open the fridge and start pulling out beers while Mickey pops the tops off. But when you close the fridge and turn back around, you spot Reuben—now suddenly very awake—watching Mickey with intent. He’s wearing that little smirk that always means trouble, clearly trying to telepathically communicate something to his WSO. 

Your brow furrows as you glance between them, trying to decode the silent exchange. Mickey looks equally confused for a second... but then realisation dawns and a wicked grin curls onto his face. 

He turns to you and mutters, “Sorry about this.” But he doesn’t sound even remotely apologetic. 

Your frown deepens. “What are you-” 

But you don’t get to finish the question before he starts shaking the beer bottle in his hand. 

“Mick—!” you cry, just as he pops the top off and sprays you with beer. 

You shriek, throwing your hands in front of your face like that’ll somehow stop the onslaught. But it doesn’t. You’re soaked. 

“What the hell, Fanboy?” Reuben calls from the living room, as if this wasn’t entirely his doing. 

“Mickey!” you shout, dropping your arms and glaring at him. 

“Whoops,” he says with a grin. “My bad.” 

Natasha snorts and smacks a hand over her mouth. “Sorry. It’s not funny.” 

“Wow, Fanboy,” Jake pipes up, the smirk in his voice unmistakable. “Is that the first time you’ve made a girl wet?” 

Mickey glares—or tries to. He’s way too pleased with himself for it to land properly. 

“Hey, Floyd,” Reuben calls, “you got any spare clothes for Sunny?” 

Bob is already looking at you, lips parted and cheeks flushed. He swallows hard before turning to Reuben and nodding. “Yeah, of course.” Then he stands, eyes flicking back to you. “Do you want to shower?” 

Mickey gasps, scandalised. “Robert Floyd, are you propositioning her?” 

Bob’s blush deepens, colouring his neck and the tips of his ears, but he doesn’t look particularly ashamed. He looks… flushed. Hot. Close to unravelling. His glare cuts back to Mickey, sharper than usual, a little too dark to be playful. And then his gaze shifts back to you—specifically, your chest. 

You follow his line of sight and immediately wrap an arm around yourself. Your nipples are pebbled beneath your shirt, the damp fabric clinging in all the worst ways. Or the best—if you ask Bob Floyd. 

“Yes,” you say tightly. “A shower would be good.” 

The room dissolves into quiet laughter as you follow Bob down the hall. He slips into his room for a moment, then returns with a folded towel and some clothes stacked neatly on top. 

“Here,” he says, offering them to you. “Take as long as you want. You can use whatever’s in there. Not that there’s much.” 

He dips his head—blush still firmly in place—and heads back to the living room. 

You stare after him for a second, dumbfounded. He got embarrassed about his lack of shower products? That’s what embarrassed him? Not the full-body, post-beer-shower eye-fucking he just gave you? 

You close the bathroom door behind you and lean against it, exhaling hard. You’re buzzing. Overstimulated. Untouched and on fire. You feel like you’re being edged and then abandoned, left to squirm. You’re so sensitive it hurts. Bob is teasing you just as much as you’re teasing him—those glances, the heat behind his eyes, the way his mouth hangs open like he wants to say something but never does. 

You might’ve thought you were playing a game, but Bob Floyd is about to kill you without even realising it. 

You strip quickly, trying not to dwell on the fact that you’re naked in Bob’s apartment. You keep the water on the cooler side—a half-hearted attempt to wash away the heat still simmering under your skin. But it doesn’t help. You shower fast and step out even faster, wrapping yourself in the towel Bob gave you. It’s fluffy, soft, and smells just like him—which makes that spot deep behind your hipbones ache. 

You dry off in record time, then turn to the small pile of clothes on the vanity—Bob’s clothes. Your hands tremble slightly as you lift the satin boxers, dark blue with little white stars, and slide them up your legs. Then the shirt: a worn white tee with a faded Star Wars logo across the chest. 

His scent wraps around you the second you slide it over your head—oversized and impossibly soft against your warm skin. You try not to focus on the rasp of cotton against your nipples. God, if he ever actually touches you, you might just combust. 

You take a deep breath, trying to calm the fire burning low in your belly, then scoop up your beer-soaked clothes and open the bathroom door—steam spilling into the hallway as you step out. 

"Finally," Mickey says, popping up in front of you like he’s been waiting, holding out a plastic bag. 

You blink. “What?” 

“For your clothes,” he says simply. 

“Oh.” You take it and shove the damp material inside. 

His gaze dips—just for a beat—before sliding back up. Then he grins, gives you a cheeky wink, and turns back toward the lounge room. You follow, every eye lifting to you the second you reappear. Warmth floods your cheeks. You’re in Bob’s clothes. Bob's boxers. Bob's shirt. 

“Can we play the movie now?” Jake whines, oblivious to the tension humming through the room. “It was just getting good.” 

You nod, unable to speak, your gaze already locked with Bob’s. 

His eyes rake down your body, slow and deliberate. He takes in the curve of your neck, the slope of your shoulder, the hang of his shirt against your chest. His gaze catches there, as if he can see straight through the fabric, then continues its journey down to the hem. The shorts are barely visible beneath the shirt, and judging by the heat in his eyes, he might be wondering why you're wearing pants at all. 

You shift under the weight of his stare, hyper-aware of every inch of fabric against your skin—of how suddenly hot the room feels. Jake presses play, but no one is watching the screen. Every pair of eyes bounces between you and Bob, waiting—expecting—something to happen. 

Bob looks wrecked. His hands are clenched at his sides, knuckles white, jaw tight. Like he has to physically hold himself back. 

Natasha clears her throat, startling you more than it should. You tear your gaze away and flash her a sheepish smile before finally forcing yourself to move, padding back to your spot on the floor. 

Even then, you can feel Bob’s eyes tracking every step. 

The rest of the movie plays out in near silence, broken only by the soft snoring that eventually starts up from Bradley and Javy. It takes a while for you to settle, but you finally curl up on the floor with a pillow hugged to your chest, watching Anakin fall apart on-screen and become Darth Vader. 

Jake is the only one still fully invested in the film. Even Bob seems distracted now, his eyes flicking toward you more often than the TV. He shifts in place, uncomfortable, dragging the blanket higher across his lap and holding it like a lifeline. You try not to smirk. 

You think you know what might be going on under there… but you’re not about to assume. It couldn't possibly be just because you’re wearing his clothes. 

…Right? 

Eventually, the credits start rolling and everyone begins to stir. 

“Where am I sleeping?” Mickey asks, already eyeing Bob like he’s got plans. 

Bob shrugs. “Wherever. There’s the couches and a couple beds in the spare room, but someone’ll have to sleep with me.” 

“I think Rooster’s good here,” Jake says, glancing at the man awkwardly passed out on the two-seater couch. “I’ll take this one.” 

“I’ll sleep with you, Bobby,” Javy says through a yawn, stretching so wide his joints pop. 

“Damn it,” Mickey mutters as he walks past, bumping your shoulder with his. “Missed opportunity.” 

You roll your eyes but can’t help feeling a twinge of disappointment. You know damn well you wouldn’t get any sleep next to Bob—not when he smells like that, looks like that, and keeps looking at you the way he does. So it’s probably for the best, but still, the thought lingers. 

Everyone takes turns brushing their teeth and shuffling off to bed. You end up in the fold-out bed with Natasha in the spare room, while Reuben and Mickey claim the air mattress on the floor. Apparently, there’s no escaping these boys—not even for one night. 

Mumbled goodnights fade into rustling fabric and shifting limbs, then finally, silence. 

Too much silence. 

You lie on your back, eyes on the ceiling, thoughts screaming through your head like they’re in a race. You should be tired—your body aches—but your brain refuses to shut up. You toss the blanket off, overheated, but even with the cooler air, your skin feels flushed. You roll to your side, careful not to jostle Natasha on the creaky mattress, but nothing helps. 

You glance down at the boys, both snoring with their mouths open, and finally sigh. Swinging your legs off the bed, you wriggle out of Bob’s shorts, thinking maybe it’ll help. You don’t usually sleep in pants anyway. 

It doesn’t. 

Ten minutes later, you quietly slip off the bed and tiptoe toward the door, easing it open with practiced care to avoid the squeaky hinges. Then you turn down the hallway, barefoot and warm-skinned, and pad into the kitchen. 

The hem of Bob’s shirt brushes against your bare thighs, stoking the fire already simmering between them as you stop in front of the fridge and pull the door open. A cool flood of light spills across the kitchen tiles. You grab a bottle of water and twist off the cap, stepping back and tipping it to your lips. But the cold rush does nothing to cool the heat thrumming beneath your skin. 

“You always walk around other people’s places half naked?” 

You choke, almost spilling water down your chin as you turn toward the voice—that low, raspy sound that makes your skin prickle and your spine snap straight. 

Bob stands at the edge of the kitchen, leaning casually against the far counter—but there’s nothing relaxed about the way he holds himself. In the dim glow of the fridge light, he looks almost ethereal. His eyes are sharp, lit with something that borders on pain—hunger, maybe, or full-blown starvation—and his arms are crossed over his bare chest. 

Yeah. Bob Floyd is shirtless. 

You register a flicker of jealousy for Javy—the man who gets to sleep next to this—but you don’t let yourself linger on it. Not when Bob is standing right there in nothing but a pair of loose boxers, the fabric doing nothing to hide the impressive shape beneath. 

You don’t know if it’s because he’s a little turned on or just blessed, but damn. 

“You okay?” he asks, though it doesn’t sound like a real question—because he already knows the answer. 

No. No, you’re not. 

You clear your throat, dragging your eyes back up to his. “Yeah, I—uh-” 

Your words falter when his gaze drops to your legs. There’s something almost reverent in the way he looks at you—like he’s trying to memorise every inch. His eyes drag slowly up your bare thighs, pausing at the hem of his shirt before gliding over your waist and stopping at your chest, where your nipples are clearly outlined beneath the thin cotton. 

The heat of his stare burns hotter than any touch. 

“Couldn’t sleep?” he asks, voice quiet, like he’s just making conversation. Like he has no idea what he’s doing to you. 

He pushes off the counter and walks straight toward you—slow, but sure. He stops right in front of the fridge, close enough that if you moved even a breath closer, you’d feel your nipples graze his skin. 

You take a step back—barely. Just enough to let him slip past you. 

He nods slightly—a silent thanks—and ducks into the fridge for his own water. When he shuts the door, the kitchen is plunged into darkness, save for dim moonlight filtering in from the far windows—but you can still see him. His outline, the dips and curves of his lean torso, the tilt of his head as he tips the bottle back and drinks. 

You watch his throat move with every swallow, your lips parting slightly, craving his skin on your tongue. You don’t move. You don’t breathe. You just stand there, watching. 

When he finishes, he turns to the sink and drops the empty bottle in before bracing both hands against the bench. His chin dips toward his chest, and you see the rise and fall of his shoulders as he exhales—hard. 

Before you can stop yourself, your feet carry you forward until you’re beside him, your bare arm brushing against his. You place your own bottle in the sink, then turn toward him and lean your hip against the counter. 

“Bob,” you whisper. 

Every sound in the apartment feels louder now—the faint snores, the creak of the floorboards, your own heartbeat thrumming in your ears. 

He looks at you, only turning his head, not his body. “Don’t—” he says softly. “Don’t say my name like that.” 

You frown, sliding your hand over his. His grip tightens on the bench like he’s anchoring himself. 

“Like what?” you ask softly. 

“Like you want me,” he murmurs. His voice is thick—rough around the edges like it’s been scraped raw. Like he's holding something back with every laboured breath. 

You press closer, your chest against his arm. The contact is electric. Your skin separated only by a whisper of cotton—his cotton. 

“Bob,” you breathe, a little desperate now. 

He exhales sharply and drops his gaze to the sink again, like something there might help him. “This isn’t…” His jaw flexes. “We can’t do this.” 

“Do what?” you ask, playing innocent, even as your fingers trail lightly up his arm. 

You can feel your chest rising and falling faster than it should, your breasts pressing against his arm like some wanton, starry-eyed girl. But you can’t bring yourself to step away. Every inch of you is on fire, every nerve ending singed and tingling. You want him to turn around and take you—bend you over the counter and make you scream his name. Who gives a fuck who’s listening... or watching. You just want Bob. You want him to know how much you want him, how deeply you need him. How desperate he makes you without even trying. 

“Do you have any idea,” he whispers, finally turning to face you fully, “what you do to me?” 

You feel it—hard and thick—pressing against your lower belly. There’s no mistaking it now. 

“Bob…” Your voice is a sigh, wrecked and begging. 

He catches your wrist, his grip firm, nearly bruising. His eyes are wild as they search your face—from your eyes to your lips, down to your chest, and back again—like he’s torn between reason and ruin. 

You hold still. Waiting. Daring. Wanting him to snap. 

But then... he’s gone—his warmth, his scent, the burning look in his eyes. All of it, gone in a breath. 

“Goodnight,” he mutters, so low you barely hear it before the soft click of his bedroom door… and then the snap of the lock. 

You’re left standing there, chest heaving, skin burning. Your eyes sting with unshed tears, and your mind is a mess. What the fuck just happened? Your panties are damp, and your chest aches like you've been torn in two. You want to cry, but you also want to break down his door. How dare he build you up like that? Look at you like that, talk to you like that—and then just walk away. 

It takes several minutes before you can move, your legs shaky, your mind racing. You stumble back to the spare room, collapse into bed, and stare at the ceiling, flat on your back—Bob’s shirt clinging to your skin. 

You don’t sleep. Not at all. 

- 

“He what?” Natasha’s eyes go impossibly wide. “And then he just—he left?” 

You nod slowly, keeping your eyes fixed on your lunch. The mess hall is loud enough to muffle your conversation—one you should’ve had yesterday but couldn’t summon the strength for. So here you are, in the middle of the hall, with the boys a couple tables over, surrounded by lieutenants you don’t know—blissfully unaware of your current crisis. 

“Yeah,” you sigh, stabbing at another piece of pasta you don’t plan to eat. 

You haven’t eaten much in the last twenty-four hours—not since the run-in with Bob. Everything feels bland now, drained of colour and taste, too dull to bother with. Anything that isn’t Bob just feels lacking, and you're starting to worry that one moment—one heated, breathless moment—has completely ruined you. 

“That’s insane,” Natasha mutters. “That’s so... not Bob. How could he be so—I don’t know... rude? I just—I have no words.” 

You shrug one shoulder. “It wasn’t rude. He just seemed... confused, I guess. And I don’t blame him. If I’m not what he wants, then-” 

“Stop right there,” Mickey interrupts, sliding into the chair beside you. 

Reuben drops into the seat next to Natasha, eyeing your tray of food. 

“Sorry,” he says, reaching across the table to steal your apple. “We couldn’t get away any faster.” 

You glance past Mickey, down the row of tables, and catch Bob’s eyes on you—just for a second—before he quickly looks away. Bradley, Jake, and Javy are still deep in conversation with the other guys, oblivious. Bob seems to be the only one noticing Reuben and Mickey’s absence. 

“Start again,” Mickey says. “From the beginning. We knew something happened.” 

Natasha snorts around a mouthful of pasta, and you sigh, knowing there’s no point arguing. They’d get it out of you one way or another. 

Twenty minutes later, when you finally finish recapping the story for the second time, Natasha taps her watch and nods toward the exit. “We better get back before Mav, or he’ll keep us late tonight.” 

Mickey’s brows are nearly touching as he processes everything you’ve said. “What does he mean, ‘you can’t do this’? He clearly wanted to—so why didn’t he?” 

You pick up your tray and follow Natasha toward the return station. “Your guess is as good as mine.” 

“I mean,” Reuben says, brows furrowed, “you said he was... at attention, right?” 

You blow a half-hearted laugh through your nose. “Yeah.” 

“So he definitely wanted to,” he says as the four of you exit the mess hall. “I just can’t think of why he wouldn’t go for it.” 

“I think it’s because you’re in the same squad,” Natasha offers. “He’s probably worried it’ll get weird—or worse, if it doesn’t work out.” 

You roll your eyes as you cross the hot concrete, heading back to the hangar. “But we’re both adults. Why can’t he just sack up and fuck me, and we’ll worry about the consequences later?” 

Your voice comes out louder than you meant, and you don’t miss the odd looks a few passing officers send your way. 

Reuben chuckles. “Maybe you should just say that to him.” 

“No,” Natasha says, turning toward you with a mischievous glint in her eye. “I’ve got a better idea. Call it Plan B or whatever, but now... we’re bringing out the big guns.” 

“So Sunny pressing her tits against him wasn’t the big guns?” Mickey quips with a grin. 

You smack him lightly across the chest before looking back to Natasha. “I doubt anything will work at this point, but... I’m curious. What’s the idea?” 

“How’s your gag reflex?” she asks, tilting her head thoughtfully. 

You rear back, eyebrows raised—and both Reuben and Mickey choke on laughter. 

Natasha sighs, rolling her eyes. “Not like that. I mean you’re going to need a strong stomach and a Juilliard degree to pull this off.” 

You frown, slowing just slightly as the hangar looms into view. “Okay...” 

She straightens up and faces forward, a proud smirk tugging at her mouth and her chin tilted high. “We’re going to make Bob jealous.” 

