Hd

You’re the one who drives the entire enterprise.  A civilian who works at Top Gun, you’re no stranger to the stress of dealing with a multi-billion-dollar fleet of planes.  You serve as a liaison between the Navy and the bevy of contractors who build and maintain the planes, and if Bob has to juggle a million complicated systems mid-flight, you have to juggle a million tricky relationships and contracts on the ground.

You put the question to him, late one night at the Hard Deck.  Harvard and Yale had been leading a spirited conversation about dry spells, long distant relationships, juggling hook-ups.  You and Bob sat there, listening but adding little.  But after the other Daggers started to peel away one by one, you had turned to Bob and started asking about his love life.

“Non-existent,” he had replied with a sad shake of his head.

“Same.”

There was a beat of silence—you sipped at your drink; Bob cracked another peanut.

“Any prospects?” you asked.

Another shake of his head.

“Yeah, same here,” you replied.

Then there was another long stretch of silence, but this time you fixed Bob with a curious look.  It lasted long enough for him to notice, for him to squirm in his seat—

“So, I have an idea, and you’re totally free to say ‘no,’” you started, and the rest was history.

-----

That was months ago.  Bob has gotten to know you much better since then.

Much, much better.

He knows what you feel like.  He knows what you taste like.  He knows the place on your neck that makes you keen when he puts his mouth to it.  He knows exactly where to press the tips of his fingers when they are inside you, where to find the spot that makes your pussy pulse with arousal, that makes your breathing stutter and your eyes roll back, that makes you moan out his name—

He knows how it sounds when you moan his name, and he knows how that affects him in turn, and he knows that he doesn’t know nearly enough about you.

He doesn’t know what you eat for breakfast or how you take your coffee or if you even drink coffee at all.  He doesn’t know much about your family, little about your childhood, only a bit about your wants and likes and dislikes.

Because of the rules you laid out that night at the Hard Deck.

Hooking up, friends-with-benefits, you had explained, requires clear lines be drawn.  Otherwise, it gets messy.  Feelings develop.  Misunderstandings happen.  People get hurt, sometimes badly.

Your rules keep those lines clearly drawn.  No spending the night.  No dates beyond sex—no lunch dates or movie nights, no days at the beach together.  You call each other and make plans to fuck, and then you part, and that keeps it neat.  Clean.

There’s no way you can know it, because you don’t really know Bob either, but there’s no rule on earth you could put in place that would keep him from falling for you anyway.  You work with numbers and contracts all day, so you believe in the power of words, in rules. 

You don’t know that Bob Floyd doesn’t require much to fall in love with you.  That the paltry moments between physical encounters is plenty for love to flourish for him.  That the handful of soft touches, the smiles, the little laughs…they are enough.  The way you pat his cheek after you brush a chaste kiss there once you’re dressed and about to leave his place.  The time you slid his glasses on his face, then kissed the tip of his nose.

Which is why your rules turn out to be so important after all:  because here he is, hopelessly, painfully in love while you only see him a safe place to release your sexual frustrations.  He cannot imagine how much worse it would hurt if those lines didn’t exist.

*****

You have a chronic issue with men.

You pick the worst possible boyfriends.  From high school until now, you seem to only attract cheaters, losers, and general assholes.  Numerous boyfriends cheated on you.  One stole your car.  One stole your prescription sleeping pills and got arrested trying to sell them. 

It’s not that you’re attracted to assholes, really.  The whole bad-boy schtick bores you.  It’s more that you like to fix things; you like to turn chaos into order.  That trait serves you well at work, untangling all the intricate contracts and orders and rules between the Navy and their contractors. 

That trait serves you less well in love, because people often can’t be fixed, at least not without wanting to be fixed.  And anyway, the guys you date need deep fucking therapy, not a girlfriend with a fetish for setting order to the universe.

