pulling ryland by his tie and kissing him till his lips are red from lipstick then kissing down his neck to mark him probably ouuuuuuu he gets so giddy being loved on by you
almost home
YOU ARE THE REASON
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if i look back, i am lost

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@lovingharrington
pulling ryland by his tie and kissing him till his lips are red from lipstick then kissing down his neck to mark him probably ouuuuuuu he gets so giddy being loved on by you

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playing with his happy trailâŚtwirling my fingers through the hair there and giggling when his stomach muscles tense upâŚthen bending down to press hot, opened mouth kisses to his skin
fool
summary: when steve gets hurt in the upside down, the party doesn't know who to call â thankfully, he remembers someone he always had a crush on in high school with larger than life aspirations to become a nurse. pairing: nursing student!reader x season four steve content/warnings: mentions of wound care and cuts, scars, bruising, etc, all of steve's injuries are in reference to when he gets attacked by demobats in s4, eddie is alive bc i fucking said so, no nancy slander on my watch, i know absolutely nothing about medical care so i probably got some stuff wrong, slight references to steve's trauma (shitty parents, his king steve era, feeling unloved), major hurt comfort, happy ending!! word count: 4k
The day Nancy Wheeler calls your apartment to tell you about demogorgons and the Upside Down, you think she's playing a cruel, uncharacteristic prank on you.
You're not sure why she'd do that â you graduated high school a year and a half ago and were currently gearing up to return to Hawkins for Spring Break, because where else would you want to spend it? At first, your initial response is to sputter, and then laugh uncomfortably into the receiver of your plastic phone.
You're not even sure how she got your landline number; you live in a shitty off-campus loft and Nancy would probably only know to reach you via your parents' house, where they â and you, up until graduation â have lived their entire lives.
When you ask her that, she pauses, then avoids the question. This clearly isn't the goody two-shoes Nancy Wheeler you remember from high school.
What you do remember, however, is that she got into some hot water when she started dating Steve "The Hair" Harrington â god, what a douche he was â but last you heard, they'd broken up over some stupid misogynistic shit he pulled and she'd moved onto Jonathan Byers. You thought it was an odd pairing, but it wasn't much of your business.
"Anyway, you're in school for nursing, right?" Nancy steers the conversation effortlessly away from your questioning, and you swallow, bumping your hip against the ugly floral wallpaper that decorates the kitchen walls.
Again, you have no clue how she remembers that. You and Nancy were a year apart in school, and you were friends when you were younger, but you'd drifted apart in middle school.
"You there?" she asks.
You clear your throat. "Yeah, I'm a sophomore. Why does any of this matter, Nancy? You're not answering any of my questions, and honestly, you sound like you're on drugs or like you're having some kind of psychotic breakâ"
Suddenly, you're cut off by some shuffling on the other end, and you think you hear some yelling â a mix of older teenagers and prepubescent ones, then painful groaning. Your eyebrows furrow in concern.
"Nancy? Nancy, are you alright?"
"This isn't Nancy," a male voice croons on the other end. Your eyes widen. "Hi sweetheart, my name's Eddie. You might remember me, I've been a senior for like, four years. Anyway, good ol' Wheeler isn't on drugs and she isn't having a psychotic break, that I can promise. What she's telling you sounds totally bonkers, I know, because I was you a few weeks ago, but she's telling the truth. I promise."
The image in your brain only gets foggier. Was Eddie Munson on the other line? In what weird, fucked up world is Nancy Wheeler hanging out with Eddie Munson?
"So, all that aside, the reason why we're calling is because we need someone trustworthy with medical skills. Is that you? It kinda has to be, because you already know all the nitty gritty details, and we'll have to kill you if you say no."
You fumble. "Um. I- I don't know. I'm only a sophomore."
"Do you know how to take care of wounds?"
"It, um, depends on how bad they are."
"Let's say they're... moderately bad. From an animal. Hypothetically supernatural. Of the bat kind."