- 

Out of Mickey and Reuben, you all collectively decided that Reuben was the more convincing option. Not that you don’t think Mickey’s gorgeous—you do, and so does he—but his acting skills are questionable at best. You at least have a little more faith in Reuben’s ability to fake flirt without making it weird. 

The plan is simple. Convince Bob that he’s lost his shot—or that he’s just about to. Make it clear you’re happy to move on. If he wants you... well, now he’s going to have to fight for it. Because tempting him wasn’t enough—apparently—you need to dig deeper. Tap into something primal and pull it to the surface. Exploit what lingers under the skin of every man: jealousy and competition. 

You’re going to make this a game he can’t afford to lose. 

“You ready for Phase Two?” Natasha asks as you cross the base, the sun still barely above the horizon. 

You take a deep breath of fresh morning air. “Let’s do it.” 

She and Mickey take off ahead of you and Reuben to arrive in the training room first. It’s a known fact that Bob is always ridiculously early—so you know he’ll already be there. You hang back with Reuben, rehashing the plan and trying to get used to flirting with him without cracking up. 

At exactly ten past six, Natasha texts you to give the green light—no doubt having casually pointed out to Bob that you’re not with her, which you always are. 

“What if he doesn’t care?” you ask Reuben softly as you climb the stairs. 

He rolls his eyes like you’ve said something utterly insane. “He’ll care, trust me. He might be Bob, but he’s still a guy. And he’s obviously down bad for you—just needs a little push.” 

You snort. “Little?” 

Reuben chuckles. “Okay, more than a little. It’s Bob.” 

You laugh too, quietly, and then steel yourself as you reach the door—slipping on your game face. You glance at Reuben, catching the smirk tugging at his mouth. 

Then you both nod. It’s show time. 

“So, you’re saying eye contact makes it better?” he asks as you step through the door, voice pitched perfectly. 

You nod, casual but with a hint of something else. “Yep. A thousand times better. And bonus points if you know where to put your hands.” 

He raises a brow, lips twitching. “Where do I put my hands?” 

You giggle, soft and flirty, pausing a few steps into the room. “How about I show you later?” 

His grin breaks loose. “Promise?” 

“Promise.” 

You head toward the rows of seats, sliding into your usual behind Natasha—not missing the way Bob’s gaze locks onto you like he’s been caught mid-thought. His head swivels as Reuben sits beside you instead of next to Mickey. 

“See,” Reuben says, leaning in a little, “all these years I thought speed was the key. But you’re saying it’s finesse?” 

“Oh, definitely finesse,” you say, holding his eyes. “Go too hard and too fast, and it’s just... messy. Sloppy. Unimpressive.” 

Reuben licks his lips, his eyes flicking sideways to Bob—just for a second. “So, you’re offering me private lessons?” 

You lower your voice slightly, knowing it’s still perfectly audible to the rest of the room. “Depends. Can you follow instruction without getting too flustered?” 

Reuben’s grin sharpens. “I don’t fluster, sweetheart. I excel under pressure.” 

You pause, your pulse a little too quick—partly from Bob’s stare, which he’s not even trying to hide now, and partly from the fact that yeah, it’s been a while. And if this whole plan does blow up in your face... well, Reuben doesn’t seem like the worst option for a little stress relief. 

You fight down a laugh at the idea and finally drag your gaze toward the front of the room. Bob—just one row ahead—snaps his eyes forward like he’s been caught eavesdropping, but the bright red of his cheeks, the tight set of his shoulders, and the way his jaw flexes say it all. He’s tense. He’s listening. And he’s absolutely not okay. 

A moment later, Maverick strolls in, completely oblivious to the emotional warfare brewing right beneath his nose. 

The rest of the week passes in much the same way. Each evening, you regroup with your friends to scheme and strategize, brainstorming new antics to pull off the next day. Nothing over-the-top—just enough to catch Bob’s eye. 

On Wednesday, you get Reuben to help you into your flight suit. You both time it perfectly: he exits the locker room just ahead of Bob, and you appear a second later, flashing a flirty grin before asking sweetly for his help. You giggle and call him a sweetheart while Bob nearly trips over his own feet, glancing back with a clenched jaw and a look that could burn a hole through steel. 

Thursday morning, Reuben brings you a coffee—exactly how you like it—straight to the briefing room. You proclaim, not so quietly, that he’s giving total boyfriend material before he drops into the seat beside you and you both giggle over a (completely fabricated) inside joke. 

That afternoon, during a short break between drills and the next briefing, he offers you a bite of his protein bar. You take it right from his hand, licking your lips and throwing him an innocent little wink before sauntering off like it’s nothing. 

By Friday, Natasha warns you that the others are starting to notice. But you’re in too deep to pull back now—not when Bob looks like he’s about to unravel. He’s been tighter than ever, watching you like a hawk, eyes dark and stormy instead of their usual calm denim blue. You’re close. So close. And honestly? You’re kind of having a little too much fun. 

That afternoon, during post-flight checks, Reuben sidles up behind you under the guise of pointing out something ‘mechanical’ on your jet. You’re not actually doing anything with it, but that doesn’t stop him from standing unnecessarily close, guiding your hand with his as he gestures toward something supposedly critical. The two of you are seconds from cracking up, but Bob doesn’t know that. Bob, from all the way across the hangar, looks frozen—eyes locked, breath held, jaw tight—as Reuben presses flush against your back. 

Natasha really shouldn’t be enjoying this as much as she is, but honestly? She can’t help it. It’s too damn entertaining. 

“Hey,” she says, nodding at Bob as she approaches. “You good?” 

He blinks, then turns his sharp gaze on her, jaw tight. “Yeah.” 

She snorts. “That was very convincing.” 

He rolls his eyes and turns robotically back to the maintenance logs he’d been filling out. 

Natasha glances at the paperwork, noting the hard press of his pen and the uneven ticks and crosses—some scribbled over multiple times—down the checkbox column. 

“Wow,” she mutters, raising a brow. “You sure you earned your pen licence? Or should you still be on pencils?” 

Bob’s blue eyes flick up, darker than usual beneath his furrowed brow. “Ha. Ha.” 

“Okay,” she says, biting back the laugh rising in her throat. “So, bad day?” 

“Bad week,” Bob grumbles. 

Natasha nods slowly. “Well, hey, why don’t we fix that by hitting up The Hard Deck tonight?” 

He snaps the logbook shut and tucks the pen into his pocket. “Pass.” 

“Oh, come on,” she sighs. “It might make you feel better.” 

His eyes flick toward you again, watching as you and Reuben dissolve into giggles beside your jet. 

“I doubt it.” 

“Sunny’ll be there,” Natasha says, her voice light and teasing. 

Bob doesn’t respond. Just keeps packing up his things—every motion a little too sharp, a little too fast. 

Natasha exhales. “Come on, dude. Just come for one drink—it doesn’t have to be beer. Blow off some steam. If you hate it, you can bail early. But it won’t be the same without you.” 

He takes a breath and closes his eyes for a beat before letting it out slow. “Fine. One drink.” 

Natasha grins, her eyes sparkling even in the dimming light of the hangar. “Perfect.” 

Later that night, Natasha drives the four of you—Reuben and Mickey included—to the bar. Everyone else agreed to meet there, and she insisted on driving so you could have a few drinks. Not just to loosen up for another round of torturing poor Bob, but to actually let loose a little. She can tell this whole thing is winding you up, and she figures a few beers and a night with friends might help ease the tension—and the guilt—and maybe even the gnawing fear that this whole plan could blow up in your face. 

“Nat, are you sure this dress isn’t too short?” you ask, holding the hem down against the curve of your ass as you follow her toward the main entry door. “I haven’t worn it in years.” 

“There’s no such thing as too short,” Mickey says, deadpan. 

You roll your eyes and step inside, into the warm glow of golden lighting and the low hum of half-drunk conversation. You let go of your dress now that there’s no breeze threatening to lift it, and try to relax, even with the strange sensation of bare legs in public. You’re used to flight suits, not feeling this on display. 

“Ready to put on your best performance yet?” Reuben murmurs, slinging an arm over your shoulder. 

You take a deep breath, feeling it rattle faintly in your chest. “Let’s do this thing.” 

Natasha shoots you a wink over her shoulder, already striding confidently across the bar, her gaze locked on the usual booth where the rest of your friends are waiting. 

There’s a chorus of greetings as the four of you approach, and you all grin and wave, waiting as Bradley, Jake, Javy, and Bob shuffle around to make room. Natasha pointedly takes the spot beside Bob, with Mickey sliding in next to her. You claim the seat beside Jake—which puts Reuben on your other side. Just as planned. 

It’s a little squishy, but after so many nights like this, none of you really notice. Except Bob. He’s noticed tonight. His eyes are locked on the way your side is pressed to Reuben’s, his arm is slung casually over the back of the booth, fingers just barely grazing your shoulder. 

“He looks like he wants to kill me,” Reuben whispers in your ear, low enough that you can barely hear him over the chatter of the bar. “Pretend I said something funny. Laugh like you’ve got a secret.” 

You blink slowly, resisting the urge to roll your eyes, and let out a soft giggle as you lean toward him just a little. 

“You’re a pretty good actress,” he mutters before pulling back slightly. 

You glance up at him through your lashes, feeling more at ease with the close proximity after the past week. Then you straighten your spine and lean in, your lips grazing his jaw as you whisper in his ear. 

“You’re annoying.” 

He chuckles quietly, though you know he really wants to snort and smack you on the shoulder. You’re both enjoying this just a little too much, getting a kick out of your undercover roles. 

When you turn back to the rest of the group, Natasha is very deliberately not looking at you—and you know it’s because she’ll laugh if she does. Mickey, on the other hand, is watching with wide eyes, as is Javy. Jake and Bradley are still arguing about something on your other side, and Bob… Bob still looks like he’s ready to commit first-degree murder. 

“Drink?” Reuben asks after a beat, his smile smooth. 

You nod. “Absolutely. I’ll help you.” 

You both stand and offer a round to the rest of the table, most of whom accept—which makes it less suspicious that you’re going together. At the bar, you make sure to stand just a little closer than necessary as he orders a round of the usual from Penny. 

“Are you sure we’re not pushing it?” you ask, your voice laced with quiet worry. 

Reuben shakes his head. “Nah, not yet.” 

You frown. “Yet?” 

“He’ll snap one way or another,” he says, leaning casually against the bar. “He’ll either lose it and blow up over something totally unrelated—and that’s when we’ll know we’ve gone too far. Or he’ll wake the fuck up and fight for what he wants.” 

You open your mouth to voice another concern, but Penny is already sliding the tray of drinks across the bar. Reuben thanks her with an easy smile as you grab the two beers that didn’t fit, flashing her your own grateful grin before following him back to the table. 

When you set the beers down, you feel the neckline of your dress slip just a little lower. Your eyes flick up to see if anyone’s noticed—and of course… Bob. His gaze is dark and locked on your chest, clearly able to see right down your dress. He doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t even try to look away. He just stares. 

But then he blinks and glances aside, not flustered or ashamed—just determined not to meet your eyes. 

You straighten up and clear your throat. “I’m just going to duck to the bathroom.” 

Then you turn and begin weaving your way through the bar, desperate for a moment to yourself—even though you haven’t been here that long—and to check that you don’t look completely ridiculous in the dress Natasha convinced you to wear. 

You take your time in the stall, then rinse your hands under the cool water for a little longer than necessary. When you glance at your reflection in the full-length mirror, you’re surprised—and a little impressed. Because damn… you do look good. Maybe this dress deserves to see the light of day more often. And if Bob’s stare is anything to go by, it’s definitely not a bad idea. 

You take a deep breath before pushing open the bathroom door, ready to continue your little charade—but you barely make it a few steps before someone blocks your path. You blink and stumble, stopping short before you run right into him. 

You sigh when you realise who it is, that cocky smirk etched across his face. “What do you want, Hangman?” 

“I want to know what’s going on.” 

Your pulse spikes, but you do your best to keep your expression calm. “What do you mean?” 

“Between you and Payback,” he says, narrowing his green eyes. “Because I know that’s not real.” 

Your breath catches—too quickly—giving you away as your gaze flicks to the side. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” 

He rolls his eyes and leans in slightly, keeping the conversation low and private in the hum of the bar. “Don’t try to gaslight me, Sunny. I’m not an idiot. I know Phoenix is in on it—because of course she is—and Fanboy too, judging by the way he giggles every time you and Payback so much as look at each other.” He quirks a brow, daring you to challenge him. “The only reason Coyote hasn’t said anything is because he’s too polite, and Rooster hasn’t noticed because he’s too wrapped up in his own shit.” 

You cross your arms and narrow your eyes, matching his bravado. “You missed one.” 

He frowns. “What?” 

“You listed all the members of the squad… except one.” 

“Right,” he chuckles dryly. “Bob. That’s the funny thing, because ever since we got to this island, you’ve been starry-eyed over Floyd, and he’s either too clueless to notice or too stupid to ask you out.” He pauses, letting it sink in, then leans just a bit closer. “Which is exactly why I’m not buying whatever you and Payback have been trying to sell this past week.” 

You stare at each other for a beat, both stubborn and scowling, waiting for the other to fold first. 

Then you sigh. “Okay, fine. But you have to swear yourself to secrecy.” 

His smirk stretches into a full grin. “I knew it.” 

“Swear it.” 

“Okay, okay,” he says, holding up a hand. “I swear. I won’t even tell Coyote, and my pillow won’t hear a thing about it.” 

You nod. “Good. Now come over and pretend to pick a song so this doesn’t look suspicious.” 

You grab his wrist and tug him toward the jukebox, leaning over it and pretending to scroll through options while you give him a quick summary of Operation Bob’s Blue Balls—leaving out a few of the more... intimate details. 

“So there,” you finish. “It’s underhanded and immature, but that’s what’s going on.” 

His expression barely shifts the entire time, just the usual entertained glint in his eye and that ever-present smirk. 

“Underhanded and immature?” he says. “I’m surprised I wasn’t in on this sooner.” 

You roll your eyes. 

“I want in.” 

You blink, brow furrowed. “What?” 

“I want to help,” he says, plainly. 

You narrow your eyes, sceptical. “Why?” 

He sighs and braces one hand on the jukebox, leaning in like he’s about to reveal some classified information. “Believe it or not, I’m not the worst guy in the world. I have a few ideas, and I think you two would be cute together.” He pauses, then adds in a quieter voice, “Besides, I’ve been going through a bit of a dry spell, and I figure helping other people get laid might buy me some good karma.” 

You snort softly as he pulls back, his cheeks faintly pink. 

“Alright,” you say. “You can help. But nothing obvious and nothing stupid. The last thing I need is Bob figuring this out and hating me for it.” 

He rolls his eyes, that signature smirk firmly back in place. “Bob could never hate you. But I’ll be subtle.” 

“Good.” You glance past his shoulder toward the booth across the bar. “We better get back before they get suspicious.” 

“Wait,” he stops you with a hand on your shoulder. “One more question.” 

You raise your brows, prompting him to go on. 

“When you fantasise about Bob, is he the top or the bottom? Because I just think you should manage your expectations—ow!” 

He winces, rubbing the spot on his chest where you smacked him, watching you with a wounded look as you shove past with an exasperated sigh. 

Great. Now Hangman is involved... 

You spend the rest of the night practically glued to Reuben’s side, as planned. But now you’re a little on edge. You keep half an ear tuned to Jake’s voice, waiting to see when he might strike—and what he might say when he does. You trust him not to blow the whole thing, but you’re more than a little nervous about what his version of ‘helping’ might actually look like. 

“Another drink?” Reuben asks, just as you finish the last of your third beer. 

You nod, a bit too eagerly. “Yes, please. Maybe something stronger this time.” 

He chuckles and slides out of the booth, offering his hand. You take it, letting him guide you up toward the bar. You’re so wrapped up in your thoughts that you barely register the feel of his hand slipping from yours and settling at the small of your back, his thumb rubbing slow, comforting circles there. 

But Bob notices. 

And Jake notices Bob noticing—taking special joy in the way Bob’s hand tightens around his bottle of Coke, knuckles going white. 

Jake clears his throat and casts a glance toward the bar, leaning forward slightly. “They’re cute, don’t you think?” 

There’s a beat of silence as Bob swallows—hard—and Natasha just blinks, clearly trying to catch up. Then the lightbulb goes off, and a wicked grin stretches across her lips. 

“Yeah,” she says, her eyes following Jake’s. “I think they’d make a good couple.” 

Bob snorts. Actually snorts. But he keeps his gaze fixed on the label he’s been picking at on his bottle. 

Natasha arches a brow. “Something funny?” 

Bob shakes his head. “No.” 

“Really?” Jake presses, grinning. “Could’ve sworn you just laughed, Floyd.” 

“It wasn’t a laugh,” Bob mutters. “More of a… breath.” 

“Oh, a breath,” Natasha echoes, clearly amused. “Because it sounded suspiciously like judgment.” 

“Or jealousy,” Jake adds, leaning back with a smug grin. 

Bob’s gaze flicks to the bar—and to you—then just as quickly snaps away. “I don’t care who she dates.” 

Natasha hums, fighting a smirk as she lifts her beer to her lips, “Didn’t say you did.” 

