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Would you be willing to write a Jake Peralta x reader fic? Maybe she's a reporter or something?
omg wait this is good…
this just in…
Jake Peralta x fem!reporter!reader
warnings: sort of gender neutral, cat-calling lmk if i missed any
Today I was going into the 99th precinct of the NYPD for a piece I was assigned. For this piece I was told to interview one cop, one detective, and the captain. Seemed pretty easy. I showed up to the precinct and the first person I interviewed was a cop, a woman cop! How inspiring!
Then I went up stairs to the detectives. I took one step into the bullpen and was cat-called by two older men. How charming. I walk passed them to the desk by the captain’s office. “Hello, I’m reader, I’m here for the New York Times.” I tell the woman at the desk, she looks up from her phone at me with surprised. “Yes! i’m Gina Linetti! I’m coolest one here. now Holt, the captain, is in a meeting a the moment-“ she turns to look into the window to the office to see the captain talking to a strong looking man in suspenders…
“So I can direct you to a detective to speak to first!” she finishes. “Oh- uh- yes! That would be great!” I stutter out. “okay so I have two detectives that do nothing- so probably not them.” she whispers to herself. “Amy and Rosa are on a case… Boyle is too weird and will make us look bad..” she speaks under her breath some more. “Jake it is! lucky you!” she finally says to me.
She points to a man close to her desk with dark curly hair. He’s dressed pretty casually for being a detective. I make my way to him and stop at his desk. “Hello, I’m reader, I’m here for the new york times interview!” he looks up to me shocked. “oh! Hi, I’m Jake Peralta! I would’ve cleaned up a little more if I knew I had guests coming!” he jokes looking at his some what messy desk.
“I’ve seen worse…” I reply with a smile. Seriously. The people I work with are messy and barely leave their desks. I sit at the chair and begin my questions.
skip to the end of the interview
“Well thank you so much for your time, Detective Peralta.” I start to gather my stuff and stand. He stands with me. “Well off the record, I was wondering if I would have your number. maybe for dinner sometime…” he asks nervously. a smile grows on my face. “Of course! I would love to do dinner sometime!” I say righting my number down on a piece of paper along with my name and handing it to him. “The captain is ready for your interview!” Gina tells me from her desk.
I turn toward her and nod. Then I turn back to Jake. “I’ll be waiting for dinner detective.” I say walking away into the captains office.
after they’ve had dinner
“Reader, I really like you.” Jake says. “Me too- I mean I like you!- not me- I mean I do like me but-“ he cuts me off with a kiss.
A sense of foreboding filled her as she stepped into the elevator. The message had been cryptic, but the reward was too good to be true.
The lack of elevator music had the bad feeling in her stomach intensifying. As it travelled up, she checked the message on her phone again. It was the right building in the right city, in the right State.
Part of her couldn't believe it was this building. When her husband first went missing, she didn't believe he would end up here.
Months of searching had led to this moment. He had been clean on her wedding day, all thanks to her support. Cooking him healthy, nutritious meals, taking him on walks.
There were good nights and there were bad nights. A lot of bad nights. Nights were he wasn't her husband, he became someone else. Someone she didn't know.
But she was still there, holding his hand, stroking her fingers over his palm. Bringing him back to himself, running her fingers through his hair and kissing his lips.
But then, one day, after what felt like weeks of bad days, he disappeared. No word, nothing. He just... left, giving her no clue as to where he was going.
But she searched. She searched and searched, turning up nothing. Nobody knew where her husband, the man she loved so dearly, was. Nights spent crying herself to sleep, trying not to go down the same path he did. It would have been so easy to slip, to put herself into his mindset, all for the sake of finding him.
The only thing keeping her hope alive all of these months was the fact that a body was never found.
But then she got this message. The address. He's here. There was only one He it could be, only one He she cared about.
The elevator doors didn't ding before they opened. They just slid open. There was nothing remarkable about it.
Funny, she thought this moment would be something... more.
People, laying on the floor. Some had blood, some had bruises. All of them had the shit beaten out of them.
Wide eyed, she looked from person to person. Why had she been brought her, forced to witness the aftermath of all of this violence.
But then, she looked up.
His hair was longer, blonde, too. The suit was flashy, to say the least. But it was him. It was her Bob.
Before she knew what she was doing, she was running towards him. "Bobby," she said through a gasp as he threw someone to the side like they weighed nothing
It was him. It was her Bob. The same eyes, blue as the deepest ocean, lighting up the moment he saw her.
Nothing else in the world seemed to matter to him. He called her name, a quiet desperation in his voice. When she threw herself at him, he caught her easily.
Eyes closed, Bob wrapped both arms around her. He held her as close as he possibly could and breathed in. Her, it was all her. Her ring was still on her finger, a perfect symbol of what their marriage should have been. His was long gone, pawned off for drug money. God, he had been such an idiot back then.
But, fuck, that didn't matter to her.
She pulled away from him, looked at his face. "You've gone blonde, Bobby," she whispered as she took him in.
There was something so sweet about the way he laughed. His eyes searched her face, as if he couldn't believe she was real, she was really there.
"I looked for you," she said as she settled her hand on his chest. "Everywhere, Bobby. Where did you go?"
"'m sorry," he whispered. "I was tryina get better so that I could come home to you. I don't know what happened after that."
Finally, she looked around. The people on the floor, with the shit beaten out of them, were gone, disappeared into the elevator while Bob was distracted with her.
Her hand touched his cheek, just holding. Soft, familiar hands against his cheek were exactly what he needed, a sweet, gentle touch to heal him. "Doesn't matter," she mumbled. "I found you."
She kissed him, the ground disappearing from beneath her feet as Bob lifted her up. He didn't mean to, maybe it was a sign his control was slipping.
When they touched back down and pulled away from each other, Bob frowned. "How did you find me?" He asked.
She scrambled to pull her phone from her pocket. "I got a text telling me where to find you," she said.
His arm dropped to her waist as he pulled her against him. His way of keeping her safe. "You brought her here?" He asked Valentina.
Valentina looked behind the couple, at Mel. Of course this was her doing, her genius plan. What better way to control the power of Sentry than with his wife?
"I did," Valentina said, nodding her head.
Bob reached out for her hand. He gasped it and shook, thanking her over and over again.
But then his attention turned back to his wife. This was where she belonged, by his side. Not in The old avengers tower, but in the apartment they shared.
His job at The chicken place barely paid for anything, and her office job wasn't doing much more. But that was their home.
When Valentina ordered him to kill the others, Bob refused. Why should he, when they were no threat to him? Besides, he had something much more important by his side.
"C'mon, Robert," Valentina said. Her fingers danced across his wife's shoulders before she gripped her arm and pulled her back. She moved too fast for Bob, even with all of the power he had.
But he couldn't risk hurting his wife.
Valentina had found his weak spot and exploited it. For the safety of his wife, Bob would do anything.
The San Diego sun had the audacity to shine even brighter when she stepped out of the black SUV.
It wasn’t just that she was famous.
She was her.
The most photographed, most admired, most untouchably glamorous woman in the world. The kind of woman whose name alone could crash a website. Whose face hung in art museums and teenage boys’ lockers alike. She didn’t just walk onto the Top Gun tarmac—she graced it.
Sleek sunglasses. Designer boots. Wind-swept hair. A presence that made grown men stand straighter and forget their own names.
“Holy shit,” Hangman breathed. “It’s really her.”
“No kidding,” Rooster muttered. “Try not to pass out.”
“She’s even prettier in person,” Phoenix said, and she meant it.
And yet, when she reached Admiral Simpson, her smile was warm. Her handshake was polite, eyes steady, voice kind. She thanked everyone for the tour. She complimented the weather, said the jets looked incredible, asked real questions about the training program. For someone worth billions, she was shockingly… normal. Nice, even.
She took pictures with everyone—every pilot, every crew member, every starstruck staffer on the runway. She laughed with Fanboy. Complimented Halo’s braids. Teased Payback about trying to sneak in two photos.
And then she paused.
Eyes scanning the group again, like she was looking for someone.
Then, pointing just past the main huddle, she smiled.
“Who’s that cutie patootie over there?”
Every head turned.
Bob, who had been standing half-behind a jet wing, blinked in confusion.
“Me?” he squeaked, touching his chest like she couldn’t possibly mean him.
She nodded and beamed at him. “Mmhmm! Hi!”
She walked over like she had all the time in the world—no rush, no pressure—and when she stopped in front of him, she took off her sunglasses and stuck out her hand.
“Hi,” she said, sweet and sunny. “My name’s Y/N L/N. It’s so, so nice to meet you.”
Bob’s mouth opened and closed a few times.
“I—I’m Bob. Lieutenant Robert Floyd. It’s—um—it’s nice to meet you too, ma’am—I mean—not ma’am, I just—”
She laughed softly and shook his hand. “Bob. I love that. You’re adorable.”
He looked like his entire brain just shut off.
“I’ve been meeting so many people,” she said, still holding his gaze. “Would you mind taking a photo with me?”
His eyes went wide. “With—me?”
She leaned in slightly, teasing. “Well, you are the cutie patootie, aren’t you?”
Phoenix absolutely lost it behind him.
“Y-Yes,” Bob said quickly. “I mean, sure! Of course! Yes.”
She handed her phone off to someone nearby and stepped beside him, slipping her arm through his like they’d done this a hundred times. “Ready?”
Bob didn’t know how to be ready for any of this. But the camera flashed, and she smiled up at him again.
“Thank you,” she said softly, like he’d just made her whole day. “You were the highlight of my visit.”
And just like that, she let go, gave him one last smile, and turned to walk back toward the group.
Bob stood frozen in place, flushed from his neck to his ears, still holding his helmet like it might float away.
Hangman clapped him on the back. “The Y/N L/N just called you a cutie patootie and took a solo picture with you. You better laminate that memory, Floyd.”
“I think I blacked out,” Bob muttered.
Phoenix leaned in, grinning. “If you don’t ask her out the next time she visits, I will.”
Rooster snorted. “Like hell you will. I’m still recovering.”
Bob adjusted his glasses with trembling fingers. “Is this real life?”
Fanboy pulled out his phone. “Buddy, the whole thing’s on video. You’re gonna be a meme by tonight.”
———
“America’s Sweetheart & Her Navy Sweetheart”
“Are we sure you want this one?”
Delaney—assistant, social media manager, therapist in crisis—tilted her head at the phone screen.
The photo was perfect.
Y/N looked radiant, obviously. But it was the guy beside her—tall, glasses slightly crooked, blushing like a Victorian debutante—that made the shot so unexpectedly adorable.
The world had seen her with presidents. With Oscar winners. With the Met Gala’s best-dressed. But no one had ever seen her like this.
Smiling softly. Relaxed. Standing next to someone who clearly had no idea how famous she was—or didn’t care.
“He’s so cute,” Y/N murmured, sipping from her iced coffee, sunglasses perched atop her head. She was scrolling through the pictures again like she hadn’t already hearted every single one.
Delaney stared. “You really want to post it?”
“I really do,” Y/N said, brightening.
“Caption?”
Y/N grinned.
Delaney’s eyes narrowed. “You already thought of one, didn’t you?”
Y/N said nothing. Just passed her a post-it.
Delaney read it once. Blinked. Then grinned like a devil.
⸻
@yourusername
📍Top Gun Naval Program
✨found my wingman✨
📸: @delaneydoesit
⸻
It took six minutes for the photo to hit one million likes. Ten minutes before #cutiepatootie trended on Twitter. By lunch, “Bob from the Navy” had a dedicated fan account and trending TikTok audio.
Y/N pretended not to notice.
She was lounging in her dressing room, reading scripts, but her phone buzzed every few seconds with a new mention. Every gossip site was foaming at the mouth. Paparazzi were now camped outside the base—looking for him.
“America’s Sweetheart Gets Starry-Eyed Over Navy Boy.”
“Who is Bob from Top Gun??”
“She Can Have Anyone—and She Picked This Guy?!”
Delaney popped back in with a smoothie and the numbers. “We’ve got 47 million views across platforms and about sixteen thousand girls crying over Bob’s blush.”
Y/N looked pleased. “Good for them.”
“You planning on going back there?”
She didn’t answer right away.
But then, with a coy smile and a glance toward the corner of the room—where Bob’s photo now lived quietly on her vanity—she said:
“I might have left something behind.”
————
Bob didn’t even make it through the hangar doors before he got tackled by a wave of phones.
“BOB. BRO. BOB. YOU’RE FAMOUS.”
“Have you seen Twitter?! You’re a meme now!”
Phoenix shoved a phone into his face. On the screen was a screengrab of the photo—the photo—captioned in Comic Sans:
“me when my celebrity crush notices me and I forget how to speak English 😍”
Bob blinked. “Is that… me?”
“You’re on TMZ,” Rooster called from across the room. “Twice.”
Hangman was grinning like the cat that ate the golden retriever. “My guy. You broke the internet. You broke it.”
“I didn’t do anything,” Bob muttered, cheeks already burning. “She just asked for a photo—”
“SHE POSTED IT,” Fanboy yelled, pointing at the giant screen someone had wheeled in. “With the caption ‘found my wingman,’ Bob! Her wingman!”
Payback looked personally offended. “I’ve been trying to go viral for years. This man just blushed and now he’s the Navy’s newest sex symbol.”
Bob pinched the bridge of his nose. “I—I’m not—”
“Shh,” Phoenix said, holding up her hand dramatically. “Wingman of the Year is speaking.”
“Guys—”
“No, seriously,” Rooster said, laughing, “what does it feel like to be America’s Boyfriend?”
“I’m gonna throw up,” Bob said earnestly.
Just then, Cyclone’s voice boomed from the hallway.
“Lieutenant Floyd.”
Everyone froze.
Bob straightened like he was about to be court-martialed.
“Yes, sir?”
Cyclone appeared, holding up a tablet with the photo in question still open on screen. “Would you care to explain why the Department of Defense is getting press requests for your dating history?”
Bob blinked. “I… I wouldn’t?”
Cyclone sighed, muttered something about “celebrities and chaos,” and walked off. But not before he added, “Tell her thanks for the recruiting spike.”
Everyone erupted again.
“She made you the poster boy for patriotism!” Fanboy whooped. “They’re calling you ‘Top Gun’s golden retriever boyfriend’ on TikTok!”
Bob buried his face in his hands. “This is a nightmare.”
Phoenix patted his back. “It’s a fairytale, sweetie. And she picked you.”
Bob peeked through his fingers. “Do you think… she was serious? About me being the highlight of her visit?”
Hangman, for once, didn’t joke.
“She could’ve taken a picture with anyone,” he said, voice unusually soft. “And she chose you. That means something.”
Bob blinked.
Then his phone buzzed. Again.
And when he looked down, his heart stopped.
A DM. From her.
Y/N L/N:
Hey, cutie patootie. Any chance I can come back for that second photo? 😉
Bob let out a noise that could only be described as a strangled squeak.
“Everything okay?” Phoenix asked.
He looked up. “She wants to come back.”
And just like that—chaos erupted again.
————
Bob had checked his reflection eight times before she arrived.
Phoenix had to physically take his glasses off his face to clean them herself. “Bob,” she said, “you’re fogging these up with your panic.”
“I’m not panicking,” he said, panicking.
“You’re wearing cologne.”
“It’s just—I thought I’d try something new.”
Rooster smirked. “It’s giving: ‘I’m calm, cool, and collected while my celebrity crush returns to base to maybe fall in love with me.’”
Hangman leaned against the lockers. “It’s giving: ‘he practiced what he’d say in the mirror all morning and he’s gonna forget every word the second she smiles.’”
“Thanks, guys,” Bob muttered, already red.
Then the hangar doors opened.
And she stepped through.
Y/N L/N. The Y/N L/N. Actress. Icon. Billionaire. Dressed casually like the cameras weren’t following her every move online. But what hit Bob the hardest wasn’t the press or the way the whole hangar paused just to look at her—it was the way she beelined straight for him.
Like she was looking for him.
“There you are,” she said with a grin. “Hi, Bob.”
The way she said his name—sweet and familiar, like she’d been thinking about it—nearly sent him to the floor.
“Hi,” he croaked.
She smiled brighter. “I wasn’t sure if I’d get to see you today, but I’m really glad you’re here.”
“I—I work here.”
Y/N giggled, and Bob blinked like a deer in headlights.
“You’re so cute,” she whispered, like it wasn’t going to set off every alarm in his brain.
Phoenix watched it unfold with her arms crossed and a smug grin. “We’ve been saying.”
“Oh!” Y/N turned to the others. “You’re his squad, right? You all were so sweet last time.”
Rooster elbowed Bob. “We’ve got a good one here.”
“He’s our best guy,” Fanboy added. “Smartest in the air. Saved my ass twice.”
“Three times,” Payback corrected.
Hangman chimed in, half-teasing: “Don’t let the glasses fool you—guy’s got a heart of gold and he’s low-key the funniest one here.”
Bob, mortified, ducked his head. “They’re exaggerating.”
But Y/N wasn’t listening to them anymore. Her eyes were already locked back on Bob.
“You’re kind of a hero,” she said with a soft little shrug, like it wasn’t a big deal—but it was.
“I—I wouldn’t say that.”
“You don’t have to,” she smiled. “They already did.”
Then she caught sight of a jet behind him and gasped. “Is that yours?”
Her hand reached out instinctively—like she forgot about the cameras, the audience, all of it—and wrapped gently around his arm.
“Oh my God, is that the one you flew in? That’s so cool—can I see inside?”
Bob might’ve blacked out for a second.
“You wanna see my jet?” he said, dumbly.
“I mean, yeah,” she beamed. “I came back to visit you—and, okay, maybe the plane too.”
She was still holding his arm.