"What?"
"How about stitches?" Eddie continues, "Because, listen, I'm no doc, but I'm pre-tty sure Harrington could use a few."
"Harrington?" you echo, "Wait, this is about Steve Harrington?"
In the background, you hear a child's loud voice: "You said you wouldn't tell her!"
"Eddie," you say slowly, "Are there... kids there?"
"Listen, don't worry about that," he says, and it's far too nonchalant for your worrisome nature to take, "Are you able to help or not?"
You glance at your packed dufflebag on the bed. The one that was ready to spend the week at your parents' house before Nancy Wheeler called 30 minutes ago.
"Yeah," you say, grabbing your keys from the hook next to the front door. "Give me a second to grab a pen and paper, I just need the address."
Up until today, you've never been to the Harrington's house before.
In high school, you were never invited to Steve's infamous parties, but you always heard about them at school on Monday â about someone doing keg stands, about some couple, together or not, having sex, about someone jumping in the pool naked... teenage debauchery you were never part of, yet, for some reason, you yearned to experience.
The house is dark from the outside, and somehow, it feels even colder on the inside. A girl with short hair answers the door â someone you faintly recognize â and she immediately seems more down to earth, but more high-strung than Nancy.
"Hey," she greets in a tone that feels kind and familiar, and a part of you wishes you had that effect on people, "Steve's laying down in the living room. Nancy and Eddie took the kids home."
You nod as you follow her through the expansive house, all marble and tacky and wealth expressed in ways that feel frigid.
"I'm Robin, by the way," she says, "Nance said you were someone we could trust?"
You shrug. "To be honest, I'm not sure why. We were friends growing up but we grew apart... I don't even know how she got my number."
Robin waves her off, "That was all Eddie and Dustin. Don't be surprised if they hack your stuff one day."
You can't tell if she's joking or not.
In the living room, Steve Harrington â who you think you may have spoken to once when you were both juniors, and that's it â is laying shirtless on the couch, his eyes lazily half-closed while The Golden Girls play on TV. You want to snort at that, but you're more concerned about the red, bloody lashings and cuts that cover his side and throat. You swallow at the sight.
"I know Nancy kind of gave you a rundown about the whole monster thing but it's probably a little more gnarly in person," Robin says softly. She kneels down by Steve's head and presses a hand to his shoulder, shaking him gently. "Hey dingus, we brought someone to help clean you up since we're all no help."
"What did you guys do for him?" you ask, willing your nerves to fade. There's something different about working on someone you knew in high school â the attractive jock all-star everyone had a crush on, that is â instead of some random person you're practicing on.
"Um, Nance made him a tourniquet to stop the bleeding. And we're not sure if he's concussed or anything, but we've been keeping him awake... gave him water and something to eat and some ibuprofen for the pain. That's it, really... we didn't know what else, and we couldn't bring him to the hospital. He looks like he got mauled by a bear."
"Yeah," you agree humorlessly, opening your first aid kit on the floor. You pull your pen light out and bite your lip. "Do you think we can get him to sit up?"
"Sure, if you help me."
You nod, each of you taking one of Steve's arms.
"Hey Steve, we're gonna help you up a little, alright?" you say gently, tactfully pulling him up into a seating position against the couch cushions. You're surprised that he goes easily, his head flopping back as he groans. "Can you hold your head up for me? I remember you had really bitchin' hair in high school. Do you still have it?"
"'f course I do," Steve mutters, his hazel eyes languidly glazing over you. You flick your pen light on to look at his pupils. "Hey, 'member you."
"Hm?" you ask, distracted by the task at hand. He's clearly exhausted and might have been injected by some... supernatural venom, but he's not concussed, which is a win in your book. You decide to move on to cleaning the cuts on his face.
"I said I 'member you," he repeats, hissing when the alcohol cloth makes contact with the bloodied slices on his skin. "We went to school together."
"We did," you murmur, smiling softly. "We were in the same class."