Shortly after you and Reuben return to the table, giggling like idiots, Bob leaves. He mutters something about not feeling well and ducks out before even saying a proper goodbye. Part of you feels wrecked with guilt—but another part… is quietly hopeful. Because Bob isn’t like this. He’s good at regulating his emotions, even better at staying calm under pressure—he’s a fighter pilot, for God’s sake. But this? This is different. He’s never stormed out on the brink of losing control. Sure, he can get a little frustrated sometimes, maybe throw a snarky comment—usually at Jake when he pushes too far—but that’s as far as it goes. 

If you didn’t know any better, you’d say he’s starting to unravel… 

You spend most of the next day on the couch with the aircon blasting, while Natasha works through some paperwork at the kitchen table. It’s too hot to go outside, and you’re too distracted to do anything that requires even an ounce of brainpower. So instead, you let your mind rot with cartoons, obsessively checking your phone for signs of life in the group chat. 

“I can’t believe Hangman is in on this now,” Natasha mutters, not even glancing up from her papers. 

You sigh and roll from your side onto your back, staring up at the ceiling. “I can’t believe he hasn’t cracked yet. If the roles were reversed, I’d be like a feral cat in heat by now.” 

She snorts and lifts her head, flashing you an amused smirk. “You were already like a feral cat in heat for that man. Hence this whole situation.” 

You laugh softly. “Yeah, not wrong.” 

Your head drops to the side as you half-watch the TV screen, until the apartment door swings open with a dramatic gust of air. 

“I hate to say it,” Mickey says as he breezes in, eyes wide, “but the man is a genius.” 

Reuben follows close behind, and then Jake—grinning like he just solved world peace. 

“Oh, God,” Natasha mutters. “They’re multiplying.” 

“I don’t know why you didn’t come to me sooner,” Jake says, strolling toward the couch. “I’m the king of seduction.” 

You sit up, curling into the corner to make room for Reuben and Jake as Mickey heads straight for the fridge. 

“I wouldn’t go that far,” you mutter, narrowing your eyes at him. 

“Just wait until you hear the plan,” Reuben says, practically buzzing. “It’s perfect.” 

Intrigued now, Natasha gathers her papers into one neat pile and joins you on the lounge. “Alright, Bagman. Let’s hear it.” 

Jake’s eyes sparkle with mischief as he settles in beside Reuben. “Tomorrow, we’re going to the beach.” 

“You’re already way off,” you cut in. “Bob won’t agree to hang out again. Not after last night.” 

Natasha nods. “She’s right. He needs to cool off before we wind him up again.” 

“Absolutely not,” Jake snaps, brow furrowed. “You need to strike while the iron’s hot. You need to push his fucking limits.” 

Mickey appears from the kitchen, a bag of pretzels already open in his hand. 

Natasha frowns. “Okay, but how? He won’t agree to go if he thinks Sunny and Payback will be there.” 

Jake grins. “Which is exactly why he’s going to think they won’t be there.” 

“You want us to lie?” you ask. 

He gives you a flat look. “After all this emotional warfare, now you’re drawing the line at lying?” 

You shrink back slightly. “I guess not.” 

“Exactly.” He leans forward, elbows braced on his knees, hands clasped. “So—I’ll pitch the idea in the group chat. Sunny, you reply immediately that you’re busy—before Bob gets a chance to decline. Then Payback says something vague, like he might come or might not. That way, it looks like low numbers. And if Bob says no, the rest of us can guilt-trip him into coming. Which he will, as long as he thinks you’re not going to be there.” 

Natasha tilts her head. “So... she will be there though?” 

“Yes,” Jake says. “Just not right away. Give him time to relax, have some fun. We’ll play games—I’ll rile everyone up and get that competitive energy going.” 

Everyone nods along, faces weirdly serious, like this is some highly classified mission briefing. 

“Then, you two show up together,” Jake continues, gesturing to you and Reuben. “It’ll throw Bob off, but we won’t give him a chance to leave. We’ll keep the games going. Something with contact. You need to get right up in his space. Go all in. Because then... you’re going to knock him off his feet.” 

“Literally,” Mickey mumbles, chewing a mouthful of pretzels. 

You frown. “What?” 

“Bump into him,” Jake says. “Literally knock him over. Skin-to-skin contact. I’ve seen the way he looks at you in a swimsuit—it’s borderline pornographic. Touching him? It’ll fry what’s left of his self-control. And then, when there’s a moment—just a second where you could apologise for being too competitive or whatever... you’re going to say something that makes him snap.” 

You lean in, heart pounding now. “What am I going to say?” 

- 

The sun is high and brutal in the sky, and you’re already sweating—even though you’re still sitting in Reuben’s car with the aircon blasting. 

“Do you really think this is going to work?” you ask, nervously bouncing your knee. 

Reuben snorts. “If it doesn’t, the man isn’t human.” 

“I feel bad,” you mutter, eyes scanning the stretch of gold sand through the windshield. 

“You won’t feel bad when you finally see what’s in his pants,” Reuben says, barely paying attention as he scrolls through his phone. 

Your eyes go wide and your head whips toward him. “So it is huge? I wasn’t just imagining that?” 

He chuckles and looks up. “Oh yeah, he’s big. Like... big big. I remember the first time in the locker room—no one’s trying to look, obviously, that’s just not the vibe—but... damn. We couldn’t not look. Then everyone lost it. I think Hangman nearly cried.” 

You press your lips together, trying to hold back a grin, but it’s no use—your cheeks are on fire, and your whole face feels like it's bright red. 

“Damn,” you murmur, turning your gaze back to the front as your heart slams against your ribs. 

Reuben laughs again, then cuts the engine, killing the aircon. “Alright. Pull yourself together. It’s go time.” 

You climb out of the car and immediately wince at the lick of heat curling across your skin. It’s blistering—almost hostile—but at least you’re at the beach. Worst-case scenario? You’ll drown yourself in the ocean. Just walk into the surf and keep going. No one would blame you. 

“Relax,” Reuben says, sliding a hand into yours like this is nothing. “This is going to work. Hangman might be insane, but I’m pretty sure it’s because he’s an evil genius.” 

You roll your eyes, exhale hard, then square your shoulders and lift your chin. 

You let Reuben lead you onto the sand, legs already working overtime to stay steady in the heat-softened grains. You can hear the chaos before you see it. Shouts and thuds echo over the sand as your friends tumble and crash around in a messy game of what looks like overgrown keepy-uppies. 

“No hands!” Javy yells, just as Mickey swats the ball to avoid a direct hit to the face. 

“Damn it, Fanboy!” Jake shouts. “You’re giving away points.” 

Mickey drops his hands to his knees, panting. “Can we play literally any other game? I hate this.” 

“You only hate it ‘cause you suck at it,” Natasha says, catching the ball like it’s second nature and bringing the game to a halt. 

You swear you can see Mickey roll his eyes from here. You and Reuben are still on approach, trudging through the soft sand, unnoticed—so far. 

“What about football?” Jake offers, tossing the round ball aside and already pulling a proper football from their pile of gear. “Dog-fight football?” 

“Three versus three?” Javy asks, sceptical. 

“What about four v. four?” Reuben calls, hand cupped to amplify his voice. 

Everyone turns, and there’s a beat of stillness as they clock you. Then Natasha flashes a wide grin beneath her sunglasses, and Jake’s face lights up like a very satisfied evil villain—his plan falling perfectly into place. 

“Well, if it ain’t Sunny and Payback!” he calls, spinning the football lazily in one hand. “You two done playing your own games already?” 

You ignore the jab and focus on not rolling your ankle in the damn sand. At the pile of bags, you stop to drop your stuff and hesitate at the button of your shorts. 

Jake’s eyes are practically gleaming. “How about a swim to cool off first?” 

Reuben strips his shirt with a single tug. “You read my mind, Seresin.” 

The guys—already in their swim trunks—bolt for the water, crashing into the surf in a chaotic stampede. Natasha peels off her shirt and shorts, shoots you a wink, and strolls in after them like she owns the ocean. 

Reuben doesn’t say anything before he leaves you, but he gives a barely-there nod—directed past your shoulder. 

You don’t need to turn around to know who it’s aimed at. 

Bob’s still standing where he was when the game fizzled out, statuesque. His hair is tousled and his lips parted just enough to make your stomach flip. You’re at least ten feet away, but you can see the rise and fall of his chest—too fast, too hard. But he’s not out of breath. He’s not flustered. 

He’s furious. 

And those blue eyes? Laser-locked on you. His entire focus narrowed like a sniper sight. Not a blink. Not a breath wasted on anyone but you. 

You swallow and force your body into motion, unbuttoning your shorts and shimmying out of them before pulling your loose shirt over your head. You drop your clothes on Natasha’s pile and turn toward the water, steady on the lumpy sand. 

And then you hit the firm part—wet, packed, perfect footing—and you dig in. Hips swaying, deliberate and lethal. 

You don’t need to look back. You can feel the heat of his stare on every inch of exposed skin. It’s scorching. Possessive. Almost punishing. Like if he could touch you right now, he’d brand you. 

Hangman might be a genius after all. 

You hit the water with a sigh, not even hesitating before diving beneath a wave before it can knock you off your feet. It’s the perfect temperature—delicious against your too-hot skin. 

You dive under the next wave, cool saltwater rushing over your body, and come up laughing as you slick your hair back. Natasha is standing beside you, arms outstretched as the water laps at her waist, her eyes fixed on the shore. 

You wade closer, smirking. “Did you see his face?” you ask breathlessly, heart still pounding from the walk down the beach—or maybe from the way Bob had looked at you like he was plotting your murder. “I thought he was going to spontaneously combust.” 

She doesn’t answer. Just keeps staring past you. 

You frown as her jaw goes slack and her brows creep up, sunglasses slipping down her nose as she stares at something on the shore—expression caught somewhere between shock and awe. 

You freeze. “What?” 

She still doesn’t speak—just tips her chin the slightest bit, silently gesturing toward whatever has her stunned. 

You twist around. 

And promptly forget how to breathe. 

Bob Floyd is pulling his shirt over his head. 

Bob Floyd, the man who never takes his shirt off. The man who wears it in the ocean and somehow isn’t bothered by the soaking wet material clinging to his body like a second skin. 

And holy shit. 

It’s glorious. 

Sure, you’ve seen him shirtless before. Once. That night. But that was in the dark—his body tense, your mind scrambled, neither of you thinking clearly enough to appreciate what was right in front of you. 

But in the light of day? 

Alabaster skin. Broad shoulders. Deep-cut abs like he walked straight off the set of a Marvel movie. Lean muscle rippling across his chest and arms in a way that feels criminal on someone so quiet and careful. Droplets of sweat cling to his torso like even the heat doesn’t want to let him go. 

The sudden silence behind you confirms it—everyone else is staring too. 

You blink, dumbfounded, mouth dry. “That’s illegal.” 

Natasha huffs out a laugh like she’s short-circuiting. “I mean, I knew he was strong but—wow.” 

You swallow. Hard. “I think I’m going to pass out.” 

Your eyes follow him as he drops his shirt and turns toward the water, cutting through the waves like they’re nothing. He doesn’t glance at any of you. Just keeps his gaze locked on the horizon, jaw set tight, his body moving with single-minded purpose. 

Before you can say something—or even blink—a surge of water smacks you in the face. 

But it’s not a wave. 

You cough and splutter, wiping the salt from your eyes and checking to make sure your sunglasses are still intact. When your vision clears, Jake is standing right in front of you. 

“Wipe the drool off your chin,” he says, deadpan. “You’re supposed to be teasing him.” 

You narrow your eyes, resisting the urge to shove him aside and keep watching Bob. “How did all of you know how cut that man is and not tell me?” 

Jake blinks, thrown for a beat, then grins like the devil. “Wait—you’re mad because we didn’t tell you how ripped Bob is?” 

You nod, arms crossing tight over your chest. “Correct.” 

He lets out a disbelieving chuckle, shaking his head. “Well if that’s got you steamed, you’re gonna be beside yourself when you find out he’s got a massive-” 

“I know,” you cut in smoothly, a wicked smirk curling at your lips. “Payback told me.” 

Jake gapes at you, brows knitting—but before he can get another word out, you shove his shoulder and send him sprawling into the water. 

When he resurfaces, sputtering and grinning, he points at you like a man on a mission—then lunges. 

You squeal, laughing as he barrels toward you, sending up waves in every direction. The two of you splash around like kids, Jake playing it up—grabbing you, poking at your sides, both of you pretending to wrestle. All for show. Because you both know Bob is watching. 

Eventually, the others join in, playful chaos erupting around you. And before long, you’re panting and breathless, dragging yourself back to shore, your cheeks and chest aching from laughter. 

Everyone settles for a few minutes, drinking from their water bottles and trying to knock water from their ears. But then Jake stands up, football in hand and a wicked smirk on his lips, ready to commence Operation Bob’s Blue Balls – Phase Three: Straddle and Conquer. 

“All right, I’ll pick teams,” he announces. 

Normally, this would cause an uproar. But since most of you are in on the plan, everyone just nods in agreement. 

“Phoenix, Payback, Bob,” he says. “You’re with me. The rest of you are on Rooster’s team.” 

You narrow your eyes and cock your hip—it would seem strange if you didn’t challenge Jake just a little. “Why are you two always team captains?” 

He winks. “Because we’re the best.” 

You roll your eyes and turn away, joining the huddle with your teammates as Bradley and Javy argue over what your game plan should be. 

After a few minutes of strategizing, the game kicks off. You’ve never loved dog-fight football—not like some of the others—mostly because it can get a little rough. But today… it’s more than just a game. It’s a full-blown performance. 

You hang back for a bit, letting Jake and Bradley rile each other up and fire up their teams. Bob is still shirtless, which is a tactical advantage he isn’t even aware of—because every time he has the ball, every time he runs or blocks or is just generally in your line of sight, your knees wobble. 

You’ve nearly forgotten what you’re supposed to be doing when Reuben jumps in front of you and snags the ball before you can—thrown by a very disappointed-looking Javy. 

“Getting tired, Sunny?” Reuben teases, his grin smug. “I’m just getting started.” 

Right. The plan. Flirting. Banter. Teasing Bob. 

You step closer, slowing the game down a touch as you stretch onto your toes and drop your voice—but not too low. “Tired? Please. I’m still waiting for you to make me sweat.” 

There’s a beat where you worry Reuben might break, might laugh—high on adrenaline and endorphins. 

But then Jake hollers, “Cut it out, you two! Save the dirty talk for the bedroom!” 

And the game is back on. 

The sun beats down mercilessly, making every flexed muscle shine, every drop of sweat slide in slow, glistening trails. The sand is hot beneath your feet, but it’s nothing compared to the heat building as you and Reuben turn the game into one of Bob’s personal nightmares. 

You dart to the left, brushing past Reuben with a smug grin, your fingertips dragging across his chest like you’re checking his heart rate. 

“C’mon, hotshot,” you tease. “You could try a little harder.” 

He laughs—low and amused—but gives chase, throwing a hand around your waist as you pivot. It’s all too easy to make it look a little too intimate, a little too tight. He lifts you off the ground to ‘block’ your goal and your head falls back in a laugh that’s just shy of indecent. 

And Bob sees everything. 

You feel it—his stare like hot coals dragged across your skin. When you glance up between plays, he’s standing at the edge of the group, jaw tight, shoulders tense, hands flexing like they’re ready to throw a punch. His eyes follow your every move like he’s marking a target, and if looks could kill, Reuben would already be six feet under. 

You catch a toss, and Reuben crashes into you to intercept, spinning you both until you fall together into the sand. You land side by side, giggling like idiots—some might even say lovesick idiots. 

He pushes up first and grins down at you, tipping his head suggestively. “Need a hand?” 

“Oh, I don’t mind being on my back,” you say sweetly, just loud enough for everyone to hear. 

You take Reuben’s hand and let him haul you off the ground, pulling you into his body just a little more than necessary. 

“Damn, Sunny,” Jake calls from the other side of the makeshift field. “Takin’ a few hits today. Hope it doesn’t affect your game.” 

You scoff, rolling your eyes dramatically as you dust sand off your body like everyone else paid to watch. “You know I like it rough, Hangman.” 

There’s a chorus of oohs and a whistle from Mickey, laughter rippling through the group. 

Except Bob, of course. He’s suddenly very interested in the sand, eyes locked on the ground—even though his rigid posture is telling you everything you need to know. 

The game revs up again, and after a few scuffles, you snag the ball off a fumbled toss and break into a sprint, cutting across the sand with laser focus. Reuben’s behind you, winded, and the others are tangled up with the second ball—leaving only one person standing in your way. 

Bob. 

“Stop her!” Jake shouts, too far behind to intercept. 

Bob plants his feet like he’s ready to block—muscles tensing, arms coiled. It’s almost enough to distract you. But you’re feeling competitive. A little reckless. And you’re seconds from a goal. 

He hesitates when your eyes lock, just long enough for your wicked grin to register as you blow past him and skid to a halt—well over the line. 

Your team erupts into cheers behind you, and you throw your hands up, chest heaving as you catch your breath. When you turn back around, he’s still watching you—eyes wide. 

You flash him a slow smile as you walk past, brushing close enough to feel the heat rolling off his skin. 

“Don’t worry, Lieutenant,” you murmur. “I’ll go easy on you next time.” 