“Tell me everything,” she said, leaning in. “Like—what you do in there, how it works. Please. I’m so curious.”
Phoenix whispered, “Breathe, Bob.”
Rooster added, “This is the best day of my life.”
Bob swallowed hard. “I—I sit in the back. I’m the weapons systems officer. I help the pilot navigate, track targets, communicate with command. I—uh—I read a lot of maps.”
Y/N looked at him like he’d just recited Shakespeare.
“I love smart guys,” she said softly. “You’re just full of surprises, huh?”
Then she grinned. “Show me how it all works?”
Bob blinked. “I—y-yeah. Yeah, I can show you.”
And the second he helped her climb up the ladder into his jet, the rest of the squad turned around like we are NOT watching this man fall in love from five feet away.
She actually climbed in.
Like, willingly. With a bright-eyed smile and a soft little “Oop!” as Bob offered her a hand and helped her settle into his seat—his seat, the one no one but him ever sat in—and now she was swiveling her head around like this was the most exciting thing in the entire world.
“Oh my God,” Y/N whispered, running her fingers over the side console, wide-eyed and glowing. “This is insane. I don’t even know what I’m looking at but I love it.”
Bob climbed in behind her, carefully easing into the front seat. His hands shook a little as he adjusted the straps of his harness—not because he was nervous, but because she was in his jet. Y/N L/N was literally sitting in the space he spent most of his life in, looking like she belonged there, like she might never want to leave.
“You sit back here?” she asked, pointing to the panel of screens and buttons in front of her.
“Yeah,” Bob said. “I—I manage all the tech. Radar, targeting systems, communication. Kind of like the guy behind the guy.”
She looked up, clearly impressed. “That sounds like a lot.”
“It is,” he admitted. “But I like it. It’s… it feels like where I’m supposed to be.”
Y/N smiled, this kind of soft, private smile—like she liked that answer way more than he meant her to. “That’s really cool.”
She looked at the helmet tucked beside his seat. Gently, she reached for it. “Can I…?”
“Oh! Um—yeah, of course,” Bob said quickly. “It might be a little big—”
He didn’t even finish the sentence before she was pulling it over her head with both hands and giggling as it sank just a little too far down her face.
“How do I look?”
Bob’s voice died in his throat.
“Perfect,” he said quietly.
Y/N pushed the visor up and blinked at him, and Bob almost forgot how to breathe again.
“I don’t get it,” she said after a beat, setting the helmet in her lap. “How are you not married? Or dating someone? Or at the very least, mobbed every time you walk outside?”
Bob flushed so hard he felt it in his scalp. “I—I don’t think people really notice me.”
“I notice you,” she said plainly, like it was a fact. “You’re thoughtful. Sweet. You have kind eyes. And you saved your friend’s life. You don’t think people notice, but I think you just don’t realize how worth noticing you are.”
Bob blinked. Stared. Tried not to pass out.
She smiled. “You’re blushing.”
“I—I’m always blushing,” he said faintly.
Y/N reached out, brushing her fingers gently against the sleeve of his flight suit. “I like it.”
And then—God—she just… rested her hand there. Like it was natural. Like it belonged. Like she wasn’t the most famous woman on Earth holding onto a guy who’d spent his whole life learning how to stay small.
Bob didn’t say anything.
He couldn’t.
Because her thumb was gently brushing across the patch on his arm.
And she was looking at him—really looking. Like he was someone she’d been waiting to find.
“Is it okay,” she asked gently, “if I take a picture in here?”
Y/N gave him a grateful smile and pulled her phone from the back pocket of her jeans. “I won’t post anything classified. Promise.”
He laughed under his breath. “You’re probably more careful than half the people who actually work here.”
She leaned back against the seat and angled the camera just right, catching her reflection in the canopy glass with all the panels glowing softly around her. A quick click. Then another. She turned slightly toward him.
“Do you mind getting one with me?”
Bob froze.
“In here, I mean,” she added quickly. “We don’t have to if you’re uncomfortable—”
“No!” he said a little too fast. “I mean—no, I don’t mind. Not at all.”
Y/N smiled like he just handed her the moon. “Okay, come here.”
He leaned back slightly, trying to get into the frame behind her without knocking anything important. The proximity alone nearly did him in—her shoulder brushing his chest, her phone held high between them, her perfume subtly filling the small space of the cockpit.
She angled the phone, checked the lighting, then whispered, “Smile.”
He did.
God help him, he did.
Click.
She glanced down at the picture and beamed. “This one’s my favorite.”
Bob didn’t even ask to see it. Just knowing he was her favorite anythingmade his head spin.
The rest of the visit flew by in a haze. She climbed down from the jet with his help—thanked him again, touched his arm again, asked the others about the air show schedule, then got whisked away to meet with the base commander for a quick tour. She hugged Phoenix on her way out. Promised she’d be back soon.
But just before she disappeared around the corner, she glanced back at Bob—gave him a little wave. Just for him.
And smiled.
Bob stood there long after she was gone, helmet still tucked under his arm, lips parted like he couldn’t quite believe what had just happened.
Phoenix came to stand beside him, arms crossed.
“Hey, loverboy,” she said. “You might wanna check your phone.”
He blinked down, startled—and saw that he already had seven missed messages. Three missed calls. Two voicemails.
1. Y/N alone in the cockpit, head tilted playfully, sunglasses on, the helmet in her lap.
2. A shot of her and Bob together in the plane, his glasses slightly crooked, both of them smiling like they’d won the lottery.
3. A blurry candid of him helping her down from the ladder, one hand holding hers, the other steady at her waist.
The comments were already blowing up:
@selenagomez: oh she’s in love.
@pilotwivesunite: WHAT DO YOU MEAN SHE WENT BACK FOR HIM
@aviationfan69: bob is all of us. we are bob. bob is america.
@ynlnupdates: can confirm she did say “he’s the cutest” out loud in front of everyone
@roosterdaddy: as a pilot and a man, I salute you, Bob.
⸻
Bob didn’t say anything.
Didn’t even look up from the screen.
Phoenix patted his back, amused. “You’re a national treasure now, baby. You better start practicing your red carpet smile.”
He was already blushing.
And somewhere across the base, Y/N was laughing as her assistant read the comments out loud, heart full, cheeks warm, and only one name echoing in her head:
Bob.
———
The hangar was quiet. Late afternoon light spilled through the high windows, casting golden stripes across the floor. Most of the squad had cleared out, letting the adrenaline of the day wear off in the locker rooms or the parking lot.
But Bob was still here. Still trying to breathe normally.
Because she was still here too.
Y/N lingered by the nose of the plane, running her fingers along the cool metal with a curious little smile, her assistant off somewhere taking calls. Her hair was up now, sunglasses on her head, and she looked impossibly cool even while doing absolutely nothing.
Bob didn’t realize he was staring until she turned.
And walked straight up to him.
“Hey,” she said softly, smiling like they were old friends. “I was hoping I’d catch you before I left.”
He blinked, managing a nod. “Y-Yeah. Still here.”
She tilted her head. “I was wondering if… it would be okay if I got your number?”
Bob stared.
Not because he didn’t hear her—but because every nerve in his body just lit up.
“My number?” he repeated, voice slightly cracked.
She nodded with a soft laugh. “You don’t have to say yes. I just— I’d like to talk again. If that’s okay.”
“Y-Yeah,” he said quickly, fumbling for his phone. “I mean—yes. Please. Of course.”
She handed him hers without hesitation.
He typed it in carefully, checking it twice. Then handed it back.
Y/N looked at the screen. “Bob Floyd,” she read aloud, smiling softly. “I’ll text you.”
He tried not to look as stunned as he felt. “Okay.”
She lingered for half a beat longer, then gave him the gentlest touch on the arm.
“Thank you,” she said quietly. “For everything today.”
And just like that—she was gone.
⸻
Two weeks passed.
No text.
No call.
No new post with his name anywhere.
At first, Bob kept checking. A dozen times a day. Every buzz in his pocket made his chest jump. But as days turned to a week—and then another—he stopped.
He just… stopped hoping.
She’s a billionaire, he reminded himself. She travels constantly. She probably forgot. Or changed her mind. Or—
Or it was just a sweet moment to her. Not… not something real.
He never said anything out loud. Just kept his head down, flew his drills, smiled politely when Hangman joked about his “Hollywood girlfriend.”
But inside?
He felt like he’d dreamed the whole thing up.
⸻
Until one night.
Bob was lying on his couch, glasses slipping down his nose, a rerun humming softly on the TV, when his phone lit up.
Unknown Number:
Hi Bob. It’s Y/N. I’m so, so sorry it took me this long to text you. Please don’t think I forgot. I’ve been to five countries in two weeks—Australia, Japan, Glasgow, New York, and now finally San Diego again.
I’ve been thinking about you this whole time.
Can I take you to dinner?
He read it twice.
Three times.
Then let out a breath he didn’t know he was holding.
His fingers hovered above the screen.
Then, finally—
Bob:
You had me worried.
A minute passed.
Then:
Y/N:
I know. I’m sorry.
Let me make it up to you?
And just like that…
Hope came roaring back.
———
Bob had never gotten dressed so slowly and so nervously in his life.
He changed shirts three times.
Debated cologne.
Put on a jacket, took it off. Put it on again.
He even cleaned his glasses twice, just in case. Because Y/N L/N—the most famous woman on the planet—texted him and said, Can I take you to dinner? Like it was the most normal thing in the world.
It wasn’t.
And it definitely wasn’t normal when she sent the location with a simple:
“Come hungry :)”
When he pulled up, Bob did a double take.
It was Joe’s Diner. A little 24-hour joint he knew well. Kind of rundown, all-day breakfast, the kind of place you could get pancakes and a cheeseburger at the same time. Local favorite.
But tonight?
The neon sign was glowing—and every booth was empty.
Except one.
Right in the corner.
With her.
She was already seated, sipping a milkshake with a red-and-white straw, grinning when she saw him through the glass.
Bob walked in slowly, trying not to trip over his own feet. “Hey…”
“Hi!” she said brightly, standing to greet him. She looked insane. Like she just stepped off a magazine cover—jeans, heels, a tight black top and diamonds like they were casual. Hair loose. Smile soft.
And still—somehow—completely down to earth.
“I hope this isn’t too much,” she said, biting her lip. “I tried to pick somewhere low-key. But when I got here it was packed and I got nervous and I kind of… rented the whole place out.”
“You what?”
She cringed playfully. “It was just a little panic move. I didn’t want people filming or asking for pictures while we were catching up, and I—I tipped!” she added quickly. “A lot! And I gave everyone working tonight $500 each. Just as a thank-you for letting me be a drama queen.”
Bob blinked.
“You rented out a diner… to get pancakes with me?”
She smiled. “Yeah. I missed you.”
He swallowed. “That’s… really nice.”
“You’re really nice.”
She sat back down, gesturing for him to slide in across from her. “I hope you like breakfast for dinner.”
“I do,” he said as he sat, heart pounding in his ears.
“Good,” she grinned. “I already ordered. I got waffles, pancakes, eggs, bacon, hashbrowns… and a milkshake.”
He blinked. “All that for you?”
“No,” she laughed, nudging his foot under the table. “For us.”
⸻
The food came fast—heaping plates of breakfast heaven—and Bob couldn’t believe how easy it was to talk to her. Like nothing had changed. Like the weeks apart hadn’t happened. Like he wasn’t sitting across from the most beautiful, famous woman in the world while she poured syrup like a child and kicked her heel against his under the table.
She asked about his flights. His callsign. His favorite movie. If he liked dogs or cats. If he’d ever been to France.
And when he turned the questions on her, she answered just as openly.
Her eyes sparkled when she laughed. And Bob couldn’t stop smiling. Not once.
By the time they were finishing their second milkshake—sharing it this time—Bob didn’t want the night to end.
Neither did she.
Outside the diner, the night air was cool and quiet—except for the low murmur of four very serious-looking bodyguards stationed at every possible entrance and exit.
They stood at full attention, one by the curb, two by the diner’s double doors, and one tailing discreetly behind as she walked with Bob to his car.
Bob had never felt so… important. Or awkward. Mostly awkward.
He shoved his hands in his pockets, trying not to look like he was floating on air.
“I had a really, really great time tonight,” she said softly, slowing her steps as they reached his car.
Bob nodded quickly. “Me too. I… yeah. It was amazing. The waffles, and the shake, and you—uh, not that you’re—no, I mean—you’re amazing, I just meant the diner—the night was amazing, with you, and—”
Y/N giggled, cutting off his ramble with a gentle touch to his forearm. “Bob,” she said, and he shut up immediately. “Can I…?”
Before he could ask what she meant, she leaned up and pressed the softest kiss to his cheek.
Bob went rigid.
She pulled back just a few inches and blinked at him, shy for the first time tonight. “Was that okay?” she asked, suddenly unsure. “I—I don’t want to make you uncomfortable. That might’ve been—”
“That was more than fine,” Bob blurted out.
Her smile bloomed slow and warm. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
She paused. Tilted her head.
“…What if I actually kissed you?”
Bob blinked. Then swallowed. “Like… kiss kissed?”
She nodded.
“Oh my God please.”
She laughed—full and sweet—and before he could process it, she leaned in again, this time meeting his lips with hers.
It wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t too much. It was… perfect. A little hesitant at first, then deeper when Bob finally remembered how to move. His hands hovered at her waist, not quite touching, until she pulled him just a little closer by the lapel of his jacket.
One of the bodyguards cleared his throat.
They pulled back, breathless.
She looked up at him through her lashes, smile dizzy and sure. “Now that’smore than fine.”
Bob was red. Like full-blown scarlet. But he was smiling, too.
“Should I… text you again?” she asked.
Bob nodded quickly. “Please.”
“I’ll try not to wait another two weeks.”
“I’ll survive,” he promised, and meant it a little too much.
She kissed him once more on the cheek for good measure before her security detail politely reminded her it was time to go.
But Bob stood by his car, lips tingling, heart thrumming, eyes locked on her retreating figure like he’d just watched a miracle walk into the night.
Because maybe he had.
———
Bob walked into the hangar the next morning like he’d just discovered heaven. Or touched it. Or made out with it behind a classic 1950s diner while four bodyguards pretended not to look.
He had that kind of dazed, floaty, not quite all the way here look about him. Hair tousled. Coffee half-sipped. Smiling to himself like an idiot.
And the squad? Oh, they noticed.
Phoenix clocked it the second he walked in. “No. No way.”
Payback leaned over. “Bro. What is that face?”
Bob blinked, snapped halfway back to earth. “What? What face?”
“You’re grinning,” Fanboy said, pointing. “You never grin. You… barely smile. You smirk at best.”
Rooster walked by with a protein bar and raised a brow. “Did you get laid?”
“Bradley!” Phoenix hissed.
Bob choked on air. “No! I—God, no! I mean—not no, I just—wow, what?!”
Phoenix crossed her arms and smirked. “Okay, so not laid. But something happened.”
Bob’s ears were already going pink. “It’s not a big deal.”
“Oh, it’s a huge deal,” Payback grinned. “You haven’t even taken your backpack off. You’ve just been standing there smiling at the floor like a golden retriever in love.”
Fanboy leaned in. “Tell us.”
Bob hesitated. Bit the inside of his cheek. Then—
“She kissed me.”
“OH—”
It was like a bomb went off.
“NO. NO WAY.” Rooster shouted.
Phoenix straight-up slapped his arm. “You’re lying!”
Bob held up his hands. “Swear to God. At the diner.”
“She kissed you?” Payback repeated.
Bob’s smile got a little dreamy again. “Yeah.”
Fanboy let out a slow whistle. “On the cheek or…?”
Bob didn’t answer.
“Oh my god,” Phoenix whispered. “You got kissed kissed.”
Phoenix looked ready to explode. “Okay, so when’s the wedding?”
Fanboy gasped. “Did she post again?!”
Everyone immediately whipped their phones out, and sure enough—
@ynln
📍San Diego
🎬 had to see my pilot again before flying out to shoot the next movie 🤭💋
[photo of her in the cockpit next to Bob, hand on his shoulder, both of them beaming — and Bob? Blushing like hell]
And then the caption below the pic:
@ynln:
also, someone tell lieutenant floyd that i’m gonna marry him if he keeps being this cute
Rooster screamed. Phoenix looked like she was going to pass out. Fanboy started pacing in a circle with his hands on his head. Even Payback was speechless.
Bob stood there, stunned silent, staring at the screen.
Phoenix grabbed his arm. “She posted that? About you?!”
Bob nodded faintly, barely breathing.
Fanboy turned to him, deadly serious. “Do you know what this means?”
Bob blinked. “That… she likes me?”
“That you’re America’s Boyfriend now,” Fanboy said. “And also maybe her future husband.”
Payback grinned. “How’s it feel to be the luckiest man alive?”
Bob, still dazed, just whispered: “Unreal.”
———
Bob was pretty sure he was dreaming when the email showed up in his inbox.
Subject: 🎬 You’re Cordially Invited
From: Y/N’s personal assistant
Ms. Y/N L/N formally invites Lieutenant Robert Floyd and members of the Top Gun program to attend the official U.S. premiere of her upcoming film “Starlight Syndrome” in Los Angeles, California. Transportation will be arranged. Tuxedos required. Press will be present. Photos encouraged. Please RSVP within 48 hours.
Phoenix screamed when she found out. Literally screamed. Rooster nearly choked on his gum. Hangman tried to act unfazed, but even he ended up checking the mirror twice after hearing what the dress code was.
But Bob?
Bob just stared at the invite like it was written in gold. Like it might disappear if he blinked.