(A therapist once posited that you’re this way because of your own childhood:  the only child of two career Army parents.  Your chaotic formative years—bouncing around the world, unable to set roots, sometimes even shifted from one parent to another due to conflicting deployments—left you with a wound, your therapist suggested.  Disliking having a mirror held up to yourself, you just ghosted said therapist and never dug into that part of your internal makeup again).

But the therapist did make you aware of your bad patterns with men, so you swear off relationships, which is easy enough. 

You still have needs, though.

You canvass the Hard Deck for a month.  Take in all the fly boys and consider the fly girls too.  Profile them, watched how they acted when they think no one is watching.  Watch them sober, watch them drunk.  Watch to see which ones are handsy in an unwelcome way, and which ones remain respectful.

It’s Bob Floyd who catches your eye.

Not the sort of man you’d go for, usually.  Quiet, reserved.  Hardly ever drinks but gets in on the sing-alongs.  Plays pool when someone needs an opponent.  Is often the designated driver, and you smile when you see his bemused frustration when he steers a fellow Dagger, drunk and stumbling, out the door and safely home.  He’s so stable and pulled-together.  You bet he’s never cheated on a girl or stolen her car.  Not your type at all.

He’s good-looking though, in a quiet way.  Ditch the shitty Navy-issued glasses, muss up his hair a little, and he’d be downright handsome. 

Not the sort of man you’d go for, usually, but you aren’t looking for a boyfriend or a future husband.  You just need a zero risk, reliable guy to get off with.  It seems like a long shot because Bob is so quiet, but when you put the idea to him, he blinks…then asks you to clarify.

Then he agrees.

-----

That was months ago.

The arrangement works.  It’s exactly what you were looking for.  Bob Floyd is exactly what you thought he was:  reliable, steady.  He’s no broken man-child; he’s quiet but that belies a secure sort of masculinity that you’ve never really experienced before.  He knows who he is and what he wants, and he isn’t swayed by anything.  He’s solid.

He’s also surprising, in some ways.

To be crude about it, in looking for a friend-with-benefits, you needed only two things in a man:  a clean bill of health and a hard dick.  Bob is able to provide both (he hands you his test results from his latest physical, neatly folded in an envelope the first night you meet up).

He is also able to provide more than that.  The first night is a little awkward, but only because you are near-strangers.

The second encounter is better.

The third encounter is…wonderful.  It’s like Bob was homing in on you, treating you like one of his weapon systems.  Calibrating you.  Figuring out what you like and doing more of that, seeing what you don’t respond to and never doing it again.  Which makes it sound cold, how he figures you out, but Bob is so damned warm.  Warm and sweet and considerate, and he grins at you and laughs with you, and it’d be so easy to fall for him—

It's been months, but for fucks sake, you’re falling for him.  It’s embarrassing, because you gave him this tough-girl speech about rules and lines and not catching feelings, and he had nodded seriously and said he understood…and now here you are, the idiot who is catching feelings, who is realizing that maybe your type of man was wrong all along, that maybe who you needed was a reliable, steady man with warmth and blue eyes that swim a bit behind the lens of his thick glasses.

*****

It’s been months, and Bob always worries that this arrangement will end. 

One of your rules had been that the arrangement stops the moment one of you find someone else, and Bob always worries that someone else will catch your eye.  That you’ll find some man—you are surrounded by handsome, capable men every day, for heaven’s sake—that you find an appealing prospect.  Someone you want to sleep with and be with.

Someone better than him.

He’s usually so secure in himself, but he has a small crisis of confidence.  He wonders what he lacks—what makes him a good hook-up but not a good boyfriend?  If he could just show you…if he could take you out on a proper date.  Buy you flowers, buy you dinner, take you for a moonlit stroll along the beach.  If he could cook for you, show you that he’s not that useless breed of man who can’t or won’t do homey tasks.  If he could take care of you when you’re sick, be a sounding board when you rage…

Bob decides to do what he can, which is to just be the best lover he can be.  To be the most considerate, most adventuresome, most giving man you’ve ever taken to bed.  It’s all he can do anyway, so he might as well give it his best.