After a breather and a drink of water, everyone lines up for another play. Jake and Bradley drop the footballs into the sand, crouched and ready. Jake turns his head your way and gives you a subtle nod. 

This is it. 

Your heart thunders behind your ribs as you sprint and block and laugh along with the others. The competition hasn’t cooled—everyone is still hungry. Even Bob has snapped into focus, finally playing like it matters instead of just standing there watching. 

And for a moment, it is just fun. No schemes, no strategy. Just friends, shouting and stumbling and laughing too hard to score. 

But then the ball is in your hands again—and it’s time. 

Bob is on defence—Jake made sure of that. You just have to get past him again. Or at least… make it look like you’re trying. 

You tear forward. Jake is already behind you, Natasha lunges and misses by a breath, and Reuben very dramatically wipes out in the sand. 

It’s just Bob now. 

He sets his stance, head tipped down in focus. He’s going to stop you this time. Poor thing. He has no idea that’s exactly the plan. 

You charge, feet kicking up sand, heart in your throat. His eyes widen just a second before you collide—your body slamming into his with just enough force to topple you both. 

The ball flies from your hand as you hit the sand hard, clutching at whatever you can—his shoulders, his arms, solid and warm beneath your grip. You spit sand from your mouth and sit up fast—only to freeze, breath caught in your throat. 

You’re straddling him. Hips locked against his. Chest heaving. His hands on your waist. 

You don’t move. 

You’re both panting. The air between you buzzes like static, and everywhere your skin touches his feels sunburnt and alive. His blue eyes are locked on yours—wild and stunned. Bright enough to drown in. 

Your chest rises and falls with ragged breath, but you stay put. 

“Does this count?” you ask, voice low and rough with adrenaline. 

His lips are parted, soft and pink, breath coming in short bursts. His curls are wild, tangled with sand, and his glasses—crooked from the fall—are still somehow on. He looks wrecked. Shattered. Like you’ve stolen every coherent thought out of his head. His gaze flickers—searching your face, desperate not to meet your eyes. 

You lean in just a little. 

“If anyone else looked at me like that, I’d probably kiss them,” you murmur, squeezing your thighs around his waist. Then you bring your mouth dangerously close to his ear. “But we can’t do that... right?” 

His breath catches—and his eyes finally snap to yours. 

They’re wide and stormy now, brows drawn tight. He doesn’t breathe. He just looks. His mouth parts a little further, and you can see it all happening behind his eyes—every thought, every realisation. 

Everything falls into place—the flirting, the giggling, the deliberate touches, the stolen glances. All of it. You’ve been baiting him. This whole time. 

Before you can say anything else—before you can blink or breathe— 

He snaps. 

He flips you, smooth and fast, moving your body like you weigh nothing. Suddenly, you’re on your back, pressed into the sand, and he’s the one on top—straddling you, his weight holding you down. 

And the look in his eyes could burn the sky. 

He leans in, gaze sweeping over your face—your lips, your eyes, the pulse at your throat. He watches it thrum, just for a second. 

You’re frozen beneath him. Every nerve on fire. Every inch of your body sparking. Your lungs are screaming for air, but you don’t know how to breathe. You can’t think. You can barely feel anything except him. 

His breath ghosts your lips as he whispers, “Oh, you’re in trouble now.” 

And then he kisses you. 

Hard. 

It’s not careful. It’s not sweet. It’s months of tension and stolen glances and aching want—every second of restraint finally unravelling in a dizzy, reckless crash. His mouth claims yours like he’s starving, like he’s waited too long and can’t wait another second. 

His chest presses into yours, slick with sweat and dusted with sand, and you arch into it with a gasp. He groans against your mouth, a low, broken sound that feels like fire in your veins. You can feel every inch of him—solid and hot and so hard against your hip, unmistakable and unignorable. 

You shift beneath him, dragging your leg up around his waist, just enough to tease. His breath hitches, and then he’s kissing you deeper, hungrier, like the noise you just pulled from him unspooled something he can’t reel back in. 

You claw at his back—muscles tense and trembling under your fingers—trying to pull him closer when there’s no space left between you. The kiss turns feverish, tongues sliding, lips parting in desperate sync. You’re panting into each other’s mouths, completely lost. 

There’s sand in your hair, in your mouth, sticking to your sweat-slick skin, but none of it matters. All that matters is the way he moves against you, the way he feels—like every bit of control he’d been clinging to has shattered. 

When he finally tears his mouth from yours, he doesn’t go far. His forehead drops to yours, both of you gasping. He’s pink-cheeked and wide-eyed, lips swollen, pupils blown. 

“Jesus Christ,” he mutters, voice wrecked, “you’re gonna kill me.” 

And the way he says it—like a confession, like a prayer—makes you want to do it all over again. 

“YES!" Mickey shouts, loud enough for all of North Island to hear. 

Your friends erupt into cheers and screams, laughter lacing their gleeful proclamations as they jump and dance just a few feet away. 

“Well, fuck me,” Jake drawls. “That was the hottest thing I’ve ever seen.” 

You both slowly—reluctantly—turn your heads toward the noise. 

“I can’t believe it worked,” Reuben mutters, grinning wide, eyes sparkling. “Phase Three actually worked.” 

You’re still pinned beneath Bob as they all close in, every face lit up with smug satisfaction. 

“You named it?” Bob asks, closing his eyes as his cheeks somehow grow even hotter. 

“Oh yeah,” Mickey says, beaming with pride. “Operation Bob’s Blue Balls. Phase One was the run and the sleepover. Phase Two, Reuben. And this—” he gestures wildly at the two of you tangled in the sand, “this is Phase Three: Straddle and Conquer.” 

Bob makes a noise. Somewhere between a strangled groan and a whispered prayer for death. 

“You planned this?” he rasps, forehead dropping against yours again like he might just burrow into the sand and disappear. 

Reuben shrugs, all innocence. “Worked like a charm.” 

“Honestly,” Natasha adds, “we were starting to think you’d never get there. So… you’re welcome.” 

You bury your face in Bob’s shoulder, mortified. He’s burning up beneath your hands—still—and breathing like he just ran a mile with you on his back. 

Jake snickers. “Glad we could help you two get laid.” 

“We haven’t—!” Bob blurts, redder than a stop sign. 

You slap a hand over his mouth, grinning wickedly now despite the embarrassment. “Yet.” 

There’s a beat—a millisecond of silence—before they all burst out laughing again. 

Mickey curls over, clutching his stomach. Reuben walks away, cackling with his head tipped back. Natasha mutters, “Jesus Christ,” but she’s definitely smirking, and Jake claps his hands once as he says, “God bless the U.S. Navy.” 

Bob drops his face into the crook of your neck and groans again, muffled, “I hate all of you.” 

“Even me?” you ask, voice soft and teasing. 

He lifts his head, chuckling softly. “No. But for all that? You’re definitely still in trouble.” 

You lick your lips. “There’s no place I’d rather be.” 

He sighs like you’re actively trying to kill him, then sits up and pushes to his feet—only to glance down at the massive bulge in his shorts, which looks borderline painful. 

“Shit.” 

You scramble up after him, stepping in close and pressing your body to his, barely able to contain your giggles as you shield him from the rest of the beach. 

“Need a minute?” you tease, laughter lacing every word. 

His eyes flash—dark, hungry. “You and I are gonna need more than a minute to deal with this.” 

Heat floods your face and pools between your legs, thick and insistent. 

“But,” he says, glancing toward the water, “I’m just gonna go for a quick swim.” 

You nod, eyes wide and dreamy, watching him from beneath your lashes like an absolute idiot in love. 

And he looks at you like you hung the sun. Like you’re everything. It’s enough to make your heart stutter and your pulse race. He has no business being this beautiful—this sinful—a perfect contradiction of sweetness and respect, with just enough hunger in him, just enough darkness, that you know you’ll be walking funny tomorrow. 

And probably for the next few weeks while you learn how to handle his massive dick. 

“Don’t look at me like that,” he mutters, a shy smile curling his lips. “You’re making it worse.” 

Your jaw drops. “It gets bigger?” 

He laughs, then leans in to press a kiss to your open mouth—chaste, but lingering. Like it physically pains him to pull away. But he does. And when he flashes you that boyish smile—equal parts sexy and shy—it knocks the breath out of you. 

Then he turns and jogs toward the water. 

It takes you more than a minute to remember how to move—how to function—but eventually, you manage to drag yourself back to the others, who are still laughing and chatting like the beach hasn’t just tilted sideways. 

Natasha passes you your water bottle. “What’s Bob doing?” 

You glance over your shoulder, catching sight of him ducking under a wave. A smile tugs at your lips. 

“Cooling off.” 

By the time he finally does manage to drift off, it feels like barely five minutes before he’s woken by the sound of the shower running. He blinks a few times, vision bleary, before reaching for his glasses and his phone.

It’s Pearl Harbour day today, which means everyone needs to be in the lobby on time, in their dress blues, ready to take the bus to base.

When he hears the water shut off, Bob waits a few extra minutes, until he can hear your footsteps on the tile. Then—assuming you’re at least somewhat decent—he throws the bed sheets back and dives into his suitcase for his uniform.

“Morning,” you say softly, stepping around the other side of the bed.

Bob glances up, his breath catching when he sees you wrapped in nothing but a towel. “M-Morning,” he manages, before quickly turning his attention back to his case.

You clear your throat. “I—uh—I want to apologise.”

He can’t help but look up again, brows furrowing. “What for?”

It takes every ounce of self-control to keep his gaze on your face and not track the little droplets of water trickling down your collarbone.

“For being a jerk,” you murmur, cheeks turning pink. “I was just tired and—I mean, you didn’t do anything wrong. I don’t know why I lectured you about it. I’m sorry.”

Bob blinks. “Oh. It’s—uh—it’s okay. I wasn’t… offended.”

You nod, pressing your lips into a tight smile. “Good.”

He nods too. “Good.”

A beat of awkward silence stretches between you. You shift from foot to foot, knuckles white where they’re gripping the towel at your chest.

“I’m just—I’m gonna shower,” Bob says quickly.

You smile a proper smile. “Okay. I’m gonna get dressed.”

With one last nod, he grabs his clothes and moves into the bathroom, resisting the urge to glance back. He steps up to the shower and focuses on the wall, on the tile, on the simple act of twisting the handle.

But then he hears it.

A soft, almost imperceptible sound—the brush of fabric, the gentle thump of something dropping to the floor.

His hand stills.

It takes a second for his brain to catch up, for the meaning to land—and when it does, it sends a sharp jolt straight through his spine. His pulse kicks hard, sudden and unhelpful, and his thoughts scatter all at once.

Don’t look. Don’t look.

He stares at the wall like it’s suddenly fascinating, like concentration alone might save him from himself. He turns the water on a little too fast, steps forward a little too quickly, heart racing for no good reason at all.

You're right there.

Barely a few feet away.

Naked.

The thought lands heavy and immediate, a physical blow that steals his breath for a second. And for one reckless moment all he wants—all he wants—is to turn around. Just to look. Just once. As if that wouldn’t undo him entirely.

His jaw tightens.

He keeps his eyes fixed on the wall, like discipline might drown out the roar of his pulse, the way his blood has suddenly rerouted in the most inconvenient direction.

He forces himself to breathe, to move, to strip his shirt off and step behind the limited privacy of the frosted glass.

He doesn’t look back. He can’t. Not even as he fumbles out of his shorts, awkward and half-wet now, and tosses his clothes onto the tile.

He doesn’t let himself.

Because wanting to is already dangerous enough.

Twenty minutes later—and after a very awkward attempt at getting dressed on wet tiles behind the shower partition—you and Bob make your way down to the lobby in total silence. Nothing but the tension of sharing a room, and whatever last night was, still crackling between you.

“Finally!” Maverick calls the second he sees you both. “I was about to send out a search party.”

“Sorry, Mav,” you say as you step onto the bus. “There’s no bathroom door in our room.”

Maverick opens his mouth to reply—then stops. Closes it again. His brows knit together, like he’s not entirely sure he heard you right—but by the time he looks like he's figured it out, you’re already moving down the aisle.

He looks at Bob. “What does that even mean? Why are you two sharing a room?”

Bob shrugs, but it’s stiff. “We—uh—I swapped with Phoenix so we could, um, quarantine the sick.”

Maverick is quiet for a beat. Long enough that Bob knows he’s just connected a few dots.

Maverick smirks. “Quarantine the sick, huh?”

Bob’s face heats. “Mhm.”

“So, that would mean you and Blink are in the couple’s suite?”

Bob nods. “Yep.”

Maverick lets out a disbelieving laugh. “Oh, great. And I bet that’s going—”

“About as well as you’d expect,” Bob mutters.

“God.” Maverick pinches the bridge of his nose. “Get on the bus, Bob.”

“Yes, Captain.”

Bob hurries up the steps onto the bus. He spots you immediately—because of course he does—sitting in the second row across the aisle from Bradley. Then his gaze flicks further back, catching Jake at the very back of the bus, brows raised expectantly. So, with a deep, centring breath, Bob moves down the aisle to the back seat.

“Alright. Listen up,” Maverick says, standing up the front as doors slide shut.

He waits until everyone’s quiet, eyes locked on him.

“Phoenix and Fanboy are still out for the count, which means you all have fewer bodies to hide behind today.” His gaze sweeps the bus, pointed and deliberate. “This is a base visit. A historic one. So please try—try—not to embarrass me, the Navy, or yourselves. In that order.”

Reuben’s hand shoots up.

Maverick gives him a flat look. “This isn’t middle school, Payback. Just ask your question.”

“Is this one of those times where you say don’t embarrass me, but then laugh about it later if we do? Or is there a zero-tolerance policy for—”

“Payback,” Maverick cuts in. “Shut up.”

“Yes, sir.”

Maverick sighs, exasperated, his eyes scanning the rest of the squad. “This is Pearl Harbor, guys. Act like you deserve to be here.”

Everyone goes quiet—serious, disciplined—as Maverick takes his seat at the very front. The bus stays quiet for a moment, the kind of silence that feels deliberate, everyone holding it for just a second too long before the tension finally begins to unwind. Then someone shifts in their seat, someone murmurs something under their breath, and the low hum of conversation slowly works its way back in as the bus pulls away from the resort and into traffic.

Bob exhales, shoulders easing, and it’s only then—right as the tight coil in his chest finally loosens—that Jake turns toward him, grinning.

“So,” he says, “what happened last night?”

Bob frowns. “What do you mean?”

Jake rolls his eyes. “Enough with the clueless act, Alicia Silverstone. I know something happened. I could feel the weird energy the second you two stepped on the bus.”

Bob hesitates, his brows drawing tighter. “Alicia Silverstone?”

“Yes,” Jake sighs. “You know—that nineties chick flick that very subtly encourages incest. I know you’ve seen it.”

“I mean, yeah, I’ve seen it, but how does—”

“Never mind,” Jake cuts in. “Just get to the part where you tell me what happened.”

Bob sighs, letting his head fall back against the bus window. “Nothing, really,” he says, lowering his voice. “I just—I got back to the hotel and she wasn’t there, so I assumed she was—” He hesitates.

“Boning Reuben?” Jake offers.

Bob shoots him a sidelong glance. “Yeah. That.”

Jake nods. “Mhm. Go on.”

Bob’s gaze slides back toward the front of the bus. Toward you. Where you’re chatting excitedly with Bradley—smiling, laughing, stealing all the air from his lungs with just the sparkle in your eyes.

He draws a slow breath and keeps going. “She came in a few minutes later. Said she was just checking on Phoenix and Fanboy, and then—” he pauses, frowning, “—then she said she was surprised I was back at the hotel. Surprised I hadn’t gone home with that woman.”

Jake’s brows shoot up. “She said that?”

Bob nods. “She also said that she could tell the woman was into me. I told her we were just talking, that I didn’t think she was interested—”

Jake scoffs, rolling his eyes.

“And then she said—” Bob pauses again, expression flickering. “She said she used to think it was just her, but now she knows I’m clueless about all women.” He shrugs. “Whatever that’s supposed to mean.”

For the first time in what might be his entire life, Jake Seresin is speechless. He stares at the side of Bob’s face—eyes wide, jaw slack. Bob can feel his stare burning into his cheek, but he doesn’t want to look. He doesn’t want to know why Jake is staring at him with the most incredulous expression he’s ever worn.

“She—she said that?” Jake asks after several painful seconds of silence.

“Yeah,” Bob mutters. “Why? Is it bad?”

Jake looks like he’s about to go into shock.

“Is it—is it bad?” he echoes. “Are you joking? Bob, please tell me you’re joking.”

Bob’s heart starts to race, a new kind of panic prickling beneath his skin. “No, I—wait, why is it bad?”

“It’s not bad, Bob,” Jake hisses. “My God, she practically confessed her feelings for you and you didn’t even realise.”

Bob freezes.

His mind races back to last night, replaying every word, every syllable, every damn letter, trying to find the moment where you confessed your feelings for him. But he can’t find it. Not in what you said. Not in the way you stood, or the look on your face.

“I—” he starts, then stops.

He remembers the way your eyes had dipped to his chest, his bare stomach. It was only brief. Fleeting. But it still happened. You still looked. Then you let out the tiniest breath—a gasp, almost—and told him he was clueless.