It had been two weeks since their diner night. Two weeks of silence. Two weeks of maybe she forgot or maybe it didn’t mean as much to her. He’d told himself not to get his hopes up. He tried not to check his phone. Tried not to look at the diner pic she left in his messages. Tried not to imagine her red carpet photos with someone else.
And then—this.
“You okay, Bob?” Fanboy asked, glancing at him.
Bob looked up slowly, blinking back into reality. “…She remembered.”
⸻
Cut to:
Red Carpet Night
She’s in some GOWN that looks like it cost six months of rent. Diamond earrings. Hair curled like old Hollywood. Makeup perfect, but not tooperfect—still the soft-eyed, sweet-talking girl who once whispered, “sorry, was that fine?” before kissing him behind a diner.
Bob steps out of the black SUV in a fitted tuxedo he nearly passed out putting on. Everyone looks great, but the second the press cameras see him—
“Lieutenant Floyd!”
“Bob Floyd, over here!”
“Are you the pilot she mentioned in her caption last week?!”
“Are you dating Y/N?!”
Bob freezes. Phoenix leans in. “Don’t lock up, just smile and wave like a politician.”
And then—she’s there.
Coming down the carpet in heels that cost more than his car, glowing,smiling, her eyes scanning through the crowd until they land right on him.
She walks right up to him and grins. “Hey, Lieutenant Floyd.”
Bob clears his throat. “Hey, Ms. L/N.”
She laughs softly, slipping her arm through his like it’s the easiest thing in the world. “So glad you made it.”
“You invited me,” he says dumbly.
“And you came,” she says, then pauses. “Sorry I didn’t text sooner. Press tour had me all over the globe. again. I didn’t forget you. Not for a second.”
Bob blinks. “You didn’t?”
She leans in, brushing her lips against his cheek again, soft and familiar. “Of course not. I’ve been thinking about you the whole time.”
And the flashbulbs? They explode.
——
As soon as she spots the squad getting out of the black SUV, she beams.Instantly waves them over, not caring that half of Hollywood is watching.
“There they are!” she says to the press with a laugh, her earrings glittering as she turns. “These are my guys!”
She doesn’t wait for them to approach—she walks toward them in her heels like she’s floating. Her team freaks out behind her. “Wait, Y/N! Stay in your mark!”
But she just waves them off. She’s on a mission.
“Rooster, Fanboy, Phoenix, Coyote, Payback, Hangman…” she’s pointing at each of them, remembering all their names. “Come take pictures with me—please. I need at least a hundred.”
They’re all caught off guard, not used to being the ones asked for photos, but they rush in, adjusting ties, smoothing hair, suddenly aware this moment will be everywhere.
They take group shots, laughing, hyping each other up. She makes them laugh for the wide angles, does one where they’re all pointing at the camera like a boy band. And then:
“Okay. Solo shots. Come on.”
She poses with each one—smiling with Phoenix, pulling Hangman into a fake headlock, matching sunglasses with Rooster—but when it’s Bob’s turn?
She turns fully toward him, voice dropping just slightly. “Hi again.”
He’s already red. “Hi.”
She wraps her arms around him, warm and confident. “This okay?”
He nods quickly. “Y-Yeah.”
“Good,” she whispers, and leans her head on his shoulder for the photo.
The cameras go insane.
Click. Flash. She’s giggling in another. Click. Flash. She’s turned toward him, both hands holding his now. Click. Flash. One more, and she hugs him again, resting her cheek briefly against his chest.
“You’re gonna break the internet,” Phoenix mutters behind them.
Bob’s eyes are wide. “Me?”
“Yes, you,” Hangman says, actually impressed. “You look like the lead in a romance movie.”
⸻
And when the photos hit Instagram that night?
Her official account posts a carousel.
📸🎞️ Premiere night magic
🎬: #StarlightSyndrome
💫: Thank you to the real-life heroes who showed up tonight—your support means the world to me.
(Also yes, Bob gives the best hugs.)
swipe ➡️
First photo: her and the whole squad, all grinning.
Second: her arm-in-arm with Bob, her cheek against his shoulder.
Third: them mid-laugh, eyes only on each other.
Fourth: just Bob, caught off guard in a tux, smiling small but real.
———
The venue is glowing—low golden lights, deep velvet couches, a live band in the corner playing sultry jazz that occasionally slides into pop covers. The crowd is dressed to the nines, champagne everywhere. But she’s not interested in Hollywood small talk. Not tonight.
Because when she walks in and sees them—the squad huddled around a table near the back, already laughing with drinks in hand—her smile lights up the whole room.
“There’s my table,” she says to her assistant, ignoring every producer who tries to pull her away. “Don’t let anyone drag me off. I’m going there.”
And she does.
She walks right over, hugs Phoenix from behind, taps Rooster’s glass with her own. Bob stands when she gets there—of course he does—and she gives him a grin before leaning in and kissing his cheek.
“Hi, Bob.”
He’s already red. “Hi. You—you look stunning.”
“So do you.” She sits right next to him. Doesn’t even hesitate.
⸻
She makes the rounds from there—laughing with Coyote over bad pick-up lines, cheers-ing Payback when he dares her to take a shot. She dances with everybody.
At one point, she pulls Fanboy into a spin. At another, she drags Phoenix out for a full choreographed moment when the band switches to Beyoncé. She even twirls Rooster like he’s the belle of the ball and he goes with it.
“Where’d you learn to dance like this?” Hangman asks.
“On set. You think I’m gonna waste those choreography lessons?” she quips, grabbing his hand and flipping it to lead him into a swing move before pointing dramatically to Bob.
“Okay—my turn. Come on, Bob.”
He freezes. “What?”
“Dance with me.”
“I—uh, I don’t really dance—”
“Lucky for you, I do,” she teases, grabbing his hand. “Let me lead?”
He can’t say no. So he lets her pull him in. It’s awkward at first—Bob trying not to step on her toes, her laughing gently when he almost trips—but she never lets go.
“You’re doing great.”
“You’re lying,” he mutters.
She laughs and leans closer, her forehead brushing his. “I don’t lie to you.”
⸻
Eventually they all collapse back at the table, flushed from dancing, laughing too loud, sipping drinks with messy garnishes and half-melted ice.
She looks around at all of them—grinning, bickering, teasing each other—and then looks at Bob beside her.
“This is my favorite table in the room.”
His chest tightens a little. “Yeah?”
She nods, resting her head briefly on his shoulder. “And you’re my favorite part of it.”
He doesn’t say anything. He’s not sure he could, not with his throat tightening and his heart thudding like that. But he doesn’t need to.
Because she’s still holding his hand under the table.
———
The after party was in full swing—music pulsing, people dancing, drinks flowing—but Bob had somehow ended up on the balcony. He wasn’t avoiding anyone. He just… needed air. Or maybe he needed to think. About the night. About her.
And speak of the devil—there she was.
She stepped out, her gown glimmering under the soft patio lights, her heels clicking gently on the tiles. She was holding two champagne flutes and passed one to him like it was the most casual thing in the world.
“You disappeared,” she said, smiling like she already knew where he’d gone.
Bob cleared his throat. “Just wanted some quiet.”
“Good. I needed a break too.” She leaned on the railing beside him, shoulder just brushing his. “This was nice. All of this.”
He smiled. “It really was.”
Then she turned slightly toward him, something playful in her voice.
“Do you think your friends like me?”
Bob blinked. “Like you? Are you kidding? They’re obsessed with you.”
She laughed, tipping her head back slightly. “What about you?”
And that was when it happened.
He looked right at her, soft-eyed, serious as ever, and—
“I was obsessed before I even met you.”
There was a beat of silence. A pause. Then his entire face turned red.
“Wait—I didn’t mean— I mean, I did, but not like—I just meant—”
She was smiling, watching him unravel, clearly trying not to laugh.
“I mean, I’ve always admired you. A lot. Not just how you look—God, not just that—I mean you’re obviously—you know—but you’re really… you’re so kind. And smart. And I just—okay. Yeah. I’m gonna stop talking now.”
She took a small step closer.
“Bob?”
“Yeah?”
“I’m really glad you said it.”
He blinked. “Wait—what?”
“I’ve been obsessed with you since you stuttered out your name that first day.”
And then she clinked her glass gently against his.
“To quiet balconies and flustered pilots.”
Bob leaned against the balcony railing of her rented house in San Diego, one hand wrapped around a sweating glass of water, the other loosely tucked into his pocket. She stood beside him, the hem of her dress fluttering in the warm breeze, her elbow barely brushing his. They’d been talking about nothing and everything for the past hour. He had never felt more at ease.
Then his phone buzzed in his back pocket.
He glanced at the screen. Mom.
“Give me one sec,” he murmured, stepping away a little, pressing the phone to his ear. “Hey, Mom—”
Her eyes were on him immediately. She didn’t even try to hide it. She could see the way his body stiffened before she could hear anything, see the way his free hand shot to his mouth, pressing against it hard like he could physically hold the sound inside.
His knees nearly buckled. He leaned hard against the balcony wall, his face dropping out of sight.
“Bob?” she asked softly, already moving.
He didn’t answer. The phone slipped from his hand and hit the wood with a dull thud.
She was there instantly, no hesitation, both hands coming to his shoulders. “Bob—hey. Hey, it’s okay, sweetheart, look at me.” Her voice was gentle but firm. “What happened?”
He turned to her, eyes already glassy, and in a choked whisper, he finally got it out.
“It’s my grandpa.”
A beat.
“He’s gone.”
The silence that followed was still—but not empty. She pulled him into her arms without a second thought, his face buried into the curve of her neck as his shoulders began to shake. Not a full sob at first—just breathless, body-wracking grief that broke through the careful calm he always carried.
“I’m here,” she whispered, over and over, her hands running up and down his back, her heart splintering for him. “I’m right here. I’ve got you. Shhh… I’m not leaving. I’ve got you.”
Minutes passed like that. She didn’t rush him. Didn’t speak unless he needed it. Just held him, solid and unwavering, while the sky dimmed behind them.
When his breathing finally slowed, he still hadn’t let go. His cheek was pressed against her shoulder, and his voice was barely audible.
“C-Can you come with me?”
She didn’t hesitate.
“Of course I will,” she said, tightening her arms around him. “Just tell me when we’re leaving.”
⸻
The next morning, her team was already mobilized before sunrise.
Flights were canceled. Meetings postponed. Her stylist sent condolences. Her assistant was on the phone coordinating with security.
They boarded her private jet just after noon—Bob sitting quietly by the window, hands clasped in his lap, while she curled into the seat next to him, fingers laced gently through his.
The six security guards kept a respectful distance. No press knew what was going on. She made sure of it.
The funeral was quiet and heartbreaking. Bob’s family welcomed her immediately, touched by her presence and her grace. She stayed two full weeks—meeting cousins, helping his mom with errands, holding his hand through every difficult moment. She was dressed simply, spoke softly, and never once made it about her.
She was just his—the girl who didn’t blink when he fell apart, who flew across the country to sit beside him at the hardest table he’d ever faced.
And every night, when the house fell quiet, she sat next to him on the porch swing with two mugs of tea. She never said too much.
Just enough.
———
It was late. Almost midnight. The crickets had taken over the soundtrack of the sleepy Texas town, and the porch swing creaked every so often with the rhythm of the night.
Bob had gone inside to help his mom with something in the kitchen, leaving her sitting alone with a cup of tea she’d made herself at this point. Familiar now. Natural.
The screen door opened behind her, and she turned to see a woman—older, warm-eyed, and sharp in that matriarchal way. Bob’s Aunt Carol.
“Mind if I sit?” she asked.
“Please,” Y/N said instantly, scooting to make room. “Of course.”
Carol sat down with a sigh, her hands folded over her lap. She looked at the actress—the actress—the same one Bob had had posters of on his bedroom wall since he was sixteen—and gave her a long, thoughtful once-over.
“You’re not what I expected,” she said gently.
Y/N smiled, not offended in the slightest. “I get that a lot.”
Carol nodded, still watching her. “You’re sweet. Not just in a polite kind of way. I can tell. You see people. You saw him.”
She swallowed, caught off guard. “I… I hope so.”
“He’s always been our quiet one,” Carol continued, glancing toward the house. “Shy. Gentle. Loves deeper than he lets on. Lost his dad young. Took it hard. Carried more than he ever should’ve.”
Y/N blinked back sudden emotion, nodding slowly.
“You holding him like that?” Carol said softly. “Out there when that call came? I saw it. I know what that meant.”
Y/N pressed her lips together, heart tight in her chest.
Carol leaned in slightly. “So I just have one question for you.”
“Okay,” Y/N said, barely above a whisper.
“Are you gonna break my nephew’s heart?”
The question didn’t sting. It settled heavy. Honest.
Y/N looked her dead in the eyes, shoulders square, voice unwavering. “No, ma’am. I’d rather someone break mine first.”
Carol sat back, studying her for one long moment.
Then she smiled. “Good. Then you’re welcome here. Anytime.”
Y/N let out a breath she didn’t realize she’d been holding.
“Thank you,” she whispered.
From inside, Bob’s laugh echoed faintly through the walls. She turned toward the sound, like gravity had shifted just slightly in his direction.
Carol watched her for another beat and said, “You love him already, don’t you?”
She didn’t deny it.
Didn’t even look away.
“…Yeah,” Y/N murmured, lips curling just barely. “I think I do.”
———
The house had quieted, humming low with the sounds of settling: dishwasher running, floorboards groaning under the weight of memories. The kind of silence that only came after a long day filled with too many emotions.
Bob stopped just outside the guest room, like he always did. He never let her walk alone, not even down the hall in his childhood home.
She turned and faced him at the door, her hand still on the knob. Her expression was unreadable—soft, but serious.
“Can you come in for a second?” she asked.
His heart stuttered.
He hesitated for half a breath too long.
“…Yeah. Sure.”
He stepped inside, standing awkwardly near the dresser while she sat on the edge of the bed. She motioned for him to sit next to her, and when he did, the mattress dipped with the weight of what he thought was coming.
“You okay?” he asked quietly, trying to keep it neutral, but his voice betrayed him.
She folded her hands in her lap, took a breath. “There’s something I need to say. And I’m a little nervous, so please don’t interrupt, okay?”
Bob nodded immediately. Scared stiff.
She met his eyes. Really met them.
“I didn’t mean for any of this to happen,” she started. “I didn’t expect to come to a Navy base and meet someone like you. And I definitely didn’t expect that you’d be the one person I couldn’t get out of my head.”
His brows furrowed slightly, unsure. Guarded.
She went on.
“And when I asked for your number, I meant to text you the next day. But things snowballed. Press junkets, red-eyes, interviews… I didn’t even have time to breathe. And I thought about you every single day.”
Bob’s throat moved with a quiet swallow.
She scooted a little closer on the bed, her knee brushing his. “I know this isn’t normal. None of this is. I have six bodyguards and a schedule that’s insane, and you fly jets for a living and barely look at your phone.”
That made him smile, just a little.
“But I want to try,” she said. “I want you. I don’t care about the noise or the press or how different our lives look on paper. I care about the way you treat me. The way you look at me like I’m just a person. The way you make me feel safe without trying.”
He was frozen. Wide-eyed. She reached for his hand, gently easing it into hers.
“I don’t know how this will work,” she said, voice softer now. “But if you want to try, too… I’m in. No matter what.”
Bob blinked fast, then looked down at their joined hands like he couldn’t quite believe they were real. “I thought… I thought you were about to say this wasn’t gonna work,” he admitted.
She smiled. “I kind of figured you’d panic.”
“I was preparing myself for the worst,” he laughed nervously. “Like full breakup speech.”
She shook her head and leaned in, pressing her forehead gently to his. “No breakup. Just… beginning.”
He pulled back slightly so he could look at her, really look. And then, voice barely a whisper:
“I’ve wanted this since the moment you called me a cutie patootie in front of everyone.”
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So I dont know if this is your style but I figured I lose nothing by asking!
I have been really wanting to see a Bob Floyd x reader, baby announcement using B.O.B (since hangman calls him Baby on Board) like reader wear a shirt with BOB right on the stomach as a hint to either the dagger squad or Bob himself and it takes way to long for people to get it 🤣 just a thought!
Your fic's have been a saving grace for my Lewis Pullman hyper fixation!
I love this idea! It's so cute and I KNOW the dagger squad would be so excited.
You cannot believe you let Jake and Nat convince you of this. Is the idea cute? Yes. Will this put a smile on Bob's face? Also, yes. So, in theory, this is a good idea. It's witty and adorable, which Bob loves.
Except you've been standing next to him the entire night, and he hasn't mentioned it. It's gotten to a point where Nat pointed at your shirt a complimented it in hopes Bob realizes. He, instead, complimented it as well.
It's comedic and torturous. You want so badly for him to figure it out on his own, but you aren't sure he will. It's not because he's stupid; he's far from that. He's just a little oblivious to the hint you're dropping. In other words, he's not picking up what you're putting down.
You haven't had a lick of alcohol either, of course, for the baby's sake. However, that can't even be seen as a hint, either, because you don't get drunk on the regular. So, you're stuck hoping something will click in his brain.
"Hey, you're looking a little different," Jake says. Your eyes snap to him with a glare that could kill him where he stands. Jake's eyes are darting between you and Bob with an expression that can only say 'come on, man'. You quickly realize he's trying to aid the process. "Have you been doing anything new?" He says with a smirk.
"A lot more cardio," You say through gritted teeth. Bob's attention has already been grabbed by the conversation. His eyes were bouncing back and forth. "I thought this shirt really showed that off." You cannot be anymore clearer.
"You do look amazing," Bob agrees with a sparkle in his eyes. "You've been glowing recently," He adds with a smile.
"Yeah, I just find it weird she's wearing a shirt with your call sign on it," Natasha finally joins in. She plants the butt of her pool stick on the ground as her investment in the topic grows. "Y'know, it reminds me of those stickers people put on their cars. What's it stand for again?" She taps her chin.