"Uh-huh. Class of '85, baby!" Steve attempts to pump his fist in the air but quickly retracts in, a zip of pain ripping through his shoulder. This time, you do snort with laugher. "You're pretty when you laugh."
"Looks like you haven't changed a bit, Harrington," you say as you finish tending to the wounds on his face. "Let's take care of this thing on your neck, huh? What happened here?"
Steve shrugs nonchalantly. "Demobat tried to strangle me."
"Right," you mutter, assessing the damage. "Looks like you might have some scarring. You'll need to keep an eye on this and make sure it doesn't get infected. Do you trust anyone enough to stay here and do that?"
You look to where you thought Robin was sitting behind you, but it seems as if she's long gone.
"Don' really wanna bother anyone with it," he replies. "I can do it. 'm a big boy."
You furrow your eyebrows. "Steve, you're in seriously rough shape. Someone should be taking care of you."
He pouts. You hate to admit that it's adorable.
"Don' like asking for help."
You sigh. "It doesn't look like you need stitches or anything crazy, but let me stay the night to keep an eye on you, alright? I don't think you should be alone right now."
Steve, wide-eyed and boyish, looks to you like you just hung the moon for him.
He doesn't fight you as you continue to clean and check his wounds.
Steve sleeps for the next day.
You don't bother trying to move him to his bedroom. He's clearly comfortable, snoring away on the couch, and it sounds like he hasn't gotten enough sleep in the past month. So, you let him.
In the meantime, you don't do much. Robin left her phone number behind, so you call her periodically with updates, not that there are many. You don't know where Steve's parents are, but you remember them being quite sparse in high school, so you're unsurprised that the pattern's unbroken almost two years later.
You live out of your duffelbag and call your own parents to let them know that you got caught up with something at school and you'll hopefully be home in a few days. In the meantime, you occupy yourself with reading books that you brought along from your apartment, and when that gets boring, you watch TV and wait for Steve to wake up.
Eventually, that evening, he does.
You brace yourself. You're not sure what for â in the few hours you've spent watching doctors and nurses treat patients, you've seen some people wake up distraught, some angry, others confused and upset, but Steve does... none of those things.
His eyes blink at you blearily, craning his neck and stretching it against the arm of the couch. He lets out a low groan, one that makes your stomach flip, and you swallow, taking slow steps towards him with your first aid kit in hand.
"Hey," you greet delicately, "How are you feeling?"
Steve looks at you as you scan over the angry red marks on his throat. He has on a shirt on, but you'll need to peel back the fabric to assess the wounds on his stomach, too.
"Shitty," he croaks, his eyes widening some at the crack in his voice, "Went through puberty again, too, I guess."
You smile bemusedly before lowering to your knees and sitting back on your ankles. At eye level, Steve looks far less exhausted than he did 24 hours ago.
"You look better," you say, eyeing the cuts on his cheek. "You should eat something and drink some water. Shower, maybe."
"You saying I smell?"
"Well, if you and all your friends really aren't fucking around about all this demoshit, I would assume they can't smell great."
Steve attempts to shrug. "I've smelled worse. Like Dustin Henderson after demolishing multiple roast beef sandwiches."
You wrinkle your nose, popping open your kit to begin the process of cleaning his cuts and replacing the bandaids.
"Is there a reason why you all hang out with freshmen? Or is Nancy's brother just, like, really attached to her?"
Steve winces when the cold alcohol cloth touches his skin. You murmur out a halfhearted apology.
"'s a long story," he mutters. "I kinda... accidentally got myself involved in this and... now I'm here."
"And now you're here," you echo softly. "Barely walking with a random nurse-in-training tending to your supernatural bat wounds."
"Psshhhh," Steve turns his neck to face you, cocking his eyebrows. "'Random'? I told Nance to call you."
You pause, a mess of used, bloodied alcohol swabs on the ground beside you.