-----

Bob usually lets you lead.  He lets you set the schedule, and for every five times you call to hook-up, he calls once. 

The arrangement, such as it is, does work for him.  For all the angst of his unrequited love for you, the hooking up does relax him.  It helps him burn off extra energy, which helps him focus at work.

It also helps him explore things he has never tried before.

With you, Bob has played around with role play:  tame scenarios where he gets to pretend that he’s a different person than he is.  He has tried a variety of positions that have tested him in both strength and flexibility.  If there’s a list of sexual acts, Bob feels like he’s steadily working through it with you.

There’s still one, though…

It’s Fritz who starts the conversation at the Hard Deck.  You’re not there, but the guys all are, and the conversation drifts towards the usual locker room talk.  Fritz kicks it off by talking about his latest girl.  The guys egg him on for details.  Bob grins around the rim of his glass, says little, but then Fritz says, “man, when she sits on my face and smothers me in that pussy, I could die happy.”

It never occurred to Bob before, but he adds it to his list of sexual acts:  have you sit on his face and smother him with your pussy.

The idea takes hold so fiercely that Bob has to shift in his seat, suddenly warm at the thought of you sitting on him, his mouth on you.  He reaches into his pocket and pulls out his phone, and he’s sending you a text before he even has a beat to rethink it.

Want to meet up tonight?

You reply within a minute.

Sure.  Mine or yours?

Bob pauses and considers.  He catches Rooster’s eye and tilts his head at him, gesturing to his roommate for a sidebar.  Rooster comes over and stands beside Bob.

“What’s up?” Rooster asks.

“What are your plans for tonight?”

Rooster grins at the question.  It’s not exactly a secret that you and Bob are hooking up, though you don’t publicize it either.  Bob doesn’t know that his fellow Daggers have a betting pool about how the situation with you will resolve.  He’s caught the sly grins between them sometimes and wondered at what they mean.

“You asking if the apartment will be empty?” Rooster asks.  “Hell, Baby on Board.  Keep it to your room.  I don’t care what happens in the privacy of your own room.”

Bob can’t help the blush that heats his face.  He shouldn’t be embarrassed, but sometime the two of you get lost in the moment, and more than once, Rooster has sidled up to Bob the day after and clapped him on the back, congratulated him on his prowess—

Rooster catches the man’s discomfort and elbows him in the side.  “I was planning on finding myself some companionship for the night,” he finally says.  “The place is all yours.”

Bob thanks him, then texts you. 

My place?

Another beat before your answer comes.  When?

Now.

*****

Bob generally lets you set the tone of your arrangement, but sometimes he has a moment of dominance that makes a wave of desire wash through you so strongly that your knees actually go weak.

Like his text.  No softening his final message, just a simple, single word that holds a universe of promise.

Now.

“Yes, sir,” you murmur.  You only take a minute to brush your teeth and slip into nicer lingerie, but then you get in your car and head over to his place.

He must have been waiting at the window, watching for you.  You aren’t even halfway up the steps to his porch when the door swings open, and there he is. 

Of course it was easy to catch feelings for him.  He’s perfect, and right now he’s staring at you like he wants to eat you alive.

-----

“Explain it…again,” you manage to get out between kisses.  “How does…it work?”

Bob raises himself, props himself on his forearms on either side of your head.  His hair is mussed (perfect), and his glasses are on the bedside stand, so his blue eyes peer down at you. 

“You sit on my face,” he replies simply.

You huff out a breath.  “Sure, but….like, how?  I weigh a lot—”

He shakes his head.  “Not a problem for me, honey.”

“But I could hurt you.”

“I’ll be fine.”

“I could kill you.” 

He laughs, and he shifts his weight onto one arm so the other is free to reach down and grasp your waist.  “If you kill me like that, I want how I died mentioned in my obituary, okay?”