"Oh, baby on board," Bob answers with a nod. You want to slam your head into a wall. He is right on the money, and yet, he is somehow using it as printer paper. "I always thought those were cute," He chuckles. Natasha and Jake are left staring at him with amusement.
Bob turns towards you and glances at your shirt for the thirty-first time tonight. His smile drops after a few seconds, and his eyes widen. They flicker to lock with yours, and there's a question on his tongue he can't quite get out.
"Is that what it means?" He asks loudly. He already knows the answer, but he just needs to hear you say it.
"Yeah, it is." You can't stop the grin from growing on your face as his eyes light up. The moment he knows the answer, he's lifting you off the ground. His arms are tight around your torso, and you can hear his laughter.
"I'm going to be a father!" He cheers while placing you back down. Bob's enthusiasm gathers the attention of the rest of the dagger squad. Everyone besides Jake and Natasha is surprised. They all let out a few congratulations while clinking their drinks together.
"Fucking finally. I was starting to think I'd have to just straight up tell him," Jake jokes with a slight nudge to your arm.
"I would have snapped his arm for ruining the surprise," Natasha steps up next to him. Before she can say anything else, Bob is pulling you away. He's already heading out of the bar with a mission in mind.
"Honey, where are we going?" You ask in a sing-song voice.
"I just found out my wife is pregnant. I'm spending the rest of my life pampering you," He says while pulling out the car keys. He says that as if he doesn't already do that. However, you won't say anything to argue against him. You know it's pointless.
Briefing: After seven months of dating Bob Floyd, you're finally ready to introduce him to your four year old son, Garrett. The meeting didn't go as expected, but Bob really proves he's the one you've been waiting for.
Word Count: 1k
Author note: I thought of this and didn't have a full idea for it. But I wanted to put it out there. I like the thought of Dad/Stepdad Bob Floyd. Idk.
You’ve played this conversation in your head more times than you care to admit.
It’s been seven months—seven months of soft smiles, late-night texts from base, coffee dates where he always remembered how you took yours. Seven months of Bob Floyd being exactly what he promised to be: steady, respectful, patient.
He’s never once pushed to meet your son. Not even when you brought him up in month two with shaking hands and a fragile voice.
He just smiled and said, “Whenever you’re ready.”
And now… you’re ready.
You told Bob three days ago.
He smiled, that warm, slightly surprised one he does. “You sure?”
You nodded. You were sure. Nervous, but ready.
“Okay,” he said. “Then however you want to do this, I’m in. Just tell me when and where. I want it to feel right. For both of you.”
So now you're here—on a park bench, heart racing, while your four-year-old son, Garrett, glowers from the jungle gym ten feet away.
“Should I wave?” Bob asks beside you, lips twitching with a nervous smile.
You let out a breath. “Might take a while before he waves back.”
Bob gives your hand a quick squeeze. “That’s okay. I’ve got time.”
Eventually, you call Garrett over. He stomps through the mulch, little arms crossed like a disgruntled CEO.
“Garrett,” you say gently, “this is Bob.”
Garrett looks him over. Then, very plainly says:
“I don’t like you.”
Your stomach drops. “Garrett! That’s not—”
“It’s okay,” Bob cuts in quickly, crouching down to meet Garrett at eye level. “Can I ask why?”
Garrett blinks. Then frowns. “Because you leave. A lot.”
Bob pauses. Nods.
“You’re right. I do leave. My job takes me away sometimes.”
He taps his heart gently. “But I always come back.”
Garrett stares at him. “Promise?”
“Scout’s honor.”
“You weren’t a scout.”
Bob grins. “Okay, technicality. But I mean it.”
Garrett snorts—just a little. And the ice? It starts to crack.
They talk. About dinosaurs, planes, and how red popsicles are “too sticky.” About why Rubble from Paw Patrol would make a terrible pilot. Garrett laughs, full and loud, and your heart finally starts to settle.
By the time the sun dips low, Garrett’s small hand is wrapped around Bob’s as they walk toward the car.
You buckle Garrett in and turn to find Bob watching you, expression unreadable.
“That went great,” you say.
“You think?” he asks. “I wasn’t sure he liked me.”
You step closer, lean in, and kiss him—slow, certain, honest.
“I promise.”
He smiles.
You smile back.
And as the car pulls away and Garrett hums quietly in the back seat, you glance over at Bob.
The warmth of your daughter’s small body is tucked against your side, her cheek pressed to your arm as she watches the pages of the storybook flutter with each turn. You’re halfway through The Paper Bag Princess, and her lashes are already getting heavy.
“Then the dragon flew around the world… twice…” you say softly, dragging your voice like honey across the words, “…and was so tired, he couldn’t even move.”
Your daughter giggles, muffled and sleepy. “He flew too much,” she says, fingers brushing her tiny unicorn plushie.
“Mhm,” you hum, smiling despite the quiet ache in your chest. “That’s why you shouldn’t show off when you’re tired.”
You’re trying. Really trying. Holding onto the rituals—bedtime stories, warm baths, tucking her in just right—as if they’ll keep the world from crashing in.
Your phone buzzes silently on the nightstand. You glance at it. No messages. No missed calls. Not even a read receipt.
Where the hell are you, Bob?
You told yourself you wouldn’t care. Not anymore. But caring is like breathing with him—you can’t stop, no matter how much it hurts.
“I want Daddy to finish the story tomorrow,” your daughter mumbles, eyes fluttering shut.
You hesitate, brushing hair back from her face. “He’ll try, baby.”
“Okay…” she sighs. “Mommy?”
“Yeah, love?”
“Are dragons real?”
You pause. “Only the kind we carry in our hearts.”
That seems to satisfy her. You keep reading until her breathing slows, her hand slipping from your arm. The book hangs loosely in your lap. The room is warm and quiet. For a moment, just a moment, it feels like you’re safe here.
And then—
BANG. BANG. BANG.
You jump so hard the book falls. Your heart slams into your throat. The pounding is aggressive, loud, demanding. Someone’s at the door—no, slamming at it. Your daughter shoots up in bed. “Daddy!” she squeals, awake instantly.
“Wait—wait, baby, no—” but she’s already out of bed, bare feet pattering down the hallway.
You scramble after her. “Sweetheart, slow down—!”
She reaches the front door before you do, fumbling with the handle, too short to open it completely. You get there just as it swings wide.
And there he is.
Bob.
No—what’s left of him.
His blonde hair is a mess, matted with sweat. His eyes are wide and glassy, like someone who hasn’t slept in days. The stench hits you first—alcohol, piss, something sharper and acrid clinging to his clothes. “Hi babyyyy,” he drawls, voice thick and slow like molasses. “Didja miss your old man?”
Your daughter giggles, throws herself at him without hesitation. He lifts her, almost stumbles back from the weight. She clings to his neck like nothing’s wrong.
You stand there, frozen. Your stomach twists.
“Bob,” you say sharply, but not loud. Not yet. “Put her down.”
“Aww, come on,” he slurs. “She missed me. Didn’tcha, honeybee?”
Your daughter beams. “You smell weird, Daddy.”
He barks a laugh, wobbly and too loud. “That’s just… bein’ a man, baby.”
Your heart drops into your stomach.
“Put. Her. Down.”
He finally does, sort of dropping her onto her feet. She stumbles, giggles, doesn’t notice your white-knuckled grip on the doorframe. Bob sways. His eyes meet yours. And for one fleeting second, something clear flickers behind them—recognition, maybe shame—but it’s gone as fast as it came.
“Hey, baby,” he grins at you. “Miss me?”
You don’t answer.
You just stare at him, your mouth dry, your hands shaking, your daughter beside you tugging his hand and asking if he brought her a present.
And the smell. God, the smell—like whiskey and sweat and something chemical and burnt, crawling on his skin. The man in front of you is not the hero. Not the husband. Not even close.
Just the storm you’ve been waiting for.
Bob stumbles over the threshold like a man who’s forgotten what home means.
His boots leave muddy prints across the wood floor. His jacket slips from one shoulder, crumpling at his side like a discarded thought. You say nothing as he makes his way in—wobbly, slow, humming some half-forgotten tune under his breath.
Your daughter is stuck to his hip, chattering happily about her day. “We made dragons at school today, Daddy! And Mommy read the dragon story! It was sooo funny.” She’s beaming, absolutely glowing, like her daddy hasn’t just shown up looking like a man pulled from a wreckage.
Bob nods, eyes too wide. “Dragons, huh? S’a good story. I ever tell you ‘bout the time I fought one?”
She gasps. “Noooo. You really did?”
“Oh yeah,” he grins, staggering toward the living room. “Biggest thing you ever saw. Breath like fire, teeth like knives. Mean son of a bitch.” He leans down, whispering theatrically, “But I kicked his ass.”
She squeals with laughter.
You’re still by the front door. Frozen.
Watching.
Counting.
One bottle of whiskey. A crushed cigarette. Meth. Definitely meth. You can see it in the twitch of his fingers. The way his jaw keeps locking and unlocking. His eyes aren’t just red; they’re wrong. Dilated. Staring through you.
It hits you again, how he can be so full of love and still dangerous like this. Your daughter clutches his leg. “Tell me more, Daddy.”
You finally speak, throat raw. “Sweetheart, it’s bedtime.”
“Aw, come on,” Bob groans, flopping onto the couch. “Let her stay up. Story time with Dad. It’s a special occasion.”
You move fast, crossing the room and crouching beside her. “No, baby. It’s late, and Daddy needs to rest.”
“But—”
“Now,” you say, more firmly, smoothing her hair. “Go pick another book. I’ll be right there.”
She hesitates, clearly torn. But she nods, pouting as she heads back toward her room. You don’t relax until she’s out of sight.
Then you stand.
And face him.
“Are you fucking kidding me?” you whisper.
He laughs, as if you told a joke. “Babe, chill. I’m home, aren’t I?”
“You’re high.”
“I’m not—”
“You’re high, Bob.”
He shrugs, like it’s nothing. “Just a little. Needed to take the edge off.”
“The edge off what?” you hiss. “You vanished for three days. You missed her parent-teacher meeting. You said you’d help with her reading log. You said you were getting better. And now you come in here reeking like a goddamn meth lab and want to play bedtime hero?”
He flinches. But then that grin returns—ugly now, cracked at the edges.
“I was working.”
“Bullshit.”
“Saving people, baby. That’s what I do.”
“No. Not tonight. Tonight you got high and drank yourself stupid and wandered home like a stray dog.”
He sways to his feet, stumbling slightly. “Don’t talk to me like I’m some junkie.”
“What would you call this?”
He gestures wildly, arms spread. “This? This is me surviving, okay? You think I can sleep with what’s in my head? You think I can just tuck in at nine like everything’s fine when there’s a void in there scratching behind my eyes?”
You go still.
His chest heaves. The room is too quiet now.
There it is again.
The thing no one likes to name.
The Void.
The god inside him. Or the monster. Or both. You don’t know anymore. You just know that when Bob says he’s using to keep it quiet, it means he’s slipping further away from all of you.
“I didn’t ask to be this,” he mutters, raking a hand through his hair. “I didn’t ask for any of it.”
Your voice is quieter now. Dangerous. “But you asked to be a father. You asked to be a husband. You chose this family. And every time you walk through that door like this, you tell me we were a mistake.”
He looks like you slapped him.
For one second—just one—he looks like Bob again. The real one. The one who held your hand in the hospital and whispered that he’d protect this baby with his life. The one who rocked your daughter to sleep on his chest, and cried when she said “Dada” for the first time.
Then he blinks. And he’s gone again.
A shadow of himself.
“Don’t be so dramatic,” he mumbles, grabbing a bottle from the kitchen counter—half-empty tequila from a week ago.
You move fast.
“Don’t you fucking dare.”
He lifts the bottle anyway.
You yank it from his hand and slam it down into the sink so hard it shatters.
The sound explodes in the room. Glass everywhere.
Bob stares. Stunned. “Jesus, what the hell?”
“I will not let you drink yourself into the ground in front of our daughter.”
“She didn’t see shit.”
“She sees everything, Bob! Every damn time you stumble in here like this, she looks at me and asks if you’re okay. She draws pictures of dragons with black eyes, and calls them ‘Daddy monsters.’ I am begging you to understand what you’re doing to her.”
He doesn’t move.
He just breathes.
Heavy.
You realize your hands are shaking. You push past him and grab a broom. Start sweeping.
Because you need to do something.
You need the sound. The motion. The distraction.
Bob sinks back onto the couch like all the air’s been taken out of him. “I’m not a monster,” he whispers.
You don’t look at him.
“I never said you were.”
He leans forward, elbows on knees, rubbing his face. “She loves me.”
“She worships you. And that’s the problem. She thinks this is normal.”
You glance down the hallway, heart aching.
“She still waits at the door every night.”
He says nothing.
“I’m pregnant, Bob.”
The words come out without planning.
He freezes.
Looks up.
“What?”
You finally meet his eyes.
“I was gonna tell you when you were clean. When you were… you. But it’s been weeks, and I don’t even know if I’ll get that version of you again.”
A long silence.
Then—he laughs.
Not out of joy.
It’s hollow. Disbelieving. A little broken.
“You’re kidding.”
You shake your head.
He rubs a hand over his face again, blinking hard. “A baby. Another baby. God.”
“Don’t say it like that.”
“I’m not—” He stands suddenly, pacing now. “I’m just—it’s a lot, okay? I’m not even keeping it together as-is and now you’re telling me there’s another kid coming?”
You stare at him.
“Do you want us, Bob? Do you even want to be a part of this family?”
He turns slowly, eyes red.
“I don’t know how to be what you need.”
“I’m not asking for perfect,” you say, voice breaking. “I’m asking for present.”
You leave the room before he can answer.
Back down the hallway. Into your daughter’s room, where she’s already curled up with her second book of the night, waiting patiently.
“Mommy,” she whispers, “is Daddy staying home now?”
You press your lips together.
Tuck her in gently.
And lie.
“Yeah, baby. He’s staying.”
Your daughter falls asleep quickly, thumb curled near her mouth, the dragon story still open beside her on the bed. Her little chest rises and falls, steady, safe—for now.
You stay there a few moments longer than necessary. Just watching her.
Trying to breathe through the ache in your chest.
Trying to remember the version of Bob she deserves.
The one who used to fall asleep on the nursery floor because she wouldn’t let go of his pinky. The one who took her to the park and convinced her he was the strongest man alive because he lifted her with one arm. The one who used to whisper, “I’ll always come back,” like a promise carved in gold.
But now—
Now he comes back empty.
Reeking of pain and piss and substances you can’t even name anymore.
You close her bedroom door softly behind you.
The light in the hallway flickers—needs replacing. Just like everything else. The kitchen clock stopped last week. The front door sticks when it rains. You haven’t fixed the broken nightlight she asked for because every time you get close to doing something normal, you’re reminded that nothing about this life is.
Bob is still in the living room.
Sitting on the floor now.
He’s not moving. Just staring at the shattered glass in the sink. Like it’s some divine message he can’t decipher.
His hands are limp in his lap.
His eyes are red-rimmed and glassy. He’s not crying. But it’s worse somehow. He looks quiet. The kind of quiet that comes after too many storms, when the ship’s already sinking.
You speak first.
“Do you even remember what day it is?”
He flinches, looks up.
“…Tuesday?”
“It’s Friday, Bob.”
He blinks. You don’t think he even believes you.
You walk past him and pick up his jacket—drenched in sweat, smoke, something chemical. You hold it between two fingers like it’s radioactive.
“Is this meth, or did you find something new?”
He shakes his head. “It’s not like that.”
“Then what is it like?” you snap, tossing the jacket toward the laundry basket and wiping your hands on your thighs. “Help me understand, Bob, because I’m out here every day trying to raise your daughter and keep this house from falling apart while you disappear and come home looking like a fucking ghost.”
He doesn’t answer.
“You promised,” you whisper.
“I know,” he finally growls. “I fucking know. You think I like this?”
“I don’t know what you like anymore,” you shoot back, your voice cracking. “You said you were getting clean. You swore. You looked me in the eye and said it was over.”
“I meant it.”
You scoff, bitter. “So what changed?”
He’s quiet for a long moment.
Then, in a voice so raw it scrapes the air: “I did.”
You want to scream. Cry. Run. Anything but this.
“Don’t give me that tragic hero bullshit,” you snap, pacing now. “You had help. You had us. We were there. Every time. I sat with you through every crash. Every mood swing. Every nightmare. And you still chose the high.”
His face twists.
“I didn’t choose this,” he snaps, standing. “You think I wake up and want to burn everything down? You think I look at her and feel nothing?”
You stop.
Let the silence settle between you.
He drags a shaky hand through his hair. “I love her. I love you. But this thing in me—it’s loud. And when I don’t quiet it, it eats me alive.”
You’re crying now.
Tears hot and fast and silent.
“Then let it eat you, Bob. Not us. Not her.”
His expression cracks.
For a second, he steps forward, like he’s going to reach for you. But he stops himself. Just stares.
“You’re pregnant,” he says again, softer now. Like it just hit him.
You nod, wiping your cheeks.
“How far along?”
“Seven weeks.”
A beat.
“Is it mine?”
That breaks you.
It slices through your chest like a blade.
You laugh. One sharp, humorless breath. “Are you seriously asking me that?”
He grimaces. “I didn’t mean—”
“You didn’t mean it, I know. Just like you didn’t mean to disappear. Or relapse. Or scare the shit out of our daughter tonight. But you did. And I’m the one who has to patch it all up every single time.”
Bob slumps back down onto the couch. Puts his head in his hands.
“I don’t even know where to start.”