Clueless about women.

Clueless about you.

Bob draws a sharp breath and shakes his head. “No. No way. She—she didn’t confess anything. She just—”

“Floyd, I swear to God,” Jake mutters, voice low, “if you don’t kiss this woman today, I’ll throw you into the nearest active volcano myself.”

Bob pales. “Today?”

“Yes, today,” Jake hisses. “Phase Four. It’s titled: Don’t be a pussy and pucker up!”

Under different circumstances, Bob might’ve rolled his eyes at that—but right now, he’s too busy panicking. Too busy looking at you. At your mouth. At the way you catch your bottom lip between your teeth while you concentrate on whatever Bradley is saying, completely unaware that his entire internal operating system has just collapsed.

God. Jake has lost his mind. Bob can’t kiss you. He can’t just walk up to you and—

“Don’t think,” Jake says. “Just do.”

Bob finally turns to him, frowning. “You can’t say that about this. That’s what Maverick says about flying, not—”

“Same principle.” Jake shrugs. “It’s all instinct.”

Bob’s instinct is screaming at him to run. To forget Jake and his stupid plan and his stupid phases, to get on the next plane back to San Diego where he can hide in his apartment and pretend this whole stupid trip never happened.

But he doesn’t move.

He just sits there, breathing through it, trying to understand when things got this complicated.

The rest of the bus ride is too short. Honolulu slips past while Jake rambles about timing and technique and tongue—like he’s a qualified expert on spontaneous, romantic kisses. But Bob tunes him out, keeping his eyes fixed out the window on the opposite side of the bus, focusing on breathing through the panic tightening in his chest.

Before long, the bus pulls up in front of Pearl Harbor’s visitor centre, and Maverick stands before anyone else can, one hand braced on the seat in front of him.

“Alright, lieutenants,” he says, voice low but firm. “We’re guests here. That means we move together, we listen, and we follow instructions the first time they’re given.” His gaze sweeps the bus. “I want you paired up—no one wanders off alone. You stay with your buddy at all times. If you need something, you bring it to me or our escort. You don’t take it upon yourselves.”

He pauses, letting that settle.

“This isn’t a sightseeing trip. It’s a place people died. So you show respect, you keep your phones away unless told otherwise, and you don’t speak unless it’s appropriate. Understood?”

The whole squad responds in unison. “Yes, sir.”

Maverick nods. “Good. Let’s do this.”

The bus doors hiss open and Maverick steps out first, greeting the officer waiting for him. Everyone else follows more slowly, adjusting caps and straightening their jackets as they file off the bus.

“Blink, Bob,” Maverick calls. “I want you two up front.”

Bob’s pulse jumps as he steps forward, following his captain’s order without thinking. You’re beside him in a heartbeat, an almost imperceptible smile tugging at your mouth as you glance at him from the corner of your eye.

Once everyone is assembled, the base liaison steps forward and introduces himself as Lieutenant Commander David Nakamura. There’s a brief orientation—a quiet rundown of rules, emphasis on respect and silence, and a short overview of the day’s itinerary—before Nakamura leads the group from the visitor centre toward the ferry bound for the USS Arizona Memorial.

On board, everyone files toward the front, staying in a tight, quiet cluster along the railing. Nakamura waits until the ferry pulls away from the dock before speaking, his voice low and even over the hum of the engine.

“Once we arrive, you’ll be asked to remain quiet while on the memorial,” he says. “There will be a brief introduction from the National Park Service, and then you’ll have time to walk through on your own. Please be mindful of the space—and of the people around you.”

He pauses, letting the water and the steady churn of the engine fill the silence.

“This isn’t a museum,” he adds. “It’s a gravesite. Take whatever time you need, but take it respectfully.”

Then he nods once, satisfied, and steps back, folding his hands loosely in front of him as the ferry continues across the harbor.

Bob turns toward the railing, squinting out at the water sparkling beneath the bright morning sun. He’s still acutely aware of you beside him—of your shoulder brushing his, of the subtle shift of weight as you turn to face the same direction.

“So,” you say quietly, your voice pitched low enough that only he can hear. “Since when are you and Seresin best friends?”

He looks at you, breath catching at how close you are. “I—what?”

You shrug one shoulder, your arm brushing his as you do. “You two have been joined at the hip this whole trip. I just… didn’t know you were so close.”

“Well, I—I mean, we’re all close, right?” he says, keeping his voice low. “That’s what makes us a squad.”

You roll your eyes. “That’s not what makes us a squad—it’s what makes us a good squad.”

He turns back toward the water, trying to coax his heartbeat back into something resembling normal rhythm.

“But you and Hangman?” you add, teasing. “That one I definitely wasn’t expecting. Are you two official yet, or taking things slow?”

Bob shoots you a look that’s meant to be flat—but it softens, giving him away, because he simply can’t look at you and not smile. Not when you’re this close. Not when you’re looking at him like that.

“Very funny,” he mutters.

His eyes flick past your shoulder, toward Maverick and Nakamura, making sure neither of them are glaring at the two of you to shut up.

“Jake—uh, Hangman is actually just helping me with some... personal stuff.”

Your brows lift. “Personal stuff? Hangman? Really?”

Bob swallows hard and nods. “Yeah, he’s—uh—he’s surprisingly helpful.” He glances at you from the corner of his eye. “Sometimes.”

You press your lips together, clearly fighting a laugh. “Wow. Okay. Any chance you want to pass along some of this life-changing advice?”

Bob’s lips twitch. “It’s really better straight from the source.”

“Right. Of course.” You nod, still smiling like you’re trying not to laugh. “I’ll remember to call Hangman next time I’m in crisis.”

Bob turns back to the water, because if he keeps looking at you he’s going to laugh. “Exactly. There’s only, like, a forty-percent chance he’ll make it worse.”

You make a small, strangled sound—half laugh, half exhale—and then you give up.

Before Bob can even process what’s happening, you turn slightly and lean your forehead against his shoulder, your face angled down like you’re trying to hide the smile you can’t quite suppress. Your laughter comes out silent this time, shaking through you in a way you’re clearly trying to contain.

“I’m sorry,” you murmur, barely louder than the wind. “I can’t—he’s ridiculous.”

Bob freezes.

Not dramatically. Not visibly. Just… completely.

Your weight is light against him, barely there, but it might as well be everything. He can feel the warmth of you through his uniform, the soft press of your forehead, the faint vibration of your laughter. His brain stalls, scrambling to catch up with the simple, undeniable fact that you chose him—chose his shoulder, his space—without hesitation.

His heart kicks hard, then forgets how to beat properly.

“Yeah,” he manages, voice lower than he intends. “He really is.”

But he doesn’t mean it. Not entirely. Because a little way across the deck, on the far side of the bow, Jake is watching with a grin.

And Bob can’t help it. He feels a small, unfamiliar swell of something in his chest. Not arrogance. Not confidence. Just the quiet sense that maybe—just maybe—he didn’t completely mess this up.

Now... he just has to figure out how to kiss you.

The USS Arizona Memorial is solemn. The second everyone steps off the ferry, the air thickens. The group falls silent. Nakamura leads everyone through the space, gesturing and murmuring when needed, but mostly staying quiet—letting everyone feel the weight of this hallowed place.

Bob moves through it slowly, hands folded in front of him, gaze drifting from the names etched into the marble wall to the dark shape of the battleship resting just beneath the water’s surface. Oil still beads up from below, rising in slow, shimmering drops that spread and disappear. Tears of the Arizona, someone once called them. He doesn’t know if that’s official or folklore, but standing here, it feels right. Around him, the squad remains silent. No jokes. No nudges. Just the low creak of the structure and the soft lap of water against steel.

No one speaks until the ferry ride back, and even then it’s subdued. Nakamura doesn’t say much else—there’s nothing left to explain—and no one fills the space he leaves behind. The harbor stretches out in every direction, bright and impossibly blue beneath the midday sun, the contrast almost jarring after the stillness of the memorial. When everyone disembarks, the group is issued audio headsets and follows Nakamura through a brief guided walk, past exhibits and pathways that trace history without dramatising it, letting the facts speak for themselves.

By the time the squad is directed back toward the waiting bus, the mood has shifted—not lighter, exactly, but settled. Grounded. Like everyone is carrying something quiet and heavy with them as they walk.

“Alright,” Maverick says, stopping in front of the bus doors. “Good work today. You represented the Navy well.”

His gaze sweeps the group once, approving—then it lands on you and Bob.

“Blink, Bob—before you get on, can you return the audio headsets to the visitor centre? Front desk. The bus will wait.”

You nod, stepping forward first. “Of course.”

Maverick hands you his headset while Bob turns and collects the rest from the squad. Then everyone starts filing onto the bus as the two of you head back toward the visitor’s centre together.

“Do you think it’s going to rain?” you ask, tipping your head back to look at the sky.

Bob follows your gaze. “Maybe.”

“Better hurry then,” you say, flashing him a quick wink.

And it knocks all the air from his lungs.

Once the headsets are returned, you both thank the NPS rangers—again—and head back outside. The air feels heavier now, thicker, and just as you clear the shelter of the awning, the sky rumbles low and distant, more warning than thunder.

“Shit,” you mutter, glancing up. “We might have to run.”

The bus zone is a short walk away—out of sight from the visitor centre doors and just far enough to be inconvenient. You both set off with quick steps, biting back giddy laughter and glancing up at the sky like watching it might somehow hold the floodgates. But you barely make it ten steps before the first drops hit—fat and warm, splattering dark circles across the concrete.

“Okay,” you say, breaking into a jog. “Yep. Running.”

Bob barely has time to react before you’re tugging him along by the sleeve, both of you laughing breathlessly now as the sky finally gives up the fight. The rain comes down hard and sudden, soaking through your uniforms in seconds, plastering fabric to skin and turning the neat path toward the bus into a slick, puddled mess.

There’s nowhere obvious to take shelter—no buildings, no overhangs—just open space and a line of trees too far away to be useful.

“Wait—” Bob says, spotting it just in time.

It’s not much. A shallow recess in the side of a building, a narrow alcove set back from the path, barely wide enough to count as shelter—just enough to block the worst of the rain. You both skid to a stop and squeeze into the space, face to face, chests heaving as the downpour lashes down just inches from your shoulders.

For a moment, neither of you says anything.

Rain drums against the concrete, loud and relentless, the world reduced to the breath of space left between you—too small, too warm, too dangerous. Bob is suddenly very aware of how soaked you both are, how close you are. He can see the water beading on your lashes, the droplets tracing slow paths down your jaw, the way the fabric of your uniform clings to your skin and makes even dress blues look sinful.

“Well,” you say, looking up at him with wide eyes. “So much for beating it.”

Bob lets out a breathless laugh. “Yeah. Guess that was optimistic.”

You shift, trying to give him space—but there isn’t any. The movement only brings you closer, your chest brushing his, your knee slotting between his legs. The contact sends a sharp, electric awareness straight through him. He can feel the heat of you despite the rain, the air between you suddenly charged and heavy with everything neither of you is saying.

The rain is still hammering down, loud enough that it feels like the rest of the world has fallen away. All Bob can hear now is the uneven sound of your breathing—the faint hitch in it as you realise just how close you are.

He feels it settle in his chest, that quiet, terrifying clarity. You’re right here, this close. Your eyes are dark with something he can't name, lashes clumped together, your mouth parted just slightly as you catch your breath. He can’t stop noticing the way your lips tremble when you exhale, or the way your gaze flicks—not away, not retreating—but down.

To his mouth.

His breath stutters.

He leans in without quite deciding to. Not much. Just enough to close the height between you, his shoulders dipping, spine curving instinctively toward you. The world narrows to inches. To the warm air between your faces. To the awareness of how easy this would be if he let it happen.

You don’t pull back.

If anything, you tilt your chin up—just a fraction—like you’re meeting him halfway without even realising it. Like your body has already decided something your mind hasn’t caught up to yet.

Bob’s heart slams against his ribs. Too loud. Too fast.

This is it.

And then panic hits him, sharp and sudden. Not fear of you, but fear of the moment—of crossing a line he doesn’t know how to uncross. Of doing this wrong. Of ruining something fragile before he even understands what it is.

He hesitates. Stops.

Then pulls back just enough to break the spell, breath leaving him in a rush as he straightens, his hands clenching uselessly at his sides. The loss of proximity is immediate and awful, like stepping out of warmth and into the rain.

“I—” He cuts himself off, shaking his head once, jaw tight. “Sorry. I—”

He doesn’t finish the sentence. He can’t.

He swallows hard, eyes dropping to the ground because if he looks at you again—if he sees anything that looks like disappointment, or relief, or wanting—he’s not sure he’ll be strong enough to stop himself twice.

Then, slowly, the rain eases. Sunlight breaks through the clouds.

And when he looks up again, you’re already gone.

- You -

“Do you think Bob’s gay?” you ask, pacing in front of the balcony doors.

Natasha—who had been right in the middle of telling you how much better she’s feeling—blinks at you. “What?”

“Bob.” You stop pacing and look at her, hands on your hips. “Do you think he’s gay?”

“Our Bob?” she asks. “Bob Floyd?”

You nod.

She snorts. “Uh—no. I don’t think he’s gay. He might be bi, I’m not sure. But I know he’s into women.”

“How do you know?”

Natasha looks you up and down, lips twitching. “Just—trust me. I know.”

With a dramatic sigh, you turn and flop down onto the small lounge, staring blankly across the room at the minibar like it might offer you answers.

Natasha shifts, moving to sit at the end of her bed—her twin bed, since she’s still stuck rooming with Mickey even though they’re both fully recovered.

She leans forward, curiosity sharpening her voice. “Why would you think he’s gay?”

You shrug, sheepish. “No reason.”

“Did something happen while I was busy dying?” she presses.

You shake your head. “Nope.”

She lifts her brows.

You sigh. “Fine. Yes. Okay. Something happened.”

“I knew it!” She jumps off the bed. “Oh, I knew there was something you weren’t—”

“Technically,” you cut in, “nothing actually happened. Something almost happened.”

She stops, slowly lowering herself onto the couch beside you. “Okay,” she says carefully. “What’s does that mean?”

You draw a deep breath and let it all spill out in one quick rush.

“I don’t know. He’s just—he’s been acting weird ever since we got here, and I thought it was because, you know, with work out of the way he was finally going to make a move. Which felt like it made sense. Except then he started spending a weird amount of time whispering with Hangman, and I was going to ask him about it, but then when we went out the other night he started flirting with some random girl—which is totally fine, he’s allowed to flirt with other people, I was just confused because—well, I don’t know. The signs. You know?”

Natasha doesn’t respond—she doesn’t have a chance.

“So I got a little annoyed about that, which I probably shouldn’t have, and I basically told him that I like him, except he definitely didn’t get it. Or maybe he didn’t want to get what I was saying. Then yesterday at Pearl Harbor he was almost normal again, and we had this really sweet moment on the ferry and—God, do you know how good that man smells?”

Natasha just shakes her head, lips pressed together like she’s trying not to laugh.

“But anyway. After all that, we got caught in the rain, and he pulled us into this little alcove and my heart was going absolutely insane. He leaned in and everything, I thought that was it, I thought that was the moment, and then—then he just… didn’t. He pulled away.”

You exhale sharply.

“And I don’t know why. Maybe my breath was bad. Maybe he saw me up close and decided I’m ugly, but fuck—I just—I practically ran after that because what am I supposed to think now?”

Natasha exhales, long and measured, then reaches out to squeeze your hand.

“Okay,” she says firmly. “First of all—you’re not crazy. Anyone would be confused by that. Anyone.” She tilts her head, fixing you with a pointed look. “And I don’t think this is about you being ugly or your breath or whatever spiral your brain is trying to run right now.”

Your brows pinch. “Really?”

She nods, lips twitching. “Really. I think Bob is just… spectacularly bad at knowing what to do with his feelings.”

You draw a deep breath—deep enough that your chest aches for a moment before you let it out.

“Fine,” you sigh. “But if you’re wrong and him and Hangman start hooking up—” You push off the couch. “I’m asking for a transfer.”

Natasha snorts. “If Bob and Hangman start hooking up, then we’ve got bigger problems—like the collapse of reality.”

You laugh, already halfway to the door. “Well, don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

She rolls her eyes. “Come on. Go get changed so I can start making up for lost time.”

You shoot her a playfully obscene gesture as you push the door open, then—just as she opens her mouth to shout after you—quickly slip out and dart across the hall to your own room to change into your swimmers.

The rest of the day passes in a blur of crystal-clear water and too many cocktails to count. Natasha makes good on her promise to make up for lost time, sprawled across a lounge chair beneath the shade sail for most of the afternoon, sipping from straw after straw of what feels like an endless supply of drinks.

The rest of the squad are off on some quad biking tour—even Mickey was well enough to join them—but Natasha had been adamant she needed a full day by the pool to fully recover, and you’d decided you needed a break from boys.

A break from Bob.

But that doesn’t mean you’re done talking about him.

You spend most of the afternoon driving Natasha insane with questions and half-formed theories about why Bob has been acting so weird. You recount every day of vacation shenanigans she missed—twice—searching for missed details and hidden meanings like some magical answer might reveal itself if you overthink it hard enough.