“Not funny!”  You poke him in the side, and he laughs again.

“Seriously, Bob.  I don’t want to hurt you,” you continue.

“You won’t.  I promise.  It’ll be fine.  But I want to do this.”  His smile fades, and he fixes you with a darker look that sends a bolt of lust right through your core.  “Please.”

-----

The two of you, once you got over your initial awkwardness, usually move so well together.  Perfectly coordinated, in sync. 

This…is not that.

For the first time, the two of you aren’t working together.  Bob can’t know it, but it’s not just a physical misalignment—there are hidden feelings at play.  As you tentatively hover over where he lays on the bed, you feel suddenly exposed, like Bob might be able to see the feelings you’ve caught for him.  It’s so intimate, you think, being so bared to him.  You hold yourself back, shy, and Bob doesn’t understand the sudden reticence in you.  He chalks it up to fear of hurting him.

And you can’t know it, but Bob absolutely loves how intimate it is, being so exposed to him.  There are hidden feelings on his side too—how hard it hits him, that he’s never done this with another woman before, and how he cannot imagine doing it with another one after you.  He’s ravenous for you, wants to possess you in every way he can, but when he tries to tug you closer to him, you chalk it up to general horniness and nothing more.

It is all misunderstanding, in the end.  You hold yourself back, hover over his face.  He grips your hips, tries to pull you to him.  The two of you struggle against the other, not understanding what is really driving the other—

“Come on,” he growls.  “Give it to me, honey.”

“Bob, I don’t—”

“I can take it.”

“But I—”

It happens in a split second.  Bob tugs you down against him in the exact moment you try to get a better balance over him, and the force of his pulling you down is added to the full weight of you shifting, with a bit of gravity, and you hit Bob so hard.

There’s a sickening crack, like a chicken bone snapping.  You look down at him, startled, and see his blue eyes widen in pain—shock—

You scramble off of him, call his name, but he doesn’t move, and then you see it.

Blood.  There’s so much blood, all over his face, and you yell his name now, but he still doesn’t move—

You’ve killed him.  You’ve murdered him, and you scream.  You reach for your phone and fumble it, and your body just acts.  You back away, your mind scrambling, and you think I need to stop the bleeding, so you think to go to the bathroom for a towel, but when you pivot quick on your heel and turn towards the closed door, it is already swinging inward, right at your face, hard, and there’s an explosion of pain behind your eyes.

Then everything goes dark, and you don’t wake until you’re in the ambulance.

*****

Bob wakes up to the paramedics sliding him onto the backboard, his head immobilized between two foam blocks.  Rooster hovers at the perimeter, a worried look on his face.

“What—” Bob manages to croak out, but the room grows dim again, and he fades in and out until the hospital.

-----

He comes to and stays awake in a quiet hospital room.  There’s the steady beep of a monitor somewhere behind and above him.  When he tries to turn his head, though, he finds himself held in place by a brace.

“You’re awake finally.”  The voice is familiar, and a moment later, Phoenix’s face swims into his peripherals. 

“You scared us, Baby on Board.”  Rooster, to the left of him.

“Who knew you had it in you?”  The voice at the foot of the bed, the hint of smarm.  Bob feels a hand on his ankle, jostling him lightly.  “You dirty fucking freak.”

“Shut up, Bagman.”  Phoenix glares at the cocky pilot, then turns back to Bob, her gaze softening.  “How are you feeling?”

He considers his answer.  He feels…rough. 

He also notices that his Dagger teammates are there, but you are not.  Which makes him feel worse.

Phoenix seems to read his thoughts.  Something in his expression must give him away, because she leans in closer and sets a comforting hand on his shoulder.

“She’s still downstairs,” she says, low near his ear.  “You got a room, but she’s still in the E.R.  They haven’t released her yet.”

“E.R.?”

She smiles, snorts out a light laugh.  “Yeah, the two of you are a real fucking vibe, Bob.”