“Start by apologizing.”
He looks up.
“I’m sorry,” he says. “For tonight. For everything.”
You nod slowly. “And then what?”
He doesn’t answer.
You kneel in front of him.
“I need you to hear this, and really hear me, Bob. I can’t keep doing this. I can’t raise two kids in a house where love feels like walking through landmines.”
He’s trembling now. You don’t think he realizes it.
“I want the man who brought home flowers just because I said I missed spring. I want the man who cried when she was born and held her like she was made of stars. Not this…” you trail off, gesturing at him. “Not this ruin.”
He blinks hard.
Looks at you.
And then—he shatters.
Breaks open.
The tears come fast and brutal. He folds in on himself, sobbing like it’s the first time he’s let it out. He clutches your wrist, not to hurt, just to hold.
“I’m so sorry,” he gasps. “I’m so fucking sorry, I didn’t mean to—I don’t know why I can’t stop—”
You wrap your arms around him, even though it hurts.
Even though you know this moment won’t fix anything.
Because this is still Bob.
Even if he’s buried under the weight of everything he’s become.
“I know,” you whisper, holding him as tightly as you can. “But something has to change. Or this ends here.”
His fingers dig into your back.
Like he knows you mean it this time.
Like he’s terrified you really will walk.
And the worst part is—
So are you.
The house is quiet when you wake up.
Your daughter is curled up against you on the couch, one arm thrown over your belly like she’s guarding something. You kiss her forehead and gently shift her off your lap, your lower back aching from a night of sleeping half upright.
You can smell him before you hear him.
Cigarettes. Cheap beer. Sweat.
You stiffen.
Bob’s in the kitchen. He’s sitting at the table with his head in his hands like he’s the one who needs comforting. There’s a trail of dirt and god-knows-what from his boots to the back door, and the sink’s still full of glass shards from last night’s meltdown.
You don’t speak right away. You just stand there, watching him.
He doesn’t look up.
“What the hell are you doing here?” you ask softly. Not because you’re trying to be calm—but because if you raise your voice, you’ll scream.
“I live here,” he mumbles, still not looking at you.
“Do you?”
He finally lifts his head.
His eyes are bloodshot. His face is pale. You’re not sure how long it’s been since he slept, but it sure as hell wasn’t last night.
“I’m sorry,” he says hoarsely.
You almost laugh. It’s not funny, but it’s so familiar—the way he always defaults to sorry when he’s got nothing else left to say.
You move to the sink and start picking out the bigger shards of glass from the mess he made. Carefully. Wordlessly.
He watches.
“Let me help.”
“You’ve helped enough,” you say coldly.
That shuts him up.
When you finally turn to face him, you’re exhausted in every possible way. Your body hurts, your heart hurts, your soul hurts.
“I meant it,” he says after a beat. “What I said last night. I want to be better.”
You stare at him. “You were high, Bob. You said a lot of things.”
“I meant them.”
“Even the part where you asked if the baby was yours?”
His face falls.
You shake your head. “You don’t get to play the hero after that.”
He stands slowly. “I was out of my mind. I didn’t know what I was saying.”
“You haven’t known what you were saying for months.”
Silence.
You press your palms into the counter. Your voice comes quieter now, shakier. “She woke up this morning asking where her dragon drawing went. You scared the hell out of her last night. Again.”
He runs a hand through his hair, pacing. “I know. I fucked up.”
You laugh bitterly. “Fucked up doesn’t even begin to cover it, Bob.”
He looks at you like he wants to fall apart again. But you’re not giving him that out this time. Not another emotional collapse for you to clean up.
“Do you want to be a father?” you ask, blunt.
He stiffens. “Of course I do.”
“Then act like it. Because this version of you? He’s not a dad. He’s a fucking disaster.”
He flinches.
Good.
“Go get help,” you say. “Real help.”
He nods immediately. “I will. I want to.”
You narrow your eyes. “Do you? Or do you just want me to think you will so I won’t throw you out?”
“I mean it this time.”
“You said that the last time.”
His shoulders fall.
And for a moment, he looks small.
“You want a gold star for showing up at rock bottom?” you ask, shaking your head. “No. You want this family? You fight for it. Because I’m done dragging you to the finish line.”
He nods again, slower this time. “I’ll go. Tomorrow. I’ll find a place. I just need—”
“No,” you cut in. “Today. Before you change your mind. Before you convince yourself this wasn’t that bad. Pack a bag. Get out. And don’t come back until you’re clean.”
He swallows hard. “Will you wait for me?”
You don’t answer at first.
You look past him, toward the hallway. Where your daughter still sleeps. Where the nursery’s half-painted. Where the version of your life that you wanted is falling apart at the seams.
“I’ll do what’s best for the kids,” you say. “But waiting for you? No. I’ve done enough of that.”
You leave the kitchen before he can say anything else.
You don’t want more promises.
You want proof.
That night, he’s gone.
Just like that.
No grand goodbye. No dramatic tears. Just a packed duffel bag, an apology muttered in the doorway, and the weight of your daughter’s drawing tucked into his jacket.
You don’t cry.
You don’t feel relieved, either.
Just… empty.
Like this was always coming, and now that it’s here, you’re too numb to mourn it.
You lay in bed with your daughter curled beside you and a hand on your stomach, wondering what kind of father this baby will have.
And whether it’s better to hope for his return—
—or to pray he never comes back.
Two weeks.
That’s how long it’s been since Bob left.
The house is quieter, but not in the peaceful way. It’s the kind of quiet that gets under your skin, presses against your chest. Like the whole place is holding its breath, waiting for the next storm.
You’ve stopped expecting to find his boots by the door. You’ve stopped waiting for his voice in the hallway. But the ache hasn’t dulled—not really. It just settled in a different place. Lower. Heavier.
You’re tired. All the time.
And not just from the pregnancy.
There’s something about carrying a child and holding a whole family together at the same time that feels impossible.
But you do it.
You get up.
You feed your daughter.
You fold tiny onesies and pack a hospital bag, just in case.
And when she asks why Daddy’s not home, you smile and say, “He’s on a trip, baby. He’s working really hard to come back better.”
You don’t say what kind of work.
You don’t say that some nights, you cry into his old hoodie and hope to God this baby never knows the version of Bob you had to survive.
He texts once.
Day 9.
I’m in. It’s hard. I miss you both so much. I swear I’m doing it right this time.
You stare at the message for a full ten minutes.
Then you lock your phone and leave it unanswered.
One morning, you wake up and realize you haven’t said his name out loud in days.
That feels like progress.
But then you find your daughter in the hallway with her backpack on.
“Where are you going?” you ask, heart skipping.
“To go find Daddy.”
Your breath catches.
She looks up at you, so hopeful, so sure.
“I drew him a new dragon,” she says softly. “The old one was too scary.”
You kneel in front of her, stomach twisting.
“Sweetheart, you can’t go find Daddy. He’s still… away.”
“Why?”
“Because he’s learning how to be safe. How to be the kind of daddy you deserve.”
Her face crumples. “But what if he forgets about us?”
Your heart breaks clean in half.
You pull her into your arms and whisper, “He won’t. I won’t let him.”
That night, you write him a letter.
You don’t send it.
You don’t even plan to.
But you need to say the things you can’t say with your voice yet:
*I’m angry. You should know that. I don’t believe you yet. You’ve said you’d change before. You said it while high. You said it while bleeding. You said it while looking our daughter in the eye. You lied every time.
But I still want you to try.
Not for me. Not for us.
For her. For this baby.
Because if you come back the same man who left, I won’t let you through the door again.
I mean that.*
You fold it.
Tuck it into the bottom drawer of the dresser.
And you leave it there like a secret waiting to rot.
Week three.
The nausea is back.
You blame stress. Not just from Bob, but from everything. Doctor visits. Finances. Being the only parent at story time in the library. Carrying a child while carrying this much emotional weight—it’s no wonder your body is starting to fight back.
You sit in the bathtub that night, lights off, candles flickering, trying to breathe through the tension building in your ribs. The house feels lonelier than ever.
And that’s when the phone rings.
Not Bob.
The clinic.
“Just a routine check-in,” the nurse says gently. “He asked us to let you know he’s still clean. Still on track.”
You nearly drop the phone.
“He did?” you ask, voice brittle.
“Yes, ma’am. He’s working hard. Every day. He said he’d understand if you didn’t want to hear from him directly. But he wanted you to know he’s still trying.”
Your throat tightens.
You thank her.
You hang up.
And for the first time in weeks, you let yourself cry—not from anger, but from something closer to grief. Or maybe even hope.
But you still don’t text him back.
Not yet.
Day 26.
You go into early labor.
It’s a false alarm, but it scares the hell out of you.
You’re in the hospital for nine hours. Hooked up to monitors. Breathing through contractions that fade, then return, then fade again. Your daughter’s with your sister. You’re alone in a cold room with fluorescent lights and too many questions.
And you don’t call Bob.
Not because you don’t want to.
But because you don’t trust him yet—not even with this.
When the doctor finally tells you it’s Braxton Hicks, you exhale so hard it feels like your lungs collapse.
Back home, you sit in the nursery and rub your belly.
“I got us,” you whisper. “Even if he doesn’t.”
Day 30.
Bob writes a letter.
This time, he doesn’t send it.
But you’ll read it soon.
And when you do, it will hurt like hell.
Because he’ll finally admit the full truth.
The stuff he never said. The things you didn’t even know. The darkest parts he buried under the booze and the high. And for the first time… you’ll understand why he left before you could push him out.
But that’s still coming.
Right now?
You’re just trying to breathe.
Bob’s POV
There’s no mirror in the bathroom. You guess that’s intentional. Too many guys in here already hate what they see. No need to make it worse.
You splash cold water on your face. Your hands are shaking again — not like the first few days, but enough to remind you that the chemicals aren’t out of your bones yet. Not really. Not even after three weeks.
You’ve been clean for 26 days.
Feels like a lie to say it out loud. Like you’re just borrowing someone else’s life until yours gets good enough to take back.
You stare at the tiled wall and whisper, “Stay clean today.”
Not forever. Not even tomorrow.
Just today.
That’s all you’ve got.
Group therapy is at 9 a.m. sharp.
You hate it.
Everyone talks like they’re starring in some sad movie, and you can’t tell if it’s real or rehearsed.
But today, a guy named Jeremy talks about how he lost his daughter.
Not to death — to the system. Foster care. She was three.
He cries when he says her name.
And for the first time since you checked in, you want to cry, too.
Not for Jeremy.
For yourself.
For your daughter.
For the baby you haven’t even met yet.
Because you know what it’s like to wreck something beautiful with your own hands.
And you’re so fucking scared it’s too late to put any of it back together.
That night, you write a letter.
You don’t plan to send it.
But it’s the only way to say what needs saying.
I don’t know how to be the man you married.
I don’t know how to be a good father.
I only know how to survive things. And then destroy them.
I wish I could blame it on the drugs. Or the alcohol. Or my dad. But I think I was broken before any of that. I think I was born with a hole in me that never filled.
Until you.
Until her.
Until this new baby.
And the second I got scared I’d lose it, I torched it.
Because if I burn it myself, at least I’m not surprised when it’s gone.
That’s the kind of man I am.
The kind who’d rather blow up a house than admit he’s terrified of being inside it.
I remember the way you looked at me that night I came home high.
Like I was a stranger.
Like I was already dead.
And I think part of me was.
But I’m trying.
Every goddamn day, I’m trying.
I’ve been clean almost a month. I go to therapy. I talk about the way my hands shake when I think about holding our baby. I write down the names of the people I hurt. I say I’m sorry even when no one’s listening.
And I’m writing this not because I want forgiveness.
But because I need you to know — I remember.
I remember your voice reading bedtime stories.
I remember her little dragon drawing taped to the fridge.
I remember the sound of your laugh in the kitchen at 2 a.m.
I remember it all.
And it’s killing me to be away from it.
But I’ll stay away as long as it takes.
Until you don’t flinch when you hear my name.
Until our daughter stops waiting by the window.
Until I know I can walk through the door without making everything worse.
I don’t expect anything.
Not even another chance.
But I swear on my life, if I ever do come home…
It’ll be as a man you can trust.
Not a perfect man.
Just one who won’t leave you to carry all of this alone.
You fold the paper slowly.
You don’t sign it.
If she ever reads it, she’ll know it’s from you.
Day 30.
You hear someone in the hallway scream into a pillow. They’re shaking. Withdrawal still kicking the shit out of them.
You remember when you were that guy.
Sweating through the sheets.
Throwing up bile.
Hallucinating voices in the walls.
You almost left that first night.
But you stayed.
Because of her.
Because of the baby.
Because of the tiny hands that used to tug on your hoodie and say, “Daddy, watch me.” You don’t know if she ever will again. But that’s not why you’re staying clean now. You’re doing it because you should’ve done it a long time ago.
Later that day, a counselor named Rae pulls you aside.
She’s kind. Firm. A little too good at reading you. She sits across from you in a quiet room and says, “Tell me about your wife.”
You hesitate. “We’re not married anymore.”
She raises an eyebrow. “You sure?”
You shrug. “I think I burned that bridge.”
“People survive fire.”
“Not if you leave them in it.”
She leans back. “Do you want to be with her?”
You nod before you can stop yourself.
“Then you better figure out why you blew everything up.”
That night, you lie awake and think about the sound of your daughter’s laugh.
The one that hiccups in the middle.
Like your laugh.
Like your mother’s.
You remember your mom crying in the bathroom when your dad came home angry.
You remember the beer bottles lined up like trophies on the counter.
You remember the screaming. The smashing.
And the silence that followed.
And now?
Now you’ve got your own version of that memory playing out in someone else’s house.
And you swear — swear — you’re going to break the pattern.
Or die trying.
Day 33.
You pick up your pen.
You start a new letter.
This time, you’re going to send it.
Not to win her back.
Just to let her know:
You’re not gone.
You’re fighting.
And this time — you’re not running.
Your POV
It comes in the mail on a Wednesday.
You almost miss it.
You’re balancing groceries on your hip, your daughter tugging at your hand, when you see the envelope. No return address. Just your name — in handwriting you haven’t seen in a long time. The letters are a little shaky. Like he had to hold the pen too tight to keep from falling apart.
You know it’s him.
Even before you open it.
You press it to your chest for a second. Just to feel something.
Then you hide it in the drawer under the kitchen sink.
Because if you read it too fast, you might break.
And you’ve got too much to do to shatter today.
You wait until your daughter is asleep.
Her little arms wrapped around her stuffed lion, dragon drawings covering the wall like wallpaper. You smooth her hair. Kiss her forehead. Whisper I love you like it’s a prayer and a promise.
Then you go downstairs.
Turn off the lights.
And open the letter.
I told myself I wouldn’t write.
That if I really respected your space, I’d stay quiet. Let you breathe. Let you heal.
But I miss you.
I miss her.
I miss the baby I haven’t even met yet.
And I know missing you isn’t enough.
I know I don’t deserve anything from you.
But I’m still here. Still clean. Thirty-three days.
I go to group. I cry like hell. I talk about things I never wanted to say out loud.
Like the night I came home and scared you both.
I remember it.
I remember your eyes when I opened that door — full of fear, and fire, and heartbreak. And how our daughter ran to me like I hadn’t been gone inside my own head for months.
I hated myself in that moment.
Not because I got caught. But because I finally saw what I’d done to the people who loved me.
I’m not asking you to forgive me.
I don’t want a clean slate.
I want to earn every second of your trust.
Even if it takes years.
Even if it means you never love me again.
Because what matters now is her. And the baby.
They deserve a father who doesn’t flinch when it gets hard. Who doesn’t reach for a bottle or a needle when the silence gets loud.
They deserve someone better than who I’ve been.
So I’m trying.
Not to win you back. But to become the kind of man who never needed to be forgiven in the first place.
If you let me in again someday — I’ll be ready.
But if you don’t? I’ll still be better.
Because you taught me how.
And I’ll never stop being grateful.
You cry.
Not in the movie way — not graceful or quiet.
You cry like it’s leaving you.
Like every moment of holding it together finally cracked open and spilled out in messy sobs.
You grip the letter so tight it crinkles in your fists.
Then you fold it.
Tuck it under your pillow.
And just… breathe.
The next morning, you call your sister.
You ask her if she can watch your daughter that afternoon.
You don’t tell her why.
You just need a few hours.
Alone.
To think.
To feel.
To figure out what the hell you’re supposed to do with the version of Bob who finally seems like he’s trying.
You sit on the porch with a cup of tea that goes cold.
Your hands drift to your stomach.
The baby kicks.
Not hard — just a nudge. Like a reminder.
You think about the way Bob used to talk to the bump before he got bad.
“Hi baby,” he’d whisper, “this is your daddy. I promise, I’m gonna get it right.”
And back then, you believed him.
Now?
Now you want to believe again.
But wanting isn’t enough.
You write your own letter.
Just a few lines.
No promises.
Just honesty.
I got your letter.
It hurt. But it also helped.
I don’t know what the future looks like. I don’t know if I can trust you yet.
But I’m glad you’re trying.
And I’m proud of you for staying.
Keep going.
Our daughter still draws you dragons.
And I still sleep on your side of the bed.
You seal it.
Mail it the next day.
And for the first time in over a month, you feel a little lighter.
Later that night, your daughter asks,
“Mommy, is Daddy still learning how to be safe?”
You pause.
Then you smile, soft and true.
“Yeah, baby. He is.”
“Can we send him a picture of my dragons?”
You nod.
“Yeah. I think he’d love that.”
The dragon drawing arrives in the mail with a letter taped to it in your daughter’s handwriting — big, looping, backward letters. You help her spell most of the words, but she insists on writing “I love you sooooooooooo much” all by herself.