"How on earth did you know I was a nursing student?" you ask, reaching for the stack of bandaids. "We barely talked in high school. I don't even think we signed each other's yearbooks at graduation."
"Um, yes, we did," Steve says pointedly. You arch an eyebrow at him in disbelief. "Go upstairs to my room. Hawkins Class of '85, the yearbook is on my shelf."
"I'll pass for now," you smirk.
"Anyway," he huffs dramatically. "We were lab partners spring semester junior year. You were always really good at science and I vividly remember asking you why you liked that stuff so much â you're the only reason why I even passed anatomy, and you said you wanted to be a nurse."
"You remember that?"
He shrugs. Like it's insignificant. Like you're surprised anyone can even recall your name instead of just passing over your face like a mushy blob.
"I just thought it was cool," Steve continues. "No one I knew at the time had any idea what they wanted to do, and you were so set already. Even when I was a senior, I had no clue. I was just gonna hang around Hawkins and work for my dad and... I just thought, maybe I could be like you, y'know?"
Your face warms, so you busy yourself with tidying the mess you've made on the ground. It feels silly to be so awestruck by Steve Harrington and yet... how couldn't you be?
"That's really nice, Steve. Thank you." you say softly. His face melts, matching the sweet smile on your face, and he almost looks relieved.
"Thank you for coming here," he mumbles. "I know it's not, like... your typical situation."
"I'm happy to help," you reach out hesitantly and place your hand against his, giving it a gentle squeeze. "Let me make you something to eat, alright?"
You don't anticipate staying another night at Steve's, but it just... happens.
You make dinner for the two of you while the local news plays lowly in the living room, the TV flashing against Steve's tired face. Together, you eat grilled cheese sandwiches in silence. You hand him a glass of water between bites and then offer him a Gatorade.
After dinner, you run a shower for him in the ensuite bathroom of his bedroom. You lay towels out for him and slowly help him up the stairs, just like he's any other patient, and not the boy who could make any girl, teenager, or woman in Hawkins fall to their knees just with a flick of his eyes. You tell him to shout if he needs you, but you secretly hope he doesn't. You're not sure if you could spare yourself the embarrassment of helped a naked, wet, injured Steve Harrington.
While he showers, you make his bed and prep your supplies so you can tend to his cuts and wounds when he gets out. It's a repetitive but necessary process to prevent any infections, and Steve's lucky he didn't need stitches or anything worse. You're fumbling with your collection of travel-sized bottles of topical antibiotics when Steve emerges from the steamy bathroom in a pair of gym shorts and an old Hawkins High School shirt.
You look up, your polite greeting suddenly lost in your throat at the sight of his wet hair and tired eyes. There's something devastating and boy-like about his appearance, and your heart twists in your chest. You try to shove it down.
"That was exhausting," Steve mumbles, his posture slightly slumped. He eyes his bed, then where you sit on the carpeted floor. "Ohâ did youâ are you leaving?"
"I hadn't really thought about it," you admit. "I just thought it might be more comfortable for you to sleep in your own bed instead of the couch. And I have to redo all your bandages and stuff."
Steve nods. "Where do you want me, doc?"
"On the bed is fine."
By this point, you and Steve have familiarized yourself with this process, and with each gentle clean and touch, his wounds get a little bit better. You assume he'll be able to do this for himself at some point in the near future, but there's a part of you â the caretaker, nurse part of you, you assume â that really likes doing it for him.
He lifts his shirt, twisting slightly to showcase the bruising and sores on his side.
"Can you stay another night?"
For a moment, you pause. Glance up at him, but his eyes are focused on the Hawkins basketball team pendent tacked up on the wall. You continue adhering the band-aid to his skin.
"I can do that," you say softly. "You're healing up well, though. I can teach Robin or Nancy, or whoever you want, to do this, if you'd like."
Steve doesn't immediately reply. Not when you gently pull down the material of his worn sleep shirt and help him back into a sitting position, and not when he runs a hand through his damp hair.
"Will you grab the yearbook