By the time the sun sets, you’re both tired and a little tipsy, and Natasha is in the middle of her third rant about why Bob hanging out with Hangman isn’t as weird as you think it is when the rest of the squad finally returns to the resort.

They’re all buzzing—high on adrenaline, sun-kissed, and already making plans to purchase quad bikes back in San Diego, as if Maverick would ever let that happen.

Bob barely looks at you, though. He hangs back at the rear of the group, a small smile on his lips as he nods along, but nothing more than a short huff of laughter escaping him. His arms stay crossed, shoulders tight, and when everyone finally agrees on dinner plans, he’s the first to turn and leave.

Great. Now he’s avoiding you.

At dinner, he sits as far from you as possible, never so much as glancing your way and carefully evading every conversation that might require him to acknowledge your existence. Then, the second his plate is empty, he stands and mutters something about being exhausted before bidding everyone a good night and leaving.

Just like that.

You want to go after him—because of course you do—but you know you can’t. It would be stupid, and worse, obvious. Everyone would see it for what it is if you went hurrying after him like some desperate ex.

And you’re not his ex.

You’re not his anything. You never were.

He’s making that painfully clear now. With the distance. With the silence. With the way he won’t even look at you, like if he does, something might crack.

Which is ridiculous, because for a second—just a second—you could have sworn there was something there. You could have sworn that when he looked at you, when you caught his stare or accidentally locked eyes, that maybe you were something he wanted. Something he was holding himself back from. Something dangerous enough to scare him.

Hell, forty-eight hours ago you would have sworn that.

But now? Now you don’t know what to think. You don’t know where you stand, only that it’s not beside him—and whatever you thought you saw, whatever you thought you felt, wasn’t enough to make him stay.

By the time you get back to your room after dinner, all the lights are out and Bob is fast asleep at the very edge of the mattress—just like every other night. You stare at the expanse of bed left for you, too wide and too lonely, even though the one person you really want is just a few feet away.

You don’t fall asleep until the early hours of the morning, when your body is too tired for the endless thoughts to win. And when you wake—to the sound of your phone vibrating on the bedside table—Bob is already gone. He’s even made his side of the bed, like the freak he is.

With a heavy sigh, you grab your phone and open the group chat, already overflowing with messages. Apparently Jake has booked surfing lessons for everyone today—even Maverick—which means you’re supposed to be down on the sand in less than twenty minutes.

Perfect.

Open water, crashing waves, eight-foot fibreglass boards, and all this tension—what could possibly go wrong?

When you finally make your way to the beach, to the little hut Jake had pinned as his location in the group chat, it’s already chaos. Mickey is arguing for a bigger board because he’s not that short, Jake is chatting up another group’s surf instructor while her surfers struggle to attach their leg ropes, and Reuben is drawing inappropriate zinc pictures on Bradley’s back.

Bob is the only one actually listening to the instructor.

Or maybe he’s just trying really hard not to notice you.

Either way, you notice him. You notice the tension in his shoulders, the white of his knuckles as he grips the board—and you definitely notice the way his wetsuit leaves very little to the imagination.

It’s hard not to.

Once everyone finally settles, the instructor gives his well-practiced introductory speech and has everyone stand on their boards in the sand. There’s laughter and teasing, sand flicked in faces whenever Maverick isn’t looking, but you barely register any of it. You’re too far gone to notice anything that isn’t Bob.

In the water, you try to concentrate. You try to listen to the instructor shouting over the swell, try to manoeuvre the board so you don’t end up face-first in the sandbank. But on your second attempt, you wipe out—spectacularly. Swallowed by white water and shoved under by the force of the wave.

You swear you hear someone shout your name before you go under, but by the time you surface again, everything is spinning and your ears are ringing.

Your board knocks into you as you rub your eyes, stinging from the saltwater. It bumps your side twice before you reach out to stop it—but when you find it, it’s already steady.

You blink hard, forcing the water from your lashes, and—

Bob.

Of course it’s Bob.

He's right there, close enough that you can see the tension in his face before he schools it, his eyes flicking over you in quick, precise passes like he’s checking you for damage. His mouth is set, jaw tight, concern written all over him in a way he doesn’t seem to realise he’s broadcasting.

“You okay?” he asks, voice low, already bracing the board as another wave rolls through.

You nod, still catching your breath. His grip stays firm for a beat longer, holding the board steady while the water pulls at it, while you get your bearings.

Then he seems to realise where he is. Who he's talking to.

A faint flush creeps up his neck, his grip loosening as he steps back, suddenly unsure of what to do with his hands.

“Sorry,” he says, already turning away. “Just—be careful. Please.”

And just like that, he’s gone again—lost in the surf and the noise and the rest of them.

Your focus is completely shot after that. You bail out halfway through the lesson—at which Jake shouts some unnecessarily colourful opinions—and resign yourself to watching the rest of them wipe out from the sand.

Natasha is—predictably, but annoyingly—good, and so is Maverick, but of course he is. He can do everything. Bradley and Reuben hold their own fairly well, and when Jake isn’t showing off, he can stay upright long enough to call it surfing. Javy and Mickey are hopeless, though. You don’t know how they’re still out there considering they’ve spent most of the last hour underwater.

And Bob? Well, if Bob would stop overthinking it and actually try to catch a wave, then you might be able to judge his ability. But he doesn’t. He just keeps floating beyond the breakers, a few feet from the instructor, eyes fixed on the horizon like it holds the answers to all of life’s questions.

He’s doing what he does best, you think. Hesitating.

By the end of the lesson, everyone is exhausted—so exhausted that Mickey doesn’t even clap back at Bradley when he makes a size joke about their boards.

It doesn’t take long for everyone to peel their wetsuits off, thank the instructor, and start trudging back along the sand toward the resort. Bob walks fast, staying just far enough ahead that you can’t quite keep pace, the soft sand slowing you with every step.

“Quiet dinner tonight,” Maverick says as he steps through the resort’s lobby doors. “I’d like you all to come to the walkthrough at the venue tomorrow morning, and I don’t want any hangovers.”

He shoots a pointed look at Jake.

“Seven a.m. at the Royal Hawaiian,” he adds. “Then you can do whatever you want until the ceremony—which starts at seven p.m., but I want you all there at least an hour earlier.”

Everyone nods, tired and slow.

“Good.” Maverick claps his hands together. “I’ll see you at dinner.”

Then he’s gone, marching down the hall toward the other block of elevators. The rest of you turn and drag your feet toward the lifts, the whole squad too exhausted to manage even a single sentence.

Bob reaches the room before you, and by the time you step inside, you can see his silhouette on the balcony through the sheer curtains. He’s leaning on the railing, head bowed, clearly giving you space to take your shower and do whatever you need to while he plays the gentleman.

And sometimes—more than sometimes—you really wish Bob would just give in to his base instincts and perv on you like any other guy might in this ridiculous room-sharing situation.

But no. He just has to be polite.

Perfectly polite. Like the stupidly perfect man he is.

-

“Hey, could you—uh—could you maybe give me a hand?”

Bob appears in the bathroom mirror behind you, and your mascara wand pauses mid-lash. You’ve seen him in a suit before. You’ve attended black-tie events together before. But you’ll never get used to how unfairly good he looks like this—dark jacket, crisp white shirt, his tie hanging loose around his neck like some off-duty James Bond.

You clear your throat. “Um, yeah. Of course. Just—let me finish this.”

You quickly finish your mascara before stepping back to make sure there’s nothing left to fix, keeping your eyes firmly on your own reflection until you’re sure. Then you toss everything back into your cosmetics bag, take a steadying breath, and turn around.

“Tie?” you ask, stepping toward him.

He nods, eyes flicking up to the ceiling to avoid meeting yours.

You step in close, close enough that the warm, smoky scent of his cologne cuts through the floral soap still clinging to your skin. He stands still—very still—shoulders squared like he’s bracing for a frisk, not help tying his tie.

“Uh. Just a Windsor knot, I think,” he says, still not looking at you. “Please.”

“Relax,” you murmur, adjusting the loose lengths of his tie. “I’ve got you.”

Your fingers brush his collar as you straighten it, knuckles grazing warm skin at his throat, and you feel the way he swallows. He exhales slowly through his nose, like he’s trying to make his body relax—but it doesn’t listen.

You work carefully, methodically, the motions familiar enough that you don’t have to think about them. But Bob does. You can tell by the way his hands hover uselessly at his sides, by the faint tension still locked in his shoulders even as you smooth it from the fabric.

“You’re—uh—really good at this,” he says, nodding once, awkward.

You huff a quiet laugh. “It’s not hard, Bob.”

As you tighten the knot, your fingers linger for half a second too long at his chest, flattening the tie to make sure it sits right. That’s when his gaze finally drops—down to your hands, then your face, lingering at your lips—before flicking away again just as quickly.

“Sorry,” he says, immediately, even though he hasn’t done anything wrong.

You frown. “For what?”

He opens his mouth, closes it, then shrugs. “Nothing. Just—thanks.”

You step back, brushing imaginary dust from his shoulder. “There. Presentable.”

He gives you a small smile, eyes not quite meeting yours as he turns away and pretends to fix his cuff links. It takes you a few seconds to remember how to move, but when you finally do, you tighten the hotel robe around your waist and turn back to the mirror to finish getting ready.

It doesn’t take long to do your hair and add the finishing touches to your makeup, and by the time you turn to tell Bob you need to get dressed, he’s already out on the balcony.

With a deep sigh, you reach for your dress hanging on the highest towel hook beside the bathtub and slide it off the hanger, the silky fabric pouring over your hands like water. It’s deep navy satin, cut on the bias so it skims your body without clinging, with a soft draped neckline that falls low and elegant across your chest—and a single slit cut high along one thigh. It’s simple, fluid, and devastating in motion, the kind of dress that doesn’t need embellishment to make a point.

You turn your back to the bedroom—and the balcony—and let the robe slip from your shoulders. Then you step into the dress and draw it up your body, shivering at the cool fabric gliding against your skin. You reach to your side and pull the zipper all the way up before turning back to the mirror.

You’re not conceited—not really—but you can’t deny that you look good. And better yet, you feel good. Good enough to maybe—just a little—torture the man waiting out on the balcony who’s barely said more than fifteen words to you in the past three days.

“Bob,” you call. “You ready? We need to leave—like, now.”

You grab your purse from where you’d left it at the end of the bed and slip into your shoes, bending over to fasten the little buckles. When you straighten again, smoothing the front of your dress, Bob is already inside. Frozen. Just a few steps from the balcony doors like he walked in mid-thought and forgot how to function.

Your brows lift. “You good?”

His throat bobs, colour creeping up his cheeks as his eyes rake over you—slow and unguarded, like he’s forgotten how to look anywhere else. Forgotten that he’s supposed to be avoiding this—avoiding you.

“I—I’m good,” he says, too quick. “Let’s—um—let's go.”

The second he turns away, a small smile tugs at your mouth before you can stop it.

Whatever tonight turns into, it’s already off to an interesting start.

The whole squad—except Maverick—are already waiting in the lobby when you and Bob arrive. Mickey lets out a low whistle when he sees you, Jake mutters something inappropriate that he somehow makes sound charming, and Natasha just smirks, her eyes flicking between you and Bob.

Everyone is dressed to the nines—boys in suits with perfectly gelled hair, and Natasha in a sleek black gown that’s earning the attention of every passing male. Maverick will be in uniform, of course, but since the squad isn’t technically on duty or part of the ceremony, dress uniforms aren’t mandatory.

“Alright,” Bradley says, already moving toward the lobby doors. “Let’s get in a cab before Mav starts blowing up my phone.”

Everyone splits between two cars, piling in carefully, mindful of creasing jackets and skirts. The drive isn’t long, but you’re already regretting choosing the same cab as Jake before you’re even out of the resort’s driveway.

“So,” he says, twisting in the front seat to face the back. “Good holiday, Phoenix?”

She rolls her eyes. “Aside from the days I was dying? Yeah. Magical.”

He grins, unfazed. “I’ve missed you, you know? I feel like we haven’t spent any time together.”

Natasha snorts. “Yeah, because you’ve been too busy corrupting Floyd and flirting with random women who, by the way, are rarely interested.”

His brows shoot up, lips twitching. “Corrupting? That’s a strong word.” Then he looks at you. “Is that what you think, Blink?”

You lift one shoulder. “He’s been spending more time with you and acting kind of weird. Feels connected.”

Jake hums, like he’s filing that away. “Weird how?”

You don’t answer. You just look at him.

“Wow,” he says after a beat, shaking his head as he turns back to face the front. “You wound me. Both of you.”

Javy, sitting on Natasha’s other side, muffles his laughter with his hand.

“You know,” Jake adds without looking back, “you might thank me one day.”

Natasha scoffs. “Doubt it.”

Jake’s eyes catch yours in the rear-view mirror—and he winks.

You stare at his reflection for a beat longer than you should, then quickly look away. The cab suddenly feels too warm, too cramped, your pulse pounding in your ears as you turn to face the window.

And you realise—Jake knows something you don’t.

Eventually, the cab slows to a stop beneath the glowing awning of the Royal Hawaiian Resort. You shove the door open like you haven’t breathed fresh air in years, dragging in a deep breath as you practically spill out of the car. The others are already there, waiting by the entrance, smoothing suit jackets and checking their hair in the reflection of the glass doors.

You all know where to go thanks to the morning’s walkthrough, so once everyone’s gathered, Bradley leads the way through the main doors and into the extravagant lobby. A pre-ceremony cocktail hour is already underway on the terrace, where the whole squad immediately make a beeline for the bar while scanning the crowd for Maverick.

“Mav’s got an oceanfront suite here for the night,” Bradley says. “Honouree perks.”

“Damn,” Mickey sighs. “Bet it’s nice.”

“He’s got a room here?” Jake asks, suddenly interested.

You lean one elbow on the bar and let Natasha order your drink, too invested in the conversation to look away.

Bradley nods. “Yeah. That’s why he brought his uniform here this morning. He’s probably still up there now.”

Jake’s brows lift. “Is he staying here tonight instead of our resort?”

Bradley shrugs, a faint crease forming between his brows. “I don’t know. Why do you care?”

“I don’t,” Jake says lightly—then glances at you, something almost smug flickering across his face. “Just curious.”

Reuben snorts. “You just want to know if it’s free so you can take a girl up there later.”

Jake scoffs like he’s offended. “I would never.”

Bradley rolls his eyes. “You definitely would.”

You open your mouth to press him—to ask why he really wants to know—but you don’t get the chance.

“Lieutenants,” Maverick says, stepping up beside his godson in his perfectly pressed dress uniform. “You’re all looking very sharp this evening.”

There’s a chorus of greetings and a few teasing comments in response, but Maverick brushes them off with that signature cool confidence he seems to have perfected. He looks relaxed—proud, even—though it doesn’t take long before he’s pulled away by a pair of organisers eager to walk him through last-minute details.

Once everyone has a drink, the squad slowly disperses across the terrace. Glasses clink. The music shifts and grows louder. Mickey gets distracted by a tray of canapés and disappears entirely. Natasha drifts between conversations like she’s collecting impressions, and at some point you realise Jake has stationed himself near Maverick, deep in conversation, nodding along with an attentiveness that feels almost responsible.

Almost.

You try not to think too much of it. Jake talks to everyone. But something about tonight just feels… different.

Bob, on the other hand, is nowhere to be found.

You notice it only after a few minutes have passed—after you’ve scanned the terrace once, then again, expecting to spot him hovering near the railing or pretending to read the cocktail menu like it holds the secrets of the universe. But he isn’t by the bar. He isn’t with Bradley or Reuben. He’s just… gone.

You’re still debating whether to go looking for him when Jake appears at your side, drink in hand, expression carefully neutral.

“Hey,” he says. “Quick favour.”

Your brows knit. “What’s up?”

“Mav realised he left his speech cards in his room,” he continues easily. “He asked if you’d mind running up to grab them. He’s stuck talking to about six people who all think they’re more important than the ceremony.”

You hesitate, glancing back toward the terrace.

“Uh, yeah,” you say after a beat. “Sure. Which room?”

“Ten-eleven,” Jake says, already pressing a keycard into your palm. “Try not to get distracted.”

Then he winks—again—and disappears before you can question any of it.

You linger for a second, watching him slip into the crowd, before deciding not to overthink it and turning back toward the lobby. You hit the elevator button at least twice, turning the keycard over and over in your hand until the lift dings and the doors slide open.

It doesn’t take long to reach the tenth floor, then you follow the arrows until you find room 1011 and swipe the card against the reader. You shove the door open, step inside, and—

“Oh. Hey.”

Bob glances up from the side table drawer he’d been rifling through. “…Hi.”

You tilt your head. “What are you doing here?”

“Um.” He rubs the back of his neck. “Mav asked me to come up and find his speech cards.”

Your brows lift. “Oh.”

He hesitates, then looks at you again. “Why are you here?”

“Uh.” You step further inside, letting the door fall shut behind you. “Hangman said Mav asked him to ask me to come find his speech cards.”

Bob frowns. “He did?”

You nod. “Yeah. Weird.”

The silence that follows is heavy and uncomfortable, the kind that makes you want to say something—anything—just to break it.

You clear your throat. “Maybe Mav’s starting to lose it in his old age.”

Bob huffs a quiet laugh through his nose. “Yeah, maybe.”