You don’t think twice about sending it.
Not anymore.
Bob’s letters haven’t stopped.
One every week.
No begging. No pressure. Just steady check-ins. Tiny pieces of him — raw and cleaned up.
You keep them in a shoebox under your bed.
Sometimes you reread them when you can’t sleep. Especially the one where he says he watches the sunrise every morning and thinks about how it used to hit your kitchen floor.
You hadn’t even realized he noticed things like that.
One Sunday afternoon, your phone buzzes.
An unknown number.
Your heart jumps. You answer.
“Hey,” he says softly.
His voice is deeper. Slower. Like he’s scared you might hang up.
You don’t.
You just… breathe.
“Hi.”
“Um,” he clears his throat. “They let me have a phone. Only one call today. I wanted it to be you.”
There’s a pause. You hear birds behind him. Maybe he’s outside. Maybe he’s walking in circles with a knot in his stomach, same as you.
“She sent me dragons,” he says, his voice cracking. “I didn’t cry. But I wanted to.”
And then, softly, “I’ll let you go. I just needed to hear your voice.”
You cry after.
Not because he said anything romantic.
But because he didn’t.
Because he respected your space.
Because he just wanted to hear you.
And suddenly, it hits you — how starved you were for the version of him who actually sees you.
A week later, your daughter gets a FaceTime call.
It’s him.
She shrieks when she sees his face, running to the screen, clutching her dragon plushie like a lifeline.
“Daddy!”
His face lights up in a way that makes your stomach twist.
“Hi, baby girl,” he whispers. “Look at you. You’ve gotten so big.”
She spins in a circle, holding her shirt up to show him the baby bump on you.
“She kicks Mommy a lot! But not me. She likes me better.”
You laugh softly off-screen. “She’s not kicking anyone. Yet.”
Bob’s eyes flick up to you just for a second.
You see everything in them.
Guilt. Love. Ache.
Gratitude.
He doesn’t say anything else about you. He just lets your daughter talk.
Lets her show him her dragon drawings, her new pink sneakers, the little scar she got falling off the couch.
He listens.
He smiles.
And when she tells him she loves him, his voice breaks when he answers.
“I love you more, baby girl. Always.”
That night, you get another letter.
You didn’t have to let me call.
You didn’t have to hold the phone so she could show me her sneakers. Or wave at me before you hung up.
But you did.
And I swear to God, I won’t forget it.
I know I still haven’t earned your trust.
But I’m building something. Every day.
A version of me who isn’t dangerous. Who doesn’t disappear.
I know now that sobriety isn’t a cure.
It’s just the start.
But you gave me that start. And I’m not wasting it.
Thank you for letting her see me.
Even if I’m not home yet, you made me feel like I’m not completely gone.
You cry.
Again.
But this time it’s quiet.
A little softer.
Another week passes.
The FaceTime calls become regular — just on Sundays.
Not long. Never longer than 20 minutes. He talks mostly to your daughter. You sit in the corner of the frame, quietly observing, nodding when she asks you something. Sometimes he glances at you like he wants to say more — but never pushes it.
He’s waiting.
And you notice things.
He looks… clearer.
His eyes don’t dart around like they’re chasing invisible demons. His voice is steadier. And there’s this calm to him now, something you haven’t seen in years — maybe ever.
It terrifies you.
Because if he’s really changing…
You might have to open the door again.
One afternoon, you finally ask:
“Are you scared to come home?”
He blinks at you through the screen.
“Yes,” he says. And then, “But not for me. For you. And them. Because I don’t want to be a tornado that touches down just to wreck things.”
You stare at him.
That’s what you were waiting to hear.
Not promises.
Not grand speeches.
Just awareness.
You nod.
“I’ll let you know when it’s time.”
He nods back.
“Okay.”
And somehow, it feels like a peace treaty.
Not the end.
Not the beginning.
Just a truce.
You go to sleep that night with your hand on your belly.
The baby kicks again.
And this time?
You smile.
Because for the first time in a long time, the future doesn’t feel like something you’re surviving.
It feels like something you might actually live through.
You go into nesting mode.
Not the Pinterest kind — no cozy blankets or baby showers or color-coded drawers.
It’s more like scrubbing the kitchen floor at midnight because you can’t sleep.
Folding the baby’s onesies three times over.
Holding your breath every time the doorbell rings.
Your daughter is beside herself.
“Is Daddy coming home before the baby comes?”
You pause.
You don’t want to lie.
But you don’t want to promise something you can’t control.
So you say, “Maybe.”
And she hugs your belly, like she’s shielding both of you.
“He’s trying,” she whispers.
You nod.
Yeah. He is.
You start writing Bob more.
Short texts at first.
Pictures of your daughter. Updates from the OB. A photo of the baby’s empty crib with the caption: “Getting ready. Still not sure for what.”
He never pushes.
Never asks “when can I come back?”
He just replies with care.
“Tell the baby I’m already proud of her.”
“How’s your back? Need me to Venmo you for a massage?”
“The crib looks perfect. You did that. All of it.”
You don’t realize how much you missed having someone to check in — even in the smallest ways.
On a rainy Friday afternoon, your daughter draws a picture of all four of you.
Stick figures. You’re smiling. So is she. There’s a baby with sparkles on her head. And then there’s Bob. Holding flowers. She holds it up to your belly.
“This is for the baby. So she knows who we are.”
You almost cry.
Because that little drawing? It feels like hope.
Like she’s already forgiven him.
Like she never stopped loving him.
And maybe — maybe that means you don’t have to pretend to hate him anymore either.
Later that night, you call him.
Not a FaceTime.
Just voice.
He picks up on the second ring.
“Hey.”
“Hey,” you echo. “Are you still… going to group? Still sober?”
“Seventy-one days,” he says, almost breathless.
You nod, even though he can’t see you.
“I’m proud of you,” you whisper.
Then you hear him crying.
Not loud.
Just quiet breaths, like he doesn’t want you to hear it.
“I don’t want to miss her birth,” he says.
You close your eyes.
You don’t want him to either.
But you also don’t know if you’re ready to let him back in that deep.
So you say the only thing that feels right:
“If you keep doing the work — really doing it — we can talk about that. Soon.”
“Okay,” he says. “I’ll keep going.”
That night you pull the shoebox of letters from under your bed and start reading them again.
All of them.
Start to finish.
You see the change in his words.
The difference between the early ones — full of regret and begging — and the recent ones — calm, quiet, full of real effort.
He’s not perfect.
You don’t expect him to be.
But he’s trying.
And maybe that’s worth something.
Two days later, you call him again.
This time, your voice is steadier.
“I’ve been thinking,” you say.
“About what?”
“If it happens fast… the birth, I mean. If I go into labor early, or something happens— I want you close. Not in the house. But maybe… maybe nearby.”
Silence.
Then: “Okay. Yeah. Yes. Anything. I’ll book a place today.”
You exhale.
“You can come over Sunday. Just for an hour. So she can see you in person. I’ll stay nearby. But it’s her time. Not ours.”
He swallows hard.
“Thank you.”
Sunday comes and the weather’s warm.
You dress your daughter in her favorite dragon shirt and braid her hair just the way she likes it.
She’s bouncing around the living room when there’s a knock on the door.
You freeze.
For a second, you’re back in that night — the slam of the door, the smell of alcohol, the panic.
But then you hear his voice through the door, calm and clear.
“It’s me. Just me.”
You open it.
And there he is.
Clean-shaven. Eyes tired but kind. Holding a small bouquet of flowers — daisies, your daughter’s favorite.
She screams and tackles him.
He kneels to catch her, burying his face in her hair.
“Hi, baby girl.”
She’s crying.
He’s crying.
You’re crying.
It’s not perfect.
It’s not fixed.
But it’s real.
And for now, that’s enough.
They sit on the floor playing with her dragon plushies while you sit quietly on the couch, sipping tea and watching.
He doesn’t try to talk to you.
He knows this moment isn’t about you two.
It’s about her.
And when she finally gets tired and curls up in his lap, eyes fluttering closed, he looks up at you — and mouths, Thank you.
You nod.
Just once.
Because even if you haven’t said it out loud yet…
Maybe, just maybe, you’re getting close to letting him come home.
You wake up at 3:27 a.m. with a sharp, wet pop and a gasp.
It takes a second to register.
Then the pain hits.
Hard.
Low.
Real.
You barely have time to grab your phone before another wave crashes over you. You double over, gripping the bedframe, trying to breathe through it.
Your daughter is asleep down the hall.
The hospital bag is packed.
Your heart is pounding.
You pick up your phone and do something you didn’t think you’d do — not like this, not this fast.
You call Bob.
He picks up on the second ring, voice thick with sleep.
“Y/N?”
“It’s happening,” you say, your voice tight and high and full of fear. “The baby’s coming. It’s early.”
He’s instantly awake.
“Where are you? Are you okay?”
“I need to get to the hospital, but I can’t wake her up and leave her here alone—”
“I’m on my way. Five minutes. Don’t do it alone. I’ve got you.”
You nod, even though he can’t see you.
You sit on the edge of the bed, holding your belly, rocking slightly.
And for the first time since the test turned positive, you aren’t scared to have him by your side.
Four minutes later, there’s a knock at the door.
Gentle. Steady.
You open it and he’s already reaching for your hospital bag, his free hand bracing your back when you double over again.
“Breathe, babe,” he murmurs, “I’ve got you.”
And you do.
You believe him.
Your daughter stirs on the couch just as you’re getting ready to leave.
Bob kneels beside her.
“Hey, baby girl. Daddy’s here. Mommy’s gonna go have the baby now, okay? I’m gonna stay with you.”
She blinks blearily. “You promise?”
He kisses her forehead.
“I promise.”
She nods, then looks at you. “Be brave, Mommy.”
You almost cry.
Labor is a blur.
But he’s there.
Every contraction. Every scream. Every breath.
He holds your hand, wipes your forehead, tells you you’re doing so, so good. There’s panic in his eyes — fear, even — but he never leaves. Not once.
And when the doctor says, “She’s here,”
you both fall silent.
And then the baby cries.
And so do you.
And so does he.
He cuts the cord with shaking hands.
They place her on your chest — this tiny, perfect, pink thing — and for a second, the world stops.
Everything else falls away.
Just you, her, and the man beside you who’s looking at the two of you like you’re everything he thought he’d never deserve again.
Later, when the nurses take the baby for her first bath, he helps you sit up in bed, adjusting your pillows and brushing your sweaty hair out of your face.
You stare at him.
“You stayed.”
He meets your eyes.
“I wasn’t going to miss this. Not again. Not ever.”
You swallow hard. “You didn’t have to—”
He shakes his head. “No. But I wanted to. I needed to.”
Silence.
Then softly:
“You can come home. If you still want to.”
His eyes widen.
“Are you sure?”
You nod.
“You’ve earned it.”
He leans in, pressing his forehead to yours, careful, reverent, like he’s afraid to break the moment.
“I’m not perfect,” he whispers. “But I’ll keep showing up.”
You nod again. “That’s all I ask.”
Two days later, he carries you and the baby through the front door.
Your daughter runs to you, screaming with joy.
And just like that… your little family isn’t broken anymore.
It’s just starting over.
From scratch.
With love.
With choice.
That night, Bob makes dinner while your daughter plays with her dragons and you feed the baby on the couch.
He keeps glancing over at you — soft eyes, hands still moving — like he can’t believe he’s really here.
Like he’s terrified to blink in case it disappears.
When the baby falls asleep on your chest, he sits beside you, resting a hand on your thigh, thumb brushing back and forth.
You don’t say anything.
You just lean into him.
And for the first time in forever?
It feels like home again.
It’s a quiet morning.
Your newborn is asleep on your chest. Your daughter’s building a fort out of couch cushions and glitter glue. And Bob? Bob’s in the kitchen, wearing a baby-pink apron with “#1 DILF” in cursive and burning pancakes because he keeps staring at you like he still can’t believe he got this life back.
And then the doorbell rings.
Bob freezes.
You glance at him.
He sighs, mutters, “I forgot,” and walks toward the door like a man headed to war.
Because he is.
The Thunderbolts have arrived
Yelena is the first one inside — sunglasses, combat boots, and a bag of overpriced vegan baby snacks.
“I don’t like babies,” she announces. “But yours is tolerable.”
Ghost (Ava) slips in silently behind her, already kneeling by your daughter’s dragon fort with curious eyes.
Bucky comes in last, holding a plush wolf toy and looking like he definitely didn’t ask to be here but secretly wouldn’t want to be anywhere else.
Red Guardian is outside arguing with a neighbor about driveway etiquette.
Bob sighs again. “Be gentle,” he mumbles to you as he opens the door fully.
And the chaos begins.
The baby stays asleep for five whole minutes — a record — until Red Guardian accidentally knocks over a lamp while performing a dramatic monologue about Soviet diaper efficiency.
“She must grow strong! Like Russian baby! Built from frozen milk and shame!”
Yelena rolls her eyes and steals a waffle off your plate.
Bob tries to referee.
It’s a mess.
But it’s a good one.
Yelena sits beside you, sipping cold coffee like it’s vodka.
“So. You let him back in.”
You glance toward Bob, who’s letting your daughter paint his nails in glittery pink while he bottle-feeds the baby in his lap.
“Yeah,” you say. “I did.”
She studies you.
Then nods once.
“Good,” she says. “If he screws it up again, I’ll shoot him in the knee.”
You laugh.
Bob looks up like he heard that but knows better than to argue. Bucky eventually ends up on the floor, holding your daughter upside down like a sack of potatoes while she screams with delight.
He looks up at you.
“She’s fearless.”
“She gets it from her dad.”
He raises an eyebrow at Bob. “…Are we sure?”
You grin. “He got there.”
Bucky shrugs. “Good. Everyone deserves a second chance. Even walking hydrogen bombs.” Bob mouths thank you across the room. Bucky just nods.
Later, when the team finally starts winding down — Ghost curled up with the baby in her lap, Red Guardian asleep in your recliner, and Yelena pretending not to be emotionally attached to your daughter’s new nickname for her (“Auntie Knife”) — you and Bob steal a moment on the back porch.
The house glows warm behind you. Your family — all kinds of family — is inside. Bob leans into you, arms around your waist.”They still think I’m unstable,” he murmurs.
“You are unstable.”
He laughs quietly. “But you kept me.”
You press a kiss to his collarbone. “I didn’t keep you. You earned it. And you’re still earning it.”
He nods. “I’m okay with that.”
Before the team leaves, your daughter insists on taking a picture of all of you — Thunderbolts and all — squeezed into the living room like the world’s weirdest sitcom cast.
Red Guardian flexes. Yelena wears a fake scowl. Bucky holds the baby with terrifying tenderness.
Bob stands behind you, arms wrapped around your shoulders, a hand resting gently on your belly. (Because surprise — you might be pregnant again, and yeah, this time you’re happy about it.)
The flash goes off.
The photo is chaotic.
Blurry, loud, off-center.
But it’s perfect.
That night, once the kids are asleep and the house is quiet again, Bob climbs into bed beside you.
His hands are calloused but careful as he rubs your back.
“You ever think about what this looked like… before?”
You nod. “Yeah. But I like what it looks like now better.”
He brushes a kiss to your shoulder.
“You make it better.”
You turn to face him, resting your forehead against his.
“So do you, Bob Reynolds. Even with glitter in your beard.”
He chuckles. “I’m a reformed man. A glittery, diaper-changing, emotionally vulnerable ex-superweapon.”
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your stylist must hate you, putting you into a corset so tight. thank god finnick odair is there to save you
warnings: female reader, finnick and reader are friends with implied feelings, mentions of capitol people being awful people, finnick being a sweetheart, no use of y/n
If there was one thing you were certain of, it was that you hated Capitol parties. They were always extremely extravagant, filled with the most obnoxiously unaware people you had probably ever met. Being a Victor was nothing less than a major pain in the ass. You lived, but you also lived with the pains of the Capitol and Snow breathing down your neck every five seconds.
It wasn't uncommon for Victors to be invited to parties in the Capitol. It was actually rather unusual for them not to be invited. After all, they were the real Capitol stars. So, here you were, drinking some bubbly liquor that tasted incredibly awful in comparison to any other drink, fake smiling and laughing with some socialites who wouldn't leave you alone for more than two minutes at a time.
Their stories were very unimpressive. Dull and lifeless, like how someone stepped on a bug while shopping, or how another ate so much they had to throw up six times. Stories from the Districts were always better. Folk stories or real, it really didn't matter. At least they were interesting and not about something stupid like fashion or gossip.
The worst part of the whole night was that your stylist must've hated you. You wore some long, pirate-esque, flowy skirt with the most painful heels that had ever been made along with the tightest corset you'd ever worn. It was squeezing all of your insides in all the wrong ways. If you turned the wrong way or breathed too hard, it really hurt. You were sure if you bent over, you'd crack your ribs. It was torturous to be wearing such a thing.
You managed to laugh at all their jokes, share stories back and forth, and pretend to be interested just long enough to tolerate the pain. But now it was becoming a little bit too hard to manage. It felt like you could no longer breathe normally. You were all too aware of your breathing. If you stopped thinking about it, there was a chance you'd stop completely, at least, that's what you convinced yourself. Your fake smile seemed harder to keep up as a socialite finished their story.
"Honestly, isn't that just the most terrible thing you've heard?" You fake laughed, nodding along as best as you could with your circumstances and disinterest. "I mean, I couldn't imagine anything more awful that a broken heel!" How ignorant. Ever heard of The Hunger Games?
"I would have thrown a fit it if were me," another socialite said, seeming very remorseful.
A different one nodded, "Truly the most nightmarish ending to your evening."