Rooster steps closer to the bed and grins down at him.  “You’re lucky I struck out at the Hard Deck.  I come home, barely get my shoes off, when I hear a scream.  I go running back to your room just in time to knock your girl out.  She ran headfirst into the door when I opened it.”  He claps his hands together.  “Down like a bag of rocks.”

Bob’s heart rate picks up, and the monitor registers it.  Phoenix glances at the machine and snorts again.

“She’s fine,” she assures him.  “I’ve been bouncing between you and her.  It’s just slammed down there, so she’s been waiting for the doctor to release her.”

“She’s okay then?”

Phoenix nods.  “Dislocated nose.  Slight concussion.  Embarrassed.  Convinced she murdered you, until I set her straight.”

Bob smiles despite himself.  “She thought I was dead?”

“She knocked you out,” Hangman cuts in.  “And broke your nose.”

“You weren’t moving and there was blood everywhere,” Rooster adds.

“She also gave you grade two whiplash,” Phoenix continues.  “And it looks like you’ll be sporting a pair of gnarly black eyes by morning.”

“Wow.”  Bob breathes out a reedy whistle.  “And you’re sure she’s okay?”

Phoenix nods again.

Rooster and Hangman offer to go grab some coffee from the hospital cafeteria, leaving Bob and his partner alone.  Phoenix drags a chair over and settles closer to him, and Bob feels his mood sour little by little.

“Are you okay?” Phoenix finally asks. 

He lifts his hand, drops it back onto the bed.  “I guess it’s ruined now.”

“What is?”

“Our…arrangement.  Mine and hers.”

She tilts her head.  “How so?”

“She has all these rules.  To keep it clean.  To keep feelings out, you know?”  He lifts his hand again, drops it again—the best version of a shrug he can manage.  “I have to think that injuries requiring ambulances is an unwritten rule too.”

Phoenix stares at him, but a smile starts to creep across her face.  She shakes her head then, grips his shoulder again.

“Do you love her, Bobby?”  The question is asked softly, kindly.

Bob forgets the brace for a second and tries to nod.  “Yeah.”

“You ever tell her?”

“Against the rules.”

“You ever tell her you wanted to revisit the rules, then?”

“No.”

Her smile widens.  “You’re so fucking dumb, dude.”

*****

Hangman’s the one who stops to check in on you.  He has a paper cup of coffee in each hand, and he holds both up to you.

“Wasn’t sure what you liked.  One is black, one is cream and sugar.”

“Cream and sugar, please.”

He walks over to your bed and hands it to you, then studies you.  You know you must look like hell—your eyes red from the hysterical crying of thinking yourself a murderer.  Your nose—not broken, only dislocated—swollen and tender.  And the general misery of how badly everything has turned out.

“You like the little nerd, huh?”

You take a sip of the coffee and thank him for it. 

You don’t answer his question.

Hangman sighs, leans against the wall.  “It’s just that, if you do, I’d like to know.  I have a lot riding on it.”

“Huh?”

“There’s a pool about you and Baby on Board.”  He sips his own coffee, smiles at you.  “I want to know if I’m out money or if I have a payday coming.”

“You bet on us?”

He holds up a hand.  “Whoa.  All the Daggers bet on you.  It wasn’t just me.”

You shake your head.  “I don’t understand.”

“Some of us bet that you’d end up together.  Others bet that you wouldn’t.  Not that hard to understand.”

You try to take a steadying breath through your nose, which is an effort with how swollen it is.  You look away from him and fix your eyes on the open doorway of your room.  You watch the nurses and doctors scurry back and forth, the gurneys of hurt and sick people. 

“It doesn’t matter either way,” you finally answer.  “I nearly killed the guy.  Is there a pool on that?”

Hangman laughs, and he settles in the chair near your bed.  “You didn’t nearly kill him.  You only lightly injured him.  Then Bradley lightly injured you.  It’s hilarious.”