“So…” You take another step into the room. “Have you found them yet?”

He glances back at the drawer. “No. And this room’s basically untouched, so I’m not even sure they’re here.”

“Did you have a boy-look?” you ask.

His eyes flick back up to you. “A what?”

“A boy-look,” you repeat. “My middle-school P.E. teacher used to say boys could never find anything because they were having a boy-look instead of a girl-look.”

Bob chuckles softly. “Wow. Your middle-school P.E. teacher sounds like she had some stuff to work through.”

You shrug. “Yeah. Probably.”

You glance around the room.

“Anyway. I’m here now, so I might as well help you look.”

He nods slowly, gaze dropping back to the drawer. “Okay.”

You move to the other side of the bed and start pulling open drawers—even though he’s probably already checked them. Neither of you speak. You don’t even look at each other. You just move wordlessly around the room, opening cupboards and drawers, lifting anything that isn’t bolted down—even flipping couch cushions after ten minutes of coming up empty.

“Okay,” you say finally, flopping onto the edge of the bed. “Either we start cutting the mattress open, or we tell Mav the cards aren’t in here.”

Bob stops rifling through the desk drawer—for the third time—and turns to you. “Where else would they be?”

You shrug. “I don’t know. But Mav’s not replying to my text, and we can’t miss the ceremony.”

He thinks for a moment, gaze drifting around the room—everywhere but you.

“What if you go down and ask him where they could be,” he says slowly, “and I keep looking?”

You draw a deep breath and push off the bed. “Okay. Let’s do that.”

“I’ll text you if I find them,” he adds.

You don’t answer, you just nod and head for the door.

Your hand closes around the handle. You push it down, and then—

Nothing. The handle moves, but the door doesn’t budge.

You frown, turn the lock, and try again. This time the handle doesn’t move at all.

Okay. So that’s locked.

You turn the lock back. Try again.

Nothing.

Weird.

“I think there’s something wrong with the door,” you call over your shoulder.

There’s a pause behind you. Then the soft sound of footsteps crossing the carpet.

Bob comes up close—close enough that you can feel his presence before you see him, the space behind you warming, shrinking. He doesn’t touch you. He just reaches past, carefully, his arm sliding into your periphery as he takes hold of the handle above your hand.

“Let me try,” he says quietly.

His knuckles brush yours as he presses down. The contact is brief, accidental, but it’s enough to make your fingers curl reflexively against the metal. The handle moves again. The door still doesn’t.

Bob exhales through his nose, slow and controlled, his chest almost—but not quite—brushing your back as he leans in a fraction more to test the latch.

Nothing.

For a second, neither of you move.

You’re acutely aware of how close he is now. Of the warmth at your back. Of the way his arm is still braced beside yours, trapping you between him and the door without meaning to.

“Well,” he murmurs, stepping back just enough to give you room. “That’s… weird.”

You swallow, forcing yourself to breathe normally as you turn slightly to face him.

“Yeah,” you say. “Weird.”

“We should—uh—we should call the front desk,” he says, already turning away.

You watch him grab the phone from beside the bed and dial whatever number calls reception, pressing it to his ear. Your hand is still on the door, your heart still lodged somewhere in your throat, and for some ridiculous reason you find yourself hoping that maybe—just maybe—you might get to stay stuck in here a little longer.

“…Hello?” he says, voice low, tentative.

He pulls the phone back from his ear, frowns at it, then lifts it again.

“Hello?”

He waits a beat—then exhales hard through his nose.

“It’s disconnected,” he says. “Or something. It’s not working.”

Your brows lift slowly. “Oh. That’s… convenient. But it’s fine, I’ll call Nat. You call Mav.”

His eyes widen like you’ve just solved an impossible equation, and he darts for where his phone is sitting on the desk. You pull yours from your purse, tap Natasha’s contact, and press it to your ear.

You both stand there, waiting.

The silence stretches.

The dial tone hums, steady and unhelpful, until—

“Hey, it’s Nat. I’m not available right now. If this is urgent, leave a message. If it isn’t, reconsider your choices.”

Shit.

You pull the phone away from your ear and scroll to another contact. Bradley.

“Mav didn’t answer,” Bob mutters. “I’ll try Fanboy.”

You keep trying. Keep dialling. One name after another. Again. Then again.

Nothing.

Eventually, Bob sinks down onto the edge of the bed, elbows braced on his knees, phone hanging loose in his hand. He stares at the carpet for a long second—too long—before lifting his head slowly, eyes narrowing like something has finally clicked into place.

“Did you—” He looks at you—really looks at you for the first time in days. “Did you say Hangman told you Mav asked him to send you up here?”

You nod slowly. “Yeah. Why?”

“Why didn’t Mav just ask you himself?” he asks.

“Jake said he was caught up with some important people.”

“So why wouldn’t he just ask Jake to go?”

You shrug. “I don’t know. Maybe Mav doesn’t trust him.”

“Or—” Bob pinches the bridge of his nose beneath his glasses, “—this was Hangman’s game all along.”

Your brows knit. “Hangman’s... game?”

Bob lets out a short, incredulous laugh. It isn’t amused. It’s tight, almost breathless.

“I should’ve known,” he mutters, pushing to his feet again. “This is exactly what he said he’d do. Proximity. Orchestration. Strategic intervention.”

He starts pacing—one step, two, then back the other way—like the room suddenly isn’t big enough.

You blink at him. “Bob.”

He doesn’t stop. “It’s probably Phase Five or something,” he says, talking to himself now. “He’s probably made up some stupid name for it too.”

“Phase what?” you ask, baffled.

He gestures vaguely between the two of you, frustration bleeding through the composure he’s been clinging to all night—all week. “Hangman doesn’t do anything without an angle. He doesn’t just accidentally send us both up here at the same time with a disconnected phone line.” He stops pacing and looks at you. “You think the door is a coincidence?”

You take a step toward him. “Okay, slow down. You’re saying Jake locked us in here on purpose?”

“Yes,” he says, emphatic—then, quieter, like every word costs him something. “I think so.”

Your brows draw tighter. “Why?”

He opens his mouth.

Closes it again.

His jaw tightens. He looks past you, then back, like he’s searching for the safest place to put his eyes and finding none of them acceptable. Then he exhales slowly, the sound controlled to the point of strain.

“It’s nothing,” Bob says. “Really.”

You tilt your head. “Bob.”

He shakes his head, already backing off, already retreating into that careful, maddening calm. “It’s just—Hangman being Hangman. He’s messing around. That’s all.”

“That didn’t answer my question.”

He shrugs, but it’s tight. “There’s nothing to explain.”

You hold his gaze, waiting for him to say something—anything—but he just stands there, shoulders tense, expression carefully blank.

You step closer. “Okay,” you say, measured, patient. “Then help me out. Because from where I’m standing, you’ve been really weird this entire trip.”

His jaw tightens.

“You’re nice,” you continue, voice steady but rising. “Then you’re distant. Then you’re nice again. Then you barely look at me. And then—” You stop yourself, a sharp breath cutting in. “Then I have to watch you flirt with some random girl at the bar.”

His head snaps up. “I wasn’t—”

“And that’s fine,” you cut in, heat finally cracking through. “If that’s what you want to do, that’s fine. But I swear to God, Bob, I’m getting whiplash trying to keep up with these mood swings.”

It’s your turn to pace now, a tight line across the carpet, the hem of your dress brushing your ankles. “And then there’s you and Hangman. Which—great. Fantastic. Love that for you. But if you’d asked me back in San Diego whether I thought you two would be this close, I would’ve laughed in your face.”

You stop in front of him again. He hasn’t moved. He looks like he’s bracing for impact.

“I thought I knew you,” you say, quieter now, the words pressing in harder for it. “And now I feel like I’m going crazy. Like I missed something. Like I’m standing here trying to read a map that keeps changing.”

You drag a hand through your hair, frustration finally spilling over.

“And honestly, you can tell me to shut up if this is just—what—Vacation Bob? And Vacation Bob is just a more awkward version of Hangman with worse timing? Fine. I can deal with that.”

You look at him—really look at him—heart pounding, chest tight.

“But I don’t think this is any version of you.”

You take one last step forward, close enough now that the space between you feels charged and unbearable.

“So please,” you say, breathless, heated, honest. “Will you tell me what the hell is going on?”

He looks at you like he’s trying to say something careful.

Like he’s still searching for the right words. Like he thinks he has time.

“I just—” he starts, voice rougher now, “I mean, it’s—”

Something in you finally snaps.

“Oh my God,” you breathe, half a laugh, half a sob. “You are unbelievable.”

Before he can ask what you mean, before he can retreat again, your fingers curl around his tie—the one he’d asked you to knot earlier, the one he’s been pulling at ever since you stepped into the room—and you yank.

He stumbles a half-step forward, breath catching, eyes flaring in surprise—and then you’re there, up on your toes, mouth crashing into his before he can find another excuse.

It’s not gentle. Not careful.

It’s hungry.

All the frustration you’ve swallowed for days crashes into him at once, your mouth pressing to his like you’ve been waiting forever and you’re done pretending otherwise. His name is still burning on your tongue when his body reacts—instinctive, immediate—hands coming up to catch you, to hold you, like his knees might actually give out if he doesn’t.

He makes a sound—quiet, wrecked—and it sends something sharp and dizzy straight through your stomach.

The kiss is messy. Urgent. All heat and ache and finally. His mouth moves against yours like he’s been holding himself back for far too long, like he doesn’t know whether to slow down or pull you closer so he does both at once.

Your knees go weak. Genuinely.

He feels it, curses under his breath, and tightens his grip, anchoring you to him, forehead dipping toward yours even as his mouth stays on yours like he’s afraid to stop.

You pull back just enough to breathe, lips still brushing his.

He looks wrecked.

Eyes blown wide behind his glasses, chest rising too fast, hands still holding you like letting go isn’t an option anymore.

He doesn’t let you pull away far.

Not really.

His hands stay on you, firm now, certain in a way they’ve never been—like something finally clicked into place and he’s done pretending he doesn’t want this. His forehead drops to yours, breath uneven, glasses nudging your temple.

“I just—” he says again, but this time it’s rough, laced with new meaning. “I—”

Your hands slide up his chest, fingers curling into his jacket, feeling his heart racing beneath the fabric.

“Oh, no,” you murmur, voice low and raw. “You don’t get to stop now. Not after all that.”

His breath stutters. You feel it—how close he is to losing whatever control he’s been clinging to. His thumb brushes your hip, slow, almost reverent, like he’s checking whether you’re real.

“You have no idea,” he says quietly, voice low and strained, “how long I’ve been trying not to—”

You kiss him again.

Slower this time. Deeper. Intentional.

He responds immediately, like the restraint finally snapped clean through, pulling you closer until there’s no space left to argue with. You feel it everywhere—the way his body lines up with yours, the way his hands learn you in real time, like he’s been imagining this and still can’t quite believe it’s happening.

The room feels too small. Too quiet. Every breath loud, every touch electric.

When he finally pulls back, it’s only to look at you—eyes dark, blown wide, utterly undone.

“We should stop,” he says, weakly. “The ceremony—”

You don’t answer right away.

You just watch him for a beat—breath unsteady, hands still gripping you like he hasn’t realised he never let go. And then you smile. Small. Slow. Wicked.

“We’re not stopping now, Floyd.”

The words barely land before you shove him—gentle but decisive—until the backs of his legs hit the bed and he drops onto the edge of it with a startled breath. You’re between his knees instantly, like there was never another option, like this is exactly where you’ve been heading all along. His hands find your hips on instinct, greedy and sure, thumbs digging in like he needs the contact to stay upright.

You look down at him, hands cradling his jaw, taking in the dark, wrecked look in his eyes—the way his lips are still swollen from your kiss, the way his mouth parts like he’s already waiting for more. His chest rises and falls too fast, and he doesn’t try to hide it.

“I think I’m in love with you,” you whisper, leaning in until your forehead meets his. “You know that?”

His breath stutters.

He doesn’t answer. He just tips his chin up and closes the distance between your mouths again—and this time it’s desperate, almost frantic, like the words knocked something loose in him. You barely have time to react before you’re kissing again, harder now, chasing the heat of him as if it might disappear if you don’t.

Your fingers slide into his hair and tug, and the sound he makes—low, broken—goes straight through you. His mouth parts under yours and you take full advantage, kissing him deeper, hotter, until there’s nothing left between you but breath and want and the taste of him on your tongue.

He’s flustered now, completely undone, hands clutching at your hips like he’s afraid you’ll change your mind if he doesn’t hold on tight enough. The kiss turns messy, your mouths dragging together in a rush of heat and need. When you nip at his lower lip, he exhales sharply against your cheek, the sound rough enough to make your knees threaten to give.

His grip tightens—then shifts.

Before you can process it, his hands slide lower, bunching the satin of your dress up as he pulls you in. You stumble forward with a soft gasp, and suddenly you’re straddling his lap, his thighs solid beneath you, his body pressed close enough that there’s nowhere left to breathe.

“Jesus—” he mutters against your mouth, hands firm at your hips now, holding you there like he’s done pretending he has any control left.

Your hands slide down the front of his shirt, fingers working open the buttons faster this time, patience gone, urgency taking over. You feel the hitch in his breath with each one, the way his grip tightens when your palm drags lower between you.

“We—uh—we’re gonna have to be quick, though,” you say, voice wrecked and breathless.

There’s no space. No distance left. Just heat and friction and the way his head tips back when you shift instinctively in his lap, drawing a low, wrecked sound out of him.

“That—” he pants, words catching when you rock against him, “that won’t be a problem.”

One of his hands fists in the gathered fabric of your dress, the other braced behind you like he needs the leverage to stay upright.

You pause for half a second, forehead pressed to his, both of you breathing too hard.

Then he kisses you again—hard and hungry—pulling you in like stopping was never really an option.

Your hands move fast, frantic across his chest and shoulders, shoving his jacket back. His hands only leave your waist long enough to free his arms—then his palms are back on you, tugging the silky fabric up until they can slide beneath it.

You sigh against his lips, breath stuttering as his hands roam possessively under your dress, fingers digging into your waist. He bucks up against you, needy and unrestrained, grinding himself into you until you feel the thick, hard press of him right where you need it.

The heat between you sharpens—filthy, hungry, dangerous.

He groans into your mouth, hands sliding down to your thighs. His grip tightens as he drags you impossibly close, holding you there, driving his hips up again and nearly choking when you press yourself down against his clothed cock. You can’t help it. You need him. Need it.

You grind down again, and again, the slick fabric of your panties pressed against you in the most ridiculously delicious way. Your breath catches sharply in your chest.

Bob hears it.

“You—you’re killing me,” he pants, mouth dragging down your jaw in wet, open kisses.

You whimper, words dissolving into the heat of having Bob Floyd hard and heavy against your core.

His mouth is everywhere and nowhere all at once—down your neck, over your collarbone, back again—like he can’t decide where to kiss you first and refuses to stop long enough to choose. His hands slide up your dress in a rush, skimming your ribs, your breasts, fingers catching on the fabric before he shoves the sleeves down your shoulders, impatient and a little clumsy.

You scramble to get your arms free, breath hitching, and the second you do your fingers are buried in his hair, twisting in his curls. You tug harder than you mean to, desperate, and he groans into your skin like he’s barely holding himself together.

His hands move back to your chest, unsteady now, fingers trembling as they curl into the cups of your bra. Then he tugs them down with zero ceremony, not wasting a second. His fingers find your nipples quickly, rolling them gently—once, twice—like he’s checking if you’re really that sensitive, and the sharp gasp you make answers him immediately.

“Fuck,” he mutters, wrecked, the word dragged out against your throat.

You arch into him without thinking, chasing the contact, hips shifting in his lap as your head tips back. You feel his cock twitch beneath you—harder, more insistent—and the way he whimpers into your skin tells you he felt it just as sharply.

“Bob,” you whine, needy and unguarded, the sound falling apart as everything starts to blur.

His mouth is hot and open against your skin, moving across your chest in hungry, unfocused kisses. He cups your breasts like he’s been thinking about this for far too long—like his hands already know exactly where they want to be—and there’s nothing hesitant about it. His thumbs drag over your nipples, slow and deliberate, coaxing until they’re tight and aching, and when you gasp he makes a low sound against your skin that feels dangerously satisfied.

He bites at your collarbone, teeth grazing just enough to make you jolt, then soothes it immediately with his mouth as he works lower—lips, tongue, breath—until he seals his mouth around your left nipple.

Your hips jerk. You don’t mean to, but you can’t help it. Desperation coils hot and deep in your core, tightening with every flick of his tongue, every broken sound he makes against you.

“Please—” you gasp, voice thin and breaking. “Need you. Please.”

His hips rock up in response, dragging the heavy, solid length of him right against your soaked core, and the sound that leaves you is wrecked and helpless. There’s too much friction, too much heat, nowhere near enough relief. Your thighs tighten around him on instinct, clinging like your body’s already begging for more.

“Bob—fuck,” you breathe, eyes fluttering shut.

The sound barely leaves you before he shifts to your right breast, mouth closing around it as he sucks hard, deep, unhurried—like he’s intent on taking his time ruining you anyway. The sensation pulls another groan from you, louder and needier, and your thighs clamp tight around his hips, anchoring yourself against the solid press of his body, the friction of his pants against your bare skin, the relentless hardness wedged between them.