As you stood there, you wondered if it could it be possible that the corset was getting tighter. There was no possible way it could have been, but it sure felt like it. The squeezing was becoming incredibly unbearable. Every little breath ached your ribs and sides. You were positive there would be bruises in the corset's place tomorrow. Maybe the injuries you'd sustained during your Games a few years ago weren't so bad seeing as you were sure you were about to suffocate and die right there on Snow's courtyard.
"The only nightmarish ending I can think of is leaving this party without a lovely lady on my arm." It was like the heavens had graced you with Finnick's presence. If you could have released a breath of relief, you probably would have. "Good evening, ladies, gentlemen," Finnick turned to you, giving you a small smile. You returned it, strained, but you returned it.
Oh, sweet Finnick. He was your best friend. His presence was so comforting no matter where you were. It was times like these you wondered how he could just waltz over when you needed him the most. You weren't sure how he did it, but you were damn thankful that he did. You were hoping he would get the hint that something was wrong without needing to raise all hell to make it obvious.
"I can't see you having a hard time leaving without a gorgeous, lucky woman on your arm," the first socialite said to Finnick. She must've hoped it was her. "After all, you are our Golden Boy."
Finnick chuckled, smiling with those gorgeous teeth of his. "Well, someone has to keep the standards high."
"I'm sure you won't have trouble leaving here with a lucky man, either, darling." Your eyes shot over to the third socialite who had addressed you. You could barely breathe, let alone speak anymore.
"I'm sure I won't." Your voice felt strained. Did it sound strained? You hoped it didn't. The last thing you wanted was to look like you were suffering.
Finnick, however, could sense the tone in your voice from a mile away. You were his friend, after all. Probably his best one if he was being honest. The sharp nod you gave, the raised, airy tone to your voice were all very worrisome signs. His eyes searched your face for answers you tried to hide from any prying eyes. However, the way you tugged down at the bottom of your corset was.. something. Were you anxious, uncomfortable, upset? Finnick couldn't place it. There were just too many missing details. He knew something was wrong. It was like putting together a puzzle without looking at the picture on the box.
The conversation continued onwards. Eventually, you found yourself leaning into Finnick's hand that moved to softly rest on your lower back. You couldn't decide if it was for comfort or in case you passed out from lack of oxygen. You assumed it was for comfort. The good news was that if your face turned blue, you'd match the shades of your outfit for the night. If you considered that good news. Maybe it wouldn't look all that displaced after all.
Only one singular minute had passed and you quickly realized that not even Finnick's welcomed gesture would be enough to help you. You felt yourself begin to panic, the worst possible thing you could do in this situation. The more you panicked, the more your breathing would increase. That would only cause yourself more pain and frustration, not to mention it would double your anxiety. What a horrible domino effect that would be.
Keeping your cool was becoming impossible. You tried to hold as still as a statue to keep from moving and upsetting the corset more, but it was proving very difficult. Holding your breath wasn't really an option here, so the only thing to do was try and remain calm.
When the first very sharp pain radiated through your ribs, you knew you were done for. You sucked in a very noticeable breath, thankfully, only Finnick had heard. The conversation had continued, but the words had fallen deaf to your ears. It had been long forgotten amid your growing panic.
"Ah," Finnick said, abruptly pausing the conversation, "we completely forgot, but we're meant to meet with the president. If you'll excuse us." Finnick was pushing on your lower back, now. He guided you through the crowd, up some stairs and into one of the first open rooms he could find. The moment you were inside, you pressed on your stomach, trying to give yourself comfort, but ultimately failing. "What's wrong?" Finnick quickly asked, approaching you with worry in his expression. "Sweetheart, talk to me."
Now you were positive you couldn't talk. Your head felt dizzy and your tongue felt numb. You shook your head, tears brimming your eyes as you scratched at the corset. Finnick's eyes were darting to your hands and back to your face over and over, trying to understand what you were trying to convey to him.
You opened your mouth, trying to find words, but all you could manage was an awful wheeze. Your lungs and throat burned like fire. You were sure your face was turning red. Finnick's eyes widened as he quickly grabbed your shoulders, turning you around so your back was facing him. You felt his hands on your back again, but this time, they had a mission. Finnick grabbed a hold of the ribbon of your corset, not so much as grunting as he tore it apart.
The moment the ribbon tore, you gasped, sucking in as much air as you could as you fell to your knees, holding the front of the corset to your chest as you heaved, the air feeling so incredible that you took note to never take breathing for granted. Finnick was by your side in a heartbeat, hand on your back rubbing soothing circles on your now exposed skin. "It's okay, you're okay. Slow, deep breaths. Don't rush, nice and slow." His voice slowly worked the panic out of your system, your inhales deep, but exhales shaky and unsteady.
"I couldn't breathe," your voice was soft, almost as if talking were still too much to handle, "every breath hurt."
Finnick nodded, "I know, honey. I know, it's alright now. You're okay." You looked up to Finnick, watching his expression. He no longer looked panicked, but he still looked just as worried as before. "Do you need anything? Water?"
You shook your head. "Sit with me? Please?"
The two of you sat against the couch, sitting on the floor looking utterly exhausted. It was obvious the night had worn you both out, from the socialization to your near suffocation. Your head fell over, leaning on Finnick's shoulder as his head rested on top of you own.
"Do you want to go sailing tomorrow?" Finnick quietly asked. "I heard the waves will be perfect. You can bring that book you're reading and we can have lunch."
"That sounds nice," you hummed, "I'd like that a lot."
After a few more quiet minutes, you realized both of your absences would start to look rather suspicious. You both knew that it was long past time to go back to the party, but the silence you shared was too nice to give up just yet.
"Thank you for saving me," you thanked, looking over and up at Finnick.
He shook his head with a soft exhale, "You don't need to thank me. I'm just glad I got you up here in time." Finnick slowly stood up, holding your head as he stood so you wouldn't fall over. He held out a hand to help you stand up.
"Wait, I can't go back out there like this." You could. The Capitol people would love it. Seeing you holding the corset onto your chest to cover yourself. You knew deep down that the position you were in would make the people go wild for you. It was the kind of attention you weren't looking for. The kind of attention you never looked for.
Finnick didn't hesitate to take off his poet shirt, leaving his upper half bare, besides his shark tooth necklace. He didn't even need a second thought. The moment you started to speak, he knew what you were going to say. It was an easy choice for him to make. He would do anything to protect you.
Denying Finnick's kindness wasn't something he'd let you turn down, so you accepted. Finnick turned around while you put it on, only turning back around when he heard you fumbling with the sleeves. He helped roll them up so they weren't as long, while you began to tuck it into your skirt.
"You'll get cold," you commented worriedly, remembering what the chilled breeze had felt like on your own skin not too long ago.
"Then stay with me and keep me warm," Finnick replied, a small smile on his face. You chuckled airly, smiling back at him. "You look beautiful. They'll think we both just did a small wardrobe change. And that's what we'll tell them if they ask. I doubt they will. Capitol isn't all that observational."
You looked at Finnick, biting your bottom lip, "I wish we didn't have to go yet." You wished you could stay in this room with Finnick all night. Unfortunately, that was no option.
He seemed to agree based on the way his smile turned lopsided. "Just think about all the fun we'll have tomorrow. The waves, the wind, us. I'll even bring us some coconuts to crack open."
"And my book," you insisted. "I'll read it to you."
"My favorite activity," Finnick nodded. He held his hand out to you, "C'mon, honey. Let's get this night over with." His offer was easily understood, even if he didn't say it. Let's get this night over with together.
Finnick Odair x hijacked!reader who asks what's real or not real [2k words]
summary: a District Thirteen reunion story heavily inspired by the brilliant @ervotica's fic 'a life of our own' & @/ilguna's 'hijacked'! Reader was tortured much like Peeta was into fearing Finnick, finding her playing the game 'real or not real'
CW: fem!reader, discussion of past torture [not described], reader tortured into believing Finnick did abhorrent and disgusting things to her [not described], medical personnel acting as villains sort of, hurt/comfort, hopeful/open ending
Finnick drummed his fingers against the paperback book that he brought with him to your hospital room every day which acted as nothing more than a glorified prop.
Routine was a word that came to dictate much of Finnick’s life recently; stability. Ritualized schedules were the norm in District Thirteen. But more importantly, routine, stability, and ritualized schedules were deemed necessary and important to your recovery.
Thus, Finnick drummed his fingers against the paperback book - the same paperback book - that he brought with him to your hospital room every day - at the exact same time - which acted as nothing more than a glorified prop.
He’d been following more or less the same routine ever since you’d been rescued from the Capitol a few weeks ago, though Finnick could admit visiting you felt slightly better now than it had in the beginning.
The beginning had been nothing short of heartbreaking for him. The beginning had been nothing short of torturous for you.
There’d been a hunch in place of hard evidence that the lot of you were being tortured in the Capitol, though to what extent no one knew. And absolutely no one was prepared for what awaited them by the time the three of you were safe in District Thirteen.
Peeta had promptly tried to off Katniss which was very off brand of him; Johanna’s head had been shaved, she was emaciated, and had a plethora of evidence of gruesome physical torture, and you…
You weren’t filled with the same loathing, hatred, and disgust that Peeta seemed to carry for Katniss. No, you were completely and utterly terrified.
Medics had to sedate you when Finnick rushed into the room upon hearing of your arrival because you’d thrown yourself against the wall so violently you’d split your head open, then nearly ripped your nails clean off your fingers in your desperation to open a locked door in an attempt to escape from him. And if that hadn’t been devastating enough, the sounds of your guttural screams and desperate cries caused by him still haunted many of Finnick’s nightmares.
Finnick had been hesitant to return to you after that; he didn’t want to ever cause you that much distress again.
Haymitch tried to reason with him; Finnick wasn’t the one causing you this much distress, it was the Capitol. The medics tried to reason with him; it was to be considered exposure therapy, they hoped that - over time - as you regained some familiarity and comfort with him and worked through your memories and trauma with the doctors that you’d start to remember.
He reluctantly agreed. So, he was horrified when, the first day he returned, you’d been strapped down to your bed in preparation for his meeting.
“This is sick!” He’d shouted at the medics as he gestured at your current state. “This isn’t exposure therapy, this is torture!”
“Mr. Odair, the hope is that once she begins to realize there’s no need to fight or run, we’ll be able to take the restraints off.” One of them explained in a bored manner.
“Fuck whatever you’re hoping for! You’re torturing her; she’s not going to feel any safer here than she did in the Capitol!”
They’d tried calling after him, but he simply looked over at you and offered a pathetic “I’m sorry, honey” that you probably hadn’t heard over your own desperate wails before he fled.
The next day he returned, you hadn’t been strapped down, but you had been heavily medicated with some kind of sedative before his arrival. He swallowed around the bile in his throat as he took a seat in one of the chairs, pretended to read his book and tried his hardest to ignore the extremely wary and haunted gaze that stayed glued to his side for the entirety of his visit.
The third visit went much the same, except about halfway through his scheduled ‘visit’, he noticed that your eyes seemed to fall extremely heavy.
“Are you tired, sweetheart?” He murmured quietly, though you would have thought he’d screamed at you with the way you bodily flinched and your eyes snapped open.
He just continued watching you as you fought to convince your heart to return to its normal tempo, slowly, cautiously nodding your head yes to his question when you seemed to realize he was earnest in his question.
“Would you like me to leave so you can get some rest?”
Your brows furrowed ever so subtly, eyes darting across his face as you searched for any hidden meaning or potential threat.
You must not have found one.
“Please.” You whispered, and - though it was still but a whisper - it was the first time he had heard your voice since the Quarter Quell that wasn’t shrieking and sobbing in fear, causing a lump to form in his throat.
“Okay, honey, I’ll go.” He whispered back, smiling at you through tears as he stood and swiftly left the room, hardly closing the door fully behind him before he let out a sob.
Over the weeks, you began finding your own routine and schedule outside of the time you spent working with doctors and medics. You were hardly ever seen without your journal on your person, and one of your doctors explained to Finnick that you were beginning to compile notes to differentiate between things you knew, things that you didn’t know, and what was real or not real. Many times, Finnick could find you working in your journal when he arrived, and though you still managed to keep a concerned eye on him at any given point and your body never fully relaxed while he was there, he was grateful you were becoming more or less accustomed to his company.
And then one day he showed up to your room to find one wall completely transformed into a giant drawing board. The board was divided into two equal sides; one side was labelled REAL and one side was labelled NOT REAL. The only thing that had been written down so far was on the NOT REAL side, which read “Finnick did not set you up and leave you there to die.”
“She’s been struggling to sleep without the aid of sedatives; she wakes up quite violently from nightmares, struggling to differentiate between what is real and what is not, even when we’re standing right there in front of her.” One of the medics told him. “We tried once to have her look through her journal, but she threw it across the room and told us to get away from her. We thought maybe having a very large visualization in front of her in her own writing would be helpful to tether her to reality upon waking.”
And that seemed all well in good, but Finnick found himself sick over some of the things the Capitol had convinced you he was guilty of more than once.
But, if this is what you needed, if this was helping you, Finnick would stomach it, no questions asked.
So, Finnick drummed his fingers against the paperback book that he brought with him to your hospital room every day which acted as nothing more than a glorified prop.
He knocked twice gently on your door before stepping inside, watching as you stepped quickly away from the board and hid the marker and eraser behind your back as if you’d been caught doing something you weren’t supposed to, watching Finnick as though you were waiting for him to attack.
“Hi, honey.” He greeted quietly, nodding politely at you before he pulled out his chair and took his place, flipping his book open to an arbitrary page as he pretended to read.
You didn’t move; your feet seemed to be glued to the spot as you watched Finnick pretend to not be watching you. He wasn’t ashamed to admit that he had missed your gaze, quite selfishly, and found that while the atmosphere wasn’t exactly relaxed, he was happy enough just to have your eyes on him again.
Finnick wasn’t sure how much time had passed before you ended up breaking the silence.
“F…Finnick?” You asked, barely above a whisper; question so quiet that Finnick was sure if he hadn’t only been pretending to read, he would have missed it entirely.
You sounded as though you were trying his name out for size, just to see how it felt on your tongue. Finnick missed the days when you used to squeal his name in laughter, or groan his name in frustration, or call his name in excitement. But even though it came out cautious and stilted, he didn’t think he’d ever heard as pretty a sound as the sound of his name falling from your lips.
“Yes, sweetheart?” He asked eagerly, fighting to keep his tone, face, and body language calm as he saved his ‘place’ with a finger and leaned forward in his chair, resting his knees on his elbows.
You swallowed thickly and fiddled with the marker in your hands as you stole yourself to speak. “Can I ask you something?”
He wanted to be an ass; he wanted to say ‘you just asked me two things’, he wanted to whoop and holler at finally having an actual conversation with you after weeks of finally having you back, yet not really having you back at all.
Instead, all he said was “of course.”
You cleared your throat before gaining the courage to ask what he heard as “you love me; real, or not real?”
Finnick wasn’t sure an answer had ever come to him so fast. “Real.”
You seemed somewhat surprised by his answer even though it was clearly the answer you’d been expecting. After a few moments, you simply nodded at him before turning back to your drawing board’s REAL side.
Finnick loved me you wrote, adding bullet points underneath it...
He told me so
He acts like it
Gut feeling
...is what you cited as proof to this revelation. Finnick wanted to weep. A gut feeling; you were still in there, somewhere. There was still a version of you that knew deep down that Finnick loved you.
“It’s not quite right, honey.” He offered softly, fighting the urge to smile when you turned at his interruption, yet didn’t flinch at the sound of his voice as you often did. You simply looked at him in confusion.
“Do you mind if I make a minor adjustment?” He asked as he carefully placed his book on your empty bed and slowly stood, holding his hands out in ask.
You looked between him and the marker and eraser in your hands before holding them out for him; an invitation.
Finnick smiled at you as he slowly walked towards you, hyper focused on remaining as unthreatening as possible as he gently took the items from you, careful not to touch you unnecessarily.
He moved to the REAL side of the board, using the edge of the eraser to remove the d from the end of loved and replacing it with an s. The sentence now - properly - read Finnick loves me.
“There, now it’s perfect.” He offered you with another smile as he held the items back out to you, gently placing them in your hands when you held them open for him before he turned back towards his chair, retrieved his book, and sat back down.
Your eyes stayed glued on the correction he made to your board as the marker and eraser hovered uselessly midair; moments dragging on before your arms finally lowered to your sides.
Finnick didn’t bother pretending to read, so when you turned to look at him - face full of confusion, curiosity, concern, and what looked to be devastation - you found him already looking at you.
“Still?” You asked, voice cracking painfully as a heavy tear fell down your face.
And if Finnick thought that no answer had ever come faster to him before, he was sorely mistaken.
Warnings: fights, violence (it’s marvel dude), kissing, allusion to sex at the end but none 😛
First person
I hear the front door open followed by two male voices. “Sam, who did you bring home this time?” I yell from my bathroom. My roommate, Sam Wilson, is very well known for making new friends and bringing them to the house. Which is quite annoying. I hear murmuring but one sentence I catch clearly is, “well my roommate, she has powers but she doesn’t use them…” then the rest was gone. Sam promised not to tell anyone.
I grab the scissors from my drawer in the bathroom and walk cautiously out to the living room. I see Sam standing with the Captain America. My eyes widen and I drop the scissors to the ground. This is embarrassing. “Sam! Why would you bring Captain America to the house!?” I whisper-yell at my roommate. He knows I’m not ready when he comes back from his run.
His head whips towards me. His eyes widen too. Which I don’t know why he’s scared!? “Hey, reader, um this is Steve, Steve this is reader.” He awkwardly introduces us. “Obviously!?” I tell him. “That wasn’t my question, Sam!” Now I’m irritated. Why would he bring him here? “It’s nice to meet you.” Steve says, god he’s hot. He’s standing there in front of me wearing his hot running gear and I’m standing here in my pajamas.
“Uh Sam told me you have powers? Have you ever used them before, like in a fight?” He asks me awkwardly. What a weird question? Especially to ask to someone you just met. “No I haven’t, and I don’t plan to.” I say confidently. He raises his eyebrow and nods understandingly. “I understand, but if you don’t mind me asking, what are your powers?” He asks still pushing.
“I can control gravity. Like this.” I say as the living room furniture starts to float around the room. He looks around surprised, and so does Sam, because I never told him what my powers were. “Hold on, we’ve been roommates for, how many years? and you never told me what your powers were!?” Sam says offended. I just shrug my shoulders and walk back to my bathroom.
When I come out ready for the day, Steve is still there. “How would you feel about joining me, on finding the Winter Solider?” He says once he sees me. My eyes widen as I grab the coffee pot and I drop it and it shatters on the ground. Thank goodness it wasn’t full. “What!?” I turn to him. He comes into the kitchen to help me clean up the mess. “You don’t have to clean it up, it was my fault.” I tell him.
“No it’s mine. I shouldn’t have asked that.” He says picking up the glass. Oh my god, he’s hot and he’s a gentleman. What more could I ask for? I just sigh. “Yes.” He lifts his head confused. “I will join you to find the Winter Soldier” I say after thinking it over.
A few days later
Sam gets a call from Steve, saying he needs our help and to be ready when he shows up. When Sam hangs up, we get ready in some casual yet easy to fight in clothes. I’ve never been in a fight, well, I did fight that kid in middle school. But it was super necessary. We hear a honk of a car outside.
Sam gets in the driver seat and Steve gets in the passenger. I see THE Black Widow in the back. I sit next to her and I’m trying not the fan girl. She looks over at me. “I know you want to fan girl, go ahead.” She says with a small smile. I turn to her with a huge smile.
“Oh my gosh, you’re like my favorite avenger. You’re my biggest inspiration-“ I’m cut off by the Winter Soldier punching through the wind shield and grabbing the steering wheel. We all scream as Steve grabs us all and pushes us all out of Sam’s door onto the road. We jump over the bridge onto the road down below.
I run to hide behind a car and I start to hyperventilate. I’m terrified right now. Why did I agree to this!? “Hey, you’ll be ok. I promise. Cap won’t let you get hurt. I won’t let you get hurt. And I know that you know that Sam won’t let you get hurt either.” Natasha tells me. Wow that actually made me feel so much better.
“So Steve told me you have powers, do you know how to control them?” She asks me. I nod yes. “Ok, go time!” She says running out from behind the car shooting; at what I assume to be the Winter Soldier. I stand from my spot. I see Steve and Winter Soldier fighting.
Soon, the Winter Soldier’s mask falls off and we hear Steve whisper “Bucky?” But ‘Bucky’ just looks super confused. “Who the hell is Bucky?” He says then continues to fight with Steve. Eventually Bucky runs away and we all leave.
A week later
It’s been a while since we’ve seen and heard from the Winter Soldier, after he saved Steve from the lake. It’s just me at the house. Since Sam is on some kind of date. I hear a knock on the door. I grab a knife from the kitchen and walk over. I open it to see Steve in a casual, nice outfit, with a bouquet of flowers.
“Sam’s not home. I’ll take the flowers and tell him they’re from you.” I joke with the man in front of me. He laughs at my joke. “I was actually hoping you would take them, for yourself.” He says, very smoothly might I add. “Wow, is Captain America asking me out?” I ask hopefully.
“Yes, I am.” He says again smoothly and confidently. I smile brightly. “I don’t think Sam will be home tonight, if you want to come in?” I ask him hopefully. He nods yes and walks in. Once he’s in, I grab his collar and pull him to kiss me. He doesn’t pull away.
I got back into my teenage obsession with Glee ever since I found out it's on Hulu and so I will now be writing for Glee characters! Requests are super welcome!
Summary: How Finn helps and supports you during your OCD episodes
This is mainly for my own comfort as I am really struggling with my OCD now.
Having contamination OCD is a debilitating disability. Not to mention suffering through it during high school. Your first week was comforting once you met with the counselor, Miss Pillsbury who also struggles with all things germs. She encouraged you to dive into a club to try and socialize with people. Thats what a club is after all, a group of people coming together for a period to support one another.
So you did, or rather, you ignored her idea until someone very handsome came up to you during a rather germs time.
it was lunch, and you were sitting alone in an empty classroom far away from the floating particles of the high school cafeteria. You sat down with a sigh as you opened up your bento box full of healthy and colorful food. after sanitizing your dried out hands, you started to eat. A few laughs and voices occasionally decorating the silence as students walked the halls.
One of those students was Finn Hudson, the quarterback for McKinley high as well as one of the guys known to be in glee club. He was rather tall, couldn't be shorter than six foot four and had soft brown hair. You had seen him in passing as you walked in the halls in between classes. he always had a smile on his face and seemed to be a very gentle and friendly person despite his popular status.
Finn saw you as you ate alone in the classroom. He saw how you were wiping off your fruits and the way that the table underneath you was still partially wet from what must have been a lysol wipe. It reminded him of Miss Pillsbury and how she struggles with OCD. He smiled at your cute frame, no taller than five foot two. He wanted to say hello but for some reason, he felt himself get nervous. As if your beauty enthralled him.
But before he could look away, you looked up from your lunch to see him. He tried to act normal.
"Why are you eating alone? We'd love to meet you." he says as he walks inside the classroom.
"Oh, um, Hi." I say as I blush softly, still stiff.
"Hi." he says softly as he walks over to the table you're at and sits down across from you. So he is incredibly kind.
"I'm Finn." he says "You're new right?"
I swallow a bite of food.
"Yeah, I'm Y/N" you say.
he smiles
"So why are you all alone in here?" he asks again.
You swallow again out of nervousness, you might as well be honest.
"Oh, I have a germ problem." You start
Finn's face softens even further if that's even possible as he listens.
"I'm guessing you've met the counselor?" He says with a cute smile
"You two have a lot in common."
You smile softly and blush again
"Yeah, she's encouraged me to join a club. She says it might help." You say.
Then, Finn smiles. again like he has an idea.
"Do you like music?" He asks
"Yeahhh?" you say, drawing your word out as if you know he's up to something.
Finn giggles a little before saying, "Join glee club! Or just stop by today after school to see what it's like. I'll be there." he says.
You smile softly and blush again.
"Okay" You whisper.
.
.
.
after school, you pack up your bag and put some hand sanitizer onto your hands, grimacing slightly as you see how dry your hands are becoming from the over use. As you stand at your locker, you see Finn walking the hall too and he gives you a smile and a wave. You smile back and wave as well before you turn back around to your locker.
Then, from behind you, a couple of football players are snickering as they both hold slashes in their hands and walk towards you. Finn watches and his usual smile quickly drops into a look of dread and worry. Finn quickly runs over to you and you turn around to see Finn, as well as these two football players all coming towards you, you flinch as they all three get so close, worried that they will touch you.
"Hey new girl, welcome to McKinley." One of the football players says with a smirk on his face as if he's up to no good.
"Don'y even think about it, dude." Finn says.
"Says you, you faggot. Everyone knows that Glee club members are all losers. She associates with you, so therefore, she's a loser too. And you know what losers get." The football guys says as he throws the contents of the slushy into the air towards you.
"No! Stop!" Finn says as he tries to block it, but he's too late. The cold, wet, and sticky slushy splashes all over your face, hair, clothes, and skin and you gasp so loud that Finn think it's a scream.
"Finn looks furious as the two guys who walk away with a strut. And for a moment, you think that Finn is going to run after them and punch em, but instead, Finn turns back to you with a terribly sorry look on his face.
"Y/n, I'm so sorry... I tried to stop them... I know you..." But he can't even finish his sentence before you start breaking down into a panic as you feel the blue slush all over you, CONTAMINATING you.
Finn watches in fear as you shrivel to the ground in a ball and cry as you hyperventilate and panic, unable to move.
"Here" Finn says as he takes you gently by the shoulders and walks you away from the large, watching crowd and into the empty football locker room.
"I-I-its- I..." You try to speak, not only about what just happened, but the fact that the locker room only worsens your situation due to the sporty, sweaty smell.
Finn is quick to fetch his duffel bag from his locker and rummage inside of it to hold out a hoodie and a pair of joggers.
He runs with a towel over to you and wipes off your face as you cry, barely registering the close proximity or how kind he is being to you for a moment. But after a few minutes of him wiping your face and hands clean, you start to catch your breath, hiccuping every so breaths s you sniffle.
"I know it's not the best place in the world, but there's showers around the corner if you wanna wash up a little. I have these clean clothes too if you wanna change." he says in the most gentle voice.
You sniffle as you look at his sorry expression, like he somehow caused it, and suddenly really start to feel for him. You start to tear up again and Finn sees it.
"N-No I didn't mean to make you cry again, im so sorry." Finn says as he stands up straight and puts his hands on his eyes.
"No Finn, you're just so sweet." You say.
"Thank you"
You then decide to take a quick shower while Finn waits right outside the locker room door, making sure that no one comes in. After about 20 minutes of scrubbing and washing, you finally come walking out slowly. Finn turns around to see you, 5'2, with damp hair, all while wearing HIS hoodie and HIS joggers which, mind you, swallow you whole. He smiles.
"How do you feel?" He asks
"better, thank you." You say with a quiet and scratchy voice from all the crying and hyperventilating.
Finn smiles back
"Do you still feel good enough for Glee club or do you want to try another day?" He asks, not wanting to pressure you after such a traumatic thing.
You feel some sort of pull to Finn, almost as if you want to be near him always.
"Only if you sit beside me, Finn" You say softly with a smile.
.
.
.
Time went on and Glee club was the thing that really helped you feel more normal, more accepted. And as promised, Finn sat by you each and every time. Almost everyone in the club, including Mr. Schue, were convinced that you and Finn were dating but the both of you denied it until the night of regionals. Before the show, behind the curtain, you two had a rather short conversation.
"Break a leg" You said to Finn
"I love you." he quickly gets out right before the music starts.
.
.
.
Since then, you two have been happily dating.
.
.
.
On nights where he spends the night, or a full weekend over, he always respects your boundaries and little rituals. Finn smiles as he takes off his outside clothes and changes into his inside clothes for you, giving you little winks here and there as he unbuttons his shirt. He helps you by wiping down the counters with lysol wipes after he cooks anything and helps you with the laundry.
But there are times when it gets so bad that Finn tries to help you refrain from doing your cleanings.
Often times, he sees how chapped your hands are from all the hand washing and hand sanitizer so he sits you down and rubs lotion on your hands, whispering softly how you have to take care of them. or he will challenge you to only wash your hands for a minute as he stands next to you. He praises you when you do well.
.
.
.
Mr. Schue really likes you and Finn because he sees himself and Miss Pillsbury in you two. he can tell that you two are going to last based off how you treat each other. And that's the main reason why you two commonly get to sing all the ballads. After performance nights, Finn and you have sleepovers where you clean the trophy while watching a movie together, it's really sweet.
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Warnings: pregnant reader, I think that’s is lmk if there’s anymore
Third person
Officer Jake Peralta was in the morning meeting with the whole team, while Captain Holt is talking at the podium, he gets a phone call. From his girlfriend, pregnant at that. “Guys, shh, it’s reader” he tells the team. They all quiet down and look over to the phone.
He clicks to pick up. The first thing heard is a distant splash of water on the other side of the phone. His eyebrows immediately furrow in concern about her. Next is a cry is distress. “Jake!! Pineapples!!” She yells from the phone. Everyone looks confused about her comment. “Pineapples?” Terry asks him.
“She gets cravings.” He shrugs his shoulders. There’s a shuffling noise. “Pomegranates!? Grapefruit!? Nectaries!?” She yells again guessing the word for the baby. “She’s ordering a fruit cocktail.” Charles says awkwardly laughing at her.
There’s a small whisper from the other end. “Come on think…” gasp “peaches!!” She yells through the phone triumphantly remembering the word for the baby alert. “Peaches… peaches! The baby! Wh-what- what now!?” Jake panics scrabbling out of his chair to the elevator. “This. Not good.” Rosa says knowing that this isn’t going to end every well. “The babies coming!” Jake grabs Holts face before running out the door.
Jake takes the phone to the elevator. “Baby just sit tight and uh-“ he starts to ramble about being far away from the apartment but she cuts him off. “I’m asking the neighbor to take me to the hospital, Jake. It’ll be okay. I’ll meet you there.” She reassures him over the phone. He calms down slightly. “Okay, I’m calm. I’ll meet you there with Gina.”
As they hang up Jake runs back to the meeting room to grab Gina. They rush to the hospital, and of course, there’s traffic. “Gina call reader and tell her that there’s traffic.” He sighs to the other woman in the car who nods and calls her. Jake doesn’t listen to what she tells the phone. “Hey, it’ll be okay. You’re gonna have a baby!” Gina tells him trying to cheer him up.
“You’re right, I just don’t know if I’m ready yet but when I see the baby I know I will be. We’re only like 5 minutes away from the hospital she’s going to.” His eyes widen in realization. “Gina take the wheel and wait this out I’m gonna get there myself.” He says getting out of the car despite Gina’s yells of protest. He starts to walk down the street.
After about 15 minutes of walking he makes it to the hospital. “Hello, I’m here for my girlfriend, reader. She’s in labor.” He tells the lady at the desk out of breath. The lady looks up in concern. “Room 421, on the left.” She tells him pointing in the direction. He nods a thank you walks down the hallway to the room and knocks on the door hearing a small “come in”. He opens the door to see reader in the hospital bed in a gown.
“Hey, how’s it going?” He asks sitting down in the chair next to her. “Well, I’m 9 centimeters dilated. Which means that soon I will be pushing.” She explained to him. He nods understanding. The doctor walks in the door and checks the dilation. “You’re ready to push.” She says with a smile. The girls color drains.
Idk how to write this so I’m skipping to when the baby is born
“She’s beautiful, just like her mother.” Jake says looking at reader holding the new born baby, both asleep. Gina finally got there after the baby was born. “She really is.” Gina says to him. “I’m proud of you, you did it. You’re a dad now.” She says to her childhood friend. He gives her a smile. “Thanks. Im proud of myself too.” He says nodding to her.
Warnings: bleeding, passing out at the sight of blood, quidditch game, kissing I think that’s it lmk if you find anymore
First person
It was the biggest Quidditch game of the season, Slytherin vs Gryffindor. I’m captain this year and James Potter is the captain of the other team, as he’s my brothers best friend that took my brother away from me, I have a bit of a grudge against him. As we walk on the field I see Sirius and James walking out with the most smug smirks on their faces, I hate them and I want to wipe those looks off their faces.
My twin brother, Regulus, feels the same way but he’s more calm about it. Me and Potter shake hands and start the game. It was a very rough and painful game, after about 15 minutes three of my players were lightly injured, but not enough to go to the hospital wing but enough to not play for a couple minutes. Then, I hear lots and lots a screaming of my name I look around and see a bludger flying right toward my face I’m out, I feel myself falling, someone breaks my fall but then leaves and gets back to the game.
I come back to consciousness and touch my forehead feeling something wet, it’s blood. I faint again. The next thing I know I’m in the hospital wing and watching Madam Pomfrey take care of me and I see a mop of light brown hair leaning on my arm on the bed. I tried to reach my arm over to wake this mysterious person up, and I find it in a cast and sling. I shake the arm this person is lying on.
The mop rises and I see the familiar eyes of James Potter. “How long have I been here?” I croak out to him. He must still be waking up. “You’ve been out for about half a day. It’s 7 am, after the game. Which I’m sorry about my player did that on purpose. I kicked him off.” He explained quickly, I thought it was quite cute.
Don’t get me wrong, I find James Potter attractive as much as the next person. But I feel like if I really got to know him, we could be more than friends. Madam Pomfrey comes over to my bed. “Hello darling, now i know you don’t want to stay here for as long as you have to but i have to keep you here for about 2 more days…” she says sadly. I nod understanding.
She walks away. “Did we win?” I ask James, he smiles softly and nods a ‘yes’. I do a small, not-so-embarrassing, victory dance in my seat. He laughs and looks down. “You know, Sirius wouldn’t approve of me saying this to you, or regulus but I wanted to tell you, I’ve had my eyes on you since my third year” he tells me slightly embarrassed.
My smile is just continuing to grow wider and wider. “Me too- well I’ve had my eyes on you-“ he cuts me off with a kiss. It was soft and smooth and comforting. We hear the doors burst open and two familiar voices talking loudly to Madam Pomfrey. “Madam! Where’s my baby sister?” I hear Sirius asked the older woman. Then we hear two sets of feet running towards us.
Regulus and Sirius come into the curtain. “Oh thank goodness you’re okay!” My older brother comes to hug me, pushing James out of the way. Always a drama queen. Then I look over his shoulder to see my twin brother standing there awkwardly. Then Sirius lets go, and it’s Regulus’ turn. A tight hug is received and done quickly.
“Wait a minute. Why are you here?” Sirius asks furrowing his eyes brows at his best friend. James eyes widen and he looks at me, like I would know what to say. “Uh well you know that thing you told me not to say to your sister?” He says with a small smile on his face. Sirius hums a little confirmation. “Well I told her.” James says running out.
Sirius’s jaw drops and runs after him. Regulus’ eyes widen and his eyebrows shoot up. After they leave, he comes and takes James’ seat. “So my sister has a boyfriend now?” He teases me. “Well maybe. All we did was kiss” I say like it’s no big deal. He gets up and runs after James too.