You can only wince at his word choice.  It’s not funny at all.  Miramar is a gossipy hive of rumor, and Bob’s injuries will put him out of commission for at least a while—

“Is this gonna hurt his career at Top Gun?” you ask Hangman.  You glance over at him and catch the way his expression softens at the angst in your voice.  “Did I just fuck up his life completely?”

He reaches out and grasps your hand for a moment, gives you a friendly squeeze before he releases you.  “Shit happens.  The Navy knows that.”

“Still…”

“If anything, Bob’s gonna have some light duty, but he can do some systems work on the ground.”  The smile reappears on his face, and he slyly adds, “and his cred just skyrocketed.”  A beat.  “The quietest Dagger just got his face rearranged by pussy.  He’ll never have to buy his own drink again as long as he lives.”

“Jesus,” you groan, and you cover your face with your hands while Hangman laughs, but a second later the doctor enters your room and tells you that you are being released.

Hangman doesn’t take the hint and leave.  He watches you sign off on your discharge papers, sips his coffee.  He hands you your shoes, and he helpfully holds out your coat so you can slide into it.

“That little nerd loves you, you know,” he says suddenly.  “It’s obvious as hell, which is why I laid a big bet on it.”

“He does?”  The surprise in your voice makes him chuckle, then shake his head.

“Probably hard to see it from where you’re sitting, but he does.  His dumb face lights up the minute he sees you, and when you aren’t around, he’s like a lost puppy.  So if you feel even an inkling of the same for him, just go upstairs and put him out of his misery, okay?”

It feels like grace you don’t deserve.  You hurt Bob, even if you hadn’t meant to, and for Hangman to offer this sliver of hope you don’t think you deserve—

You can’t help the tears that spring to your eyes.  Hangman doesn’t remark on them; he only stands by the doorway and waits for you.

“You’re a regular Cupid, Jake,” you offer.

“Nah.”  He finishes off his coffee, crumples the cup, and tosses it in the nearby trash can.  “I just want that fucking pool money.”

-----

The tears that threatened downstairs…they break free the moment you finally see him.

He looks awful.  He looks…well, he looks like he pulled the full weight of an adult woman onto his face, pussy-first.  His nose is swollen in a splint, he’s in a neck brace, and both eyes are so bruised that they can barely open beyond slits.

But his smile…

God, when he sees you, it’s just like Jake said:  his poor, mangled face lights up, and his smile is so wide it looks like it might hurt.  It hits you again, as it often does, how different he is from your usual type of man.  That he loves to see you, is happy when he sees you, even injured.  That he doesn’t need you around to fix his life, but he wants you around to just…be with you.  Bob is no one that needs fixing; he just wants you there with him.

Phoenix and Rooster have the good sense to leave, ushering Hangman along with them.  Bob, when he sees the tears coursing down your face, frowns and holds a hand out to you.

“I’m okay.  I’m okay.  It’s fine,” he repeats.  You make your way over to him and take his hand, and maybe it is okay.  He holds you tight, his big, warm palm enfolding yours—

“Are you okay?” he asks. 

You shake your head.  You’re not okay at all.  You don’t know if Jake was lying, but you can’t lie to Bob anymore just as you can’t lie to yourself.

“I broke one of the rules,” you admit.  You watch him, wary.  You have the sense of how he might react, but you can’t know for sure.  You just have to push through and say it.  Put it out there.

“I broke a rule too,” he replies.  He squeezes your hand.

“Yeah?”  It comes out shaky, unsure.

“Yeah.”

“Which rule?”

He lifts your hand to his mouth and brushes a gentle kiss to the back of it.  He’s so damned soft, and you blink against the fresh tears that threaten to spill over your face.

“It’s your own fault,” he grumbles, but he smiles when he says it.  “If you didn’t want me falling for you, you shouldn’t have been so easy to fall for.”

You laugh, a nervous sound that nudges up against the wall of tears you’re struggling to hold back.  “Even though I almost killed you?”

“I mean, you didn’t almost kill me, but you definitely owe me for all this.”  He gestures with his free hand at his face. 

“You could make a claim against my insurance, I guess—”

“Just a date,” he interrupts.  “I just want one date with you.”

“That’s it?”  The sick feeling in your stomach starts to recede, and it’s replaced by the fluttery feeling of promise, of something new and wonderful starting. 

“Just once chance to show you how good it could be.”  His expression is dead serious, and he squeezes your hand again.  “Me and you.  For real this time.”

“I, uh…”  You clear your throat and glance at his bright blue gaze, then look away.  You fix your eyes on where your hands are joined together.  Your hand fits perfectly in his.

“I’ve only ever dated assholes,” you admit.  Another glance at him to see how he takes in your words.  “Guys who don’t have their shit together.  It’s why I wanted the whole…arrangement with you.  I’ve never been with a man who didn’t need, like, intensive therapy.  Or the occasional law enforcement intervention.”

“First time for everything,” Bob replies mildly.

“What if…what if I don’t know how to be in a relationship unless…unless…”  You trail off, not sure how to say it without it sounding completely terrible…but then, the reality of your dating life has been completely terrible anyway.

“You afraid you don’t know how to be in a relationship unless you’re miserable?” he asks gently. 

“Maybe?”

“Hmm.”  He releases your hand but pats the space on his bed beside him.  “I don’t know if I’d be comfortable making you miserable, honey.”

You perch awkwardly on the sliver of bed available to you, but Bob reaches up and gets a hand on your shoulder, tugs you gently down towards him.  It’s careful maneuvering—a stark difference to what got you here—but you eventually get comfortable beside him, your cheek against his shoulder, your temple against the hard molded plastic of his brace.  His hand finds yours again, and he threads his fingers through yours.

“What if we started with that one date you owe me?” he offers.  “And then maybe a second date.  I’ll treat you the way you deserve to be treated, and you see how it feels to not be miserable.”

One date, maybe a second.

“I think I can handle that,” you reply.

“Then a third date, then another.”

You smile.  “Okay.”

“Maybe around, say, the fifth date, you can spend the night.  Let me make you pancakes in the morning.  Fresh-squeezed orange juice.”

“Okay.”

“Then after maybe a month, you could keep some stuff at my place.  Shampoo, extra clothes.  So you’re comfortable.”

“I could take you to my favorite taco place,” you offer.  “Over in Imperial County.”

“I’d like that.”  He shifts a little in the bed, then adds, “maybe around the six-month mark, you could meet my family.”

“Would they make me miserable?” you tease.

“Oh, they’d make your life a living hell,” he teases back.  “My dad would give you this whole disgusting speech about how he always wanted another daughter, my mom would drop hints about my grandma’s engagement ring being set aside for me—”

“They sound horrible,” you laugh. 

“The worst.”  He chuckles, and a long moment of silence stretches between you, but it’s comfortable.  His warm hand in yours, the quiet beeping of the machines monitoring him, the steady sound of his breathing…the slightly whistling quality of your own breathing through your swollen nose. 

“You know, I’ve never taken a girl home to meet my family before,” he says, and his voice is serious.  “Never even considered it before.”

You lift your head a bit to look at him, and you see the thoughtful quality of his expression.  You settle back against him.

“And you’re considering it with the girl who broke your neck, broke your nose, and shamed you in front of the United States Navy?”

He chuckles again.  “You didn’t break my neck and I’m not in trouble with the Navy,” he says.  “And yes, I’ve considered it.  First time for everything.”

He doesn’t add anything else, and the drama of the evening starts to hit you.  You feel your eyes getting heavy, start to doze off in the hospital bed with him.  His verb tense choice, though—he has considered it, past tense, not is considering it, present tense—makes you wonder how long Bob might have been breaking that rule…