He moans into you, the sound vibrating straight through your chest, and then he’s dragging his mouth back up to yours—kissing you hard and deep, claiming in the way he does everything.

Your hands slip free of his hair, sliding down the warm line of his neck, over his chest, his stomach—until they reach his belt. You work it loose quickly, tugging the leather free, popping the button, easing the zip down. His hips jerk forward when your hand brushes him, thick and hot beneath his briefs.

“Are you—are you sure?” he rasps against your lips, the words barely holding together.

You know he would stop if you said no. You know he’d do it without hesitation. And the thought tightens something in your chest, because Bob Floyd is devastatingly good—even now, sitting beneath you, shamelessly grinding his hard cock against your soaked core while you take your time answering him.

“Yes,” you say, nodding, breathless. “I’m sure.”

His mouth crashes back to yours, and then his hands leave you for just a second—just long enough to lift his hips and shove his pants and briefs down—before they’re back again, gripping your thighs, spreading you wider like he’s done waiting.

You reach between your bodies without breaking the kiss, breath tangled with his, and he jerks sharply at the first touch. Your own breath stutters as your fingers curl around him—bare, hot, impossibly thick—your grip firm but careful, like you’re testing just how much he can take.

“Jesus—” he chokes, voice wrecked. “Don’t—I won’t—”

You stroke him once, slow and deliberate, feeling the way he twitches hard in your hand. Your body clenches around nothing, needy and aching.

“Won’t what?” you whisper, teasing right against his mouth.

Then you stroke him again, thumb brushing over the sensitive tip.

He groans, low and broken, the sound punched out of him. “I won’t—won’t last.”

His forehead drops to your shoulder on the third stroke, breath shuddering as he gives in to it, and you can’t help the way your legs tighten around him. Your hips rock instinctively, against nothing, desperate for friction—for him—for anything to ease the low, aching heat coiled tight in your stomach.

“Please,” he whispers into your skin. “Please.”

His hand slides between your legs, pushing aside the thin scrap of fabric still separating you, fingers brushing through the slick heat there. The gasp that leaves you catches halfway up your throat, turning into a soft, pathetic whine.

“You’re already—” He swallows hard, words faltering. “You’re so wet.”

And you are—slick and aching, pulsing with need, practically dripping onto the bedsheet between his thighs. You shift your hips, lifting just enough to line yourself up, desperate for the pressure, the stretch, the feeling of him filling you. Every inch of your body feels tight and hot, begging.

His hand grips your thigh, steadying you as he lines himself up. The tip brushes against you—slick and hot—teasing right at the edge.

Your breath hitches.

Your eyes lift to his, wide and pleading.

“Please,” you whisper, the word breaking. “I just—fuck—I need you.”

He groans against you, deep and unrestrained, as you start to sink down.

You gasp when the tip breaches you, hot and thick, stretching you more than you expected right from the start. Your head drops to his shoulder, breath coming fast and uneven, every nerve lit up and buzzing. All you can feel is him. All you can think about is him. The rest of the world is already forgotten, because all you care about right now—forever—is him.

“Oh fuck,” you whisper, clinging to his shoulders. “You’re so big—”

“I’ve got you,” he murmurs, lips brushing your neck, breath shuddering with the effort of holding still.

Your fingers dig into his shoulders, nails dragging as your legs tighten around his hips, pulling yourself closer. You sink down a little more—and then you still, chest heaving, forcing yourself to pause. To breathe. To adjust. To feel every inch of him.

He’s rigid beneath you, muscle locked tight with restraint, holding himself back, giving you the time you need even though it’s clearly costing him something.

You sink lower again. The stretch burns, pressure building low and tight, but it’s good—too good—making your head spin.

“So tight,” he groans, voice rough. “You’re doing so good, sweetheart.”

You’ve never been with anyone this big, and suddenly the idea of anyone else feels impossible. Nothing else could ever compare to this. To the way your body feels right now—like fire and need and desperation wound tight, right to the edge.

You draw in a deep, shuddering breath and lift your head from his shoulder, eyes meeting his. They’re dark and unfocused, fixed on you like you’re the only thing he can see. Like you’re the most beautiful thing he’s ever looked at.

Then you finally—finally—sink all the way down with a broken, half-choked moan that tears out of your chest. Bob swallows the sound with a kiss, slow and deep, his hands sliding to your waist, fingers digging in—holding you still. Holding you there.

“I—uh—” he pants against your lips, breath breaking. “‘m not gonna last long.”

Your mouth curves against his. “Me neither.”

He nods once, sharp. “Good.”

Then he lifts you—just a little, like you weigh nothing at all—and snaps his hips up, driving into you hard enough to knock the breath from both of you.

You cry out together.

Your head falls back, his name tearing out of you 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 overwhelming way.

Your gasp rips through the room when he thrusts again, raw and desperate, your back arching as 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 decided it’s his.

“Jesus,” he groans, forehead dropping to your shoulder. “You feel—you’re so—”

His words break off when you roll your hips, shifting your weight onto your knees for leverage, meeting him without hesitation.

“I’m what?” you ask, breathless, teasing even now.

His eyes lift to yours, dark and intent, and he gives you that look—the one that makes your stomach tighten in anticipation—like your teasing isn’t getting you out of anything. Like if you’re lucky, he’s going to make you pay for it later.

You hold his gaze, daring him to say it—daring him to do something about it.

Then you lift your hips just enough to make a point and drop back down. The broken groan it punches out of him sounds like it’s dragged straight from his chest.

And whatever patience he had left disappears.

His arms lock around you, pulling you fully flush. One wraps tight around your waist, unyielding, the other sliding up the back of your neck to tangle in your hair—holding you there, all of you, not allowing you even a breath of space.

Then his hips start driving up into you, fast and desperate. Your thighs tremble as you struggle to stay steady, every thrust dragging you closer to the edge. The sound of skin on skin grows louder, wetter, messier—perfect.

He’s relentless now, rough in his urgency, but there’s a tenderness in the way he holds you that makes your chest ache. Like this matters. Like you’re something precious even as he fucks into you with fierce, burning need, the noises clawing up your throat raw and unfiltered.

Every drive hits exactly where you need it, leaving your vision hazy, your skin lit up and buzzing. You hear his breath coming apart, feel the slick heat between you, but his rhythm never falters—steady, punishing, inevitable.

Your slick coats his thighs—soaking your panties, dripping onto the damn bed—and still it’s not enough. You want more. You want everything.

You bury your face in his neck and moan—loud and shameless—the sound echoing through the room and probably the corridor beyond it. You wouldn’t even be surprised if someone out on a balcony hears you now.

He drives into you deep, hitting that perfect place every time, and the heat—God, that unbearable, beautiful heat—builds fast. Sharp and coiled, lightning-hot up your spine.

“Close,” you gasp. “I—I’m so close—”

He groans into your shoulder. “Me too.”

The way he fucks up into you grinds perfectly against your clit, the pressure relentless and just right. Your nipples drag against his dress shirt, your thighs start to shake, your back arches, and the coil inside you winds so tight your lungs forget how to work.

You can feel how close he is too—in the way his rhythm stutters, the way his breath breaks apart. The way his arms crush you to him until it almost hurts, until there’s nowhere else you could possibly be. You want to be closer than skin allows—closer than the world will let you be.

You’re both panting, right on the edge, hips meeting his thrusts as you cling to each other like letting go would break you apart. He pulls back just enough to see your face, and the look he gives you—wrecked, awestruck, completely fucking gone—undoes you.

“Fuck—baby—” he chokes, eyes dark and soft all at once, and the way he’s looking at you makes your stomach flip.

That’s all it takes.

The coil inside you snaps, and your orgasm rips through you like a live wire—white-hot and all-consuming. You cry out, shaking, clenching, blinded by the heat tearing through you.

And Bob’s right behind you—one, two more thrusts—and then he’s groaning low, spilling inside you as he buries his face in your shoulder, thrusting through it, riding the high with you. You're both shaking, bodies slick, hearts pounding, still grinding, still clinging, still desperate to be closer than skin will allow.

And for a long moment, neither of you moves. You just breathe—ragged, uneven, still a little dazed—wrapped up in each other like the world outside this room doesn’t exist. Your legs stay tight around him, your body heavy in his lap, his arms locked around you like letting go isn’t an option yet.

Then, slowly, he lifts his head just enough to look at you. His glasses are crooked, curls damp, cheeks flushed in a way you’ve never seen before. You brush your thumb over his jaw, push his hair back, and lean in to kiss him—slow this time. Soft. Open. Sweet.

He kisses you like it’s instinct now. Like it’s familiar. Like it’s something he’s been waiting to do forever.

“I love you,” he murmurs against your mouth, almost absentminded. “By the way.”

The words land warm and easy, like they’ve always belonged there.

He kisses you again—your lips, the corner of your mouth, your jaw—unhurried, reverent, like he’s committing you to memory now that he finally can.

And for just a second, everything is perfect.

Then—somewhere distant and muffled—you hear music.

You freeze.

His brows knit. “Is that…?”

Your eyes widen. “Oh my God.”

The ceremony. The speech cards.

Maverick.

The spell breaks all at once.

“Oh—shit,” you breathe, untangling yourself with a reluctant little sound, already missing the warmth—the stretch—of him the second you pull back.

“Oh my God,” he mutters, hands scrambling uselessly for a second before he remembers how limbs work.

He drags a hand through his hair, pushing his smudged glasses back up his nose, blinking like he’s still trying to re-enter his own body. He pushes off the bed, a little awkward, a little stiff, fixes his briefs, then hauls his pants back up.

You step back and smooth your dress down with shaky hands. Fix your bra. Fix your straps. The satin is wrinkled now, beyond saving, but there’s no time to care.

Then you catch sight of the bed—and stop.

“…Holy shit,” you whisper, eyes locked on the dark, unmistakable patch where you’d just been.

He follows your gaze—and huffs out a breathless laugh, half horrified, half amused. “Jesus. Okay. That’s—” He clears his throat. “We—we can’t tell Mav.”

You snort despite yourself. “That’s if we’re not already found out, which…” You trail off, cheeks burning. “Fuck. They’re all gonna know.”

He swallows hard, nodding once. “Yeah. They’re all gonna know.”

You just look at each other for a moment, the silence stretching, hearts still racing—not from what you did, but from what it means. For you. For the squad. For whatever comes next. You wait for the weight of it to drop. For that familiar twist of panic, the sickening sense that you’ve crossed a line you can’t uncross.

But it never comes.

The warmth in your chest doesn’t fade. It doesn’t sharpen into anxiety or curdle into regret. It stays exactly where it is—steady, grounding, right.

Because nothing feels wrong.

You don’t feel like you’ve ruined anything. You don’t feel like you’ve made a mistake. All you feel is the quiet, unshakeable certainty that there is nothing in this world—no fallout, no teasing, no future complication—that could make you wish this hadn’t happened.

There is nothing you want more than the man standing in front of you.

“I really mean it,” you say finally, the words simple and sure. “I love you.”

Something in his face softens completely. He steps toward you—not rushed, not hesitant—just Bob. No awkwardness. No deflection. No borrowed confidence. Just him.

Sweet Bob. Steady Bob. Yours.

“I know,” he says gently, lifting his hands to cup your jaw. “I mean it too.”

Then he leans in and kisses you—not hurried this time, not hungry. Just sure.

It’s slow and lingering, the kind of kiss that doesn’t need to prove anything—warm and steady and full of promise. His thumb brushes your jaw, grounding you there for a heartbeat longer, like he’s imprinting the moment before the world comes rushing back in.

You kiss him back just as softly, smiling into it, letting yourself have this. The certainty. The quiet joy of knowing.

Then—somewhere outside the suite—you hear the music swell again.

You both freeze.

He pulls back first. “Okay,” he says, a little breathless. “Yeah. We—we really have to go.”

You laugh, short and disbelieving. “Yeah. We really do.”

There’s a flurry of movement—he grabs his jacket, you smooth your dress as best you can, grab your purse, fix your shoes. Then he reaches for you again, quick this time, stealing one more kiss like he can’t help himself.

“For the record,” he murmurs, forehead pressed to yours, “worth it.”

You grin. “Completely.”

Then you’re out the door together, half-running down the hallway, trying—and failing—to look composed as you mash the elevator button like your lives depend on it.

When the doors slide open, you step inside, hands linked, biting back laughter at the utterly telling reflection of you both in the mirrored wall.

“Hold this,” you say, pressing your purse into Bob’s hands.

He takes it without question, brows knitting as you start bunching your dress up in a hurry.

“What’re you—”

“My underwear are soaked,” you say plainly. “I can’t keep wearing them.”

You make quick work of tugging them down your legs, stepping out carefully before bunching them in your fist. When you lift your head, Bob has gone very still—like his brain stalled halfway through a thought. His grip tightens on your purse, his throat works, and his eyes track the movement of your hand like he’s not entirely sure where to look.

You smirk. “You good?”

He clears his throat. “I—uh—I’m—yeah, that’s—” His gaze flicks back to your hand. “That’s kind of hot.”

You laugh softly. “Yeah? Then hold onto them for me.”

You step closer—close enough that his shoulder brushes the side wall, close enough that there’s no pretending this is accidental—and slide your hand into the pocket of his pants. His chest lifts fast, breath hitching, eyes locked on yours as the air in the elevator thickens, heat sparking sharp and unmistakable between you.

For half a second, you forget where you are.

Then—ding.

The doors slide open.

You step out into the lobby and are immediately swallowed by motion—guests drifting in every direction, staff moving with practiced efficiency, the low hum of conversation rising and falling like background noise. No one looks twice at you. No one slows you down.

Bob stays close at your side as you walk, his hand hovering at your back, not touching but present. Neither of you speak. There isn’t time. You just keep moving, heels clicking softly against the marble as you cross the lobby.

There’s a security guard standing by the entrance to the Grand Hall—but he’s turned away, distracted, caught mid-conversation with one of the resort staff. It’s brief, but it’s enough. You and Bob slip past quietly, unchallenged, unnoticed, and through the doors into the dimly lit hall beyond.

Maverick’s voice carries through the space, steady and familiar, echoing beneath the high ceiling. Rows of tables fill the room, guests seated and attentive, the stage lit at the front. You slow instinctively, eyes flicking toward the podium as you take it all in.

Bob exhales softly beside you—and you feel it more than hear it.

You spot your table easily, guided by memory of the morning’s walkthrough, and grab Bob’s hand, tugging him along with you.

You don’t look at the others. You don’t dare.

You keep your eyes down as you slide into your seat, heart lodged high in your throat, cheeks burning, acutely aware of every pair of eyes at the table turning toward you.

Then, with effort, you force yourself to look up.

At the podium.

At Maverick.

At the damn speech cards in his hands…

“Because at the end of the day,” he says, voice booming through the microphone, “the mission only matters if the people beside you do.” He pauses, smiling out at the room. “Thank you for letting me serve.”

The room erupts in applause. Chairs scrape as people stand, whistles cutting through the noise as an admiral you don’t recognise joins Maverick onstage and shakes his hand. The moment is loud and bright and ceremonial.

But you barely see any of it.

You turn sharply toward Jake, leaning in so he can hear you over the clapping. “Maverick was in on it?!”

Jake’s grin stretches impossibly wide. “You two just fucked in Mav’s room, didn’t you?”

Bob immediately sinks lower in his chair, shoulders curling inward like he’s trying to disappear into the upholstery.

“Wait,” Mickey says, still clapping, eyes wide. “They fucked?”

“Jesus, Mick,” Reuben mutters. “Keep up.”

Your eyes stay narrowed at Jake. “How did you lock us in there?!”

His gaze flicks to Bradley, then Javy. “We leaned on it.”

Bob looks up, horrified. “You leaned on it?”

“For the record,” Natasha says coolly, “I was not a part of this.”

Jake snorts. “You still ignored their calls.”

You whip toward her, eyes wide. “You did?!”

She shrugs, smirking despite herself. “Didn’t hear it ring.”

You let out a small, breathless laugh and look back at Jake. Then Bradley. Then around the table, one familiar face after another, until your eyes finally land on Bob.

He’s redder than you’ve ever seen him, ears flushed, shoulders tight, clearly wishing he could disappear and also very aware that he absolutely cannot. And something in your chest does this soft, stupid little flip.

Even now.

Even like this.

Even surrounded by your squad, swindled by your captain, very publicly exposed, and very definitely panty-less in the middle of a U.S. Navy sponsored event, your heart still skips.

Because there he is.

That man. That gorgeous, earnest, mortifyingly sincere man who looks at you like you hung the moon and stole his breath in the same afternoon. The man who makes everything feel steadier just by being close. The man you somehow stumbled into loving without even realising it had already happened.

There’s no panic. No second-guessing. No what-ifs waiting to pounce once the adrenaline fades.

Just certainty.

Just the quiet, unwavering knowledge that whatever comes next, you want it with him. That the rest of your life suddenly feels less like a question and more like a direction. And God, you cannot wait to start it.

Because that man? That gorgeous, embarrassed man is the love of your life. And God, you just can’t wait to start the rest of forever with him.

“And that, ladies and gentleman,” Jake says, standing like he just won an award himself, “is Hangman’s Guide to Getting the Girl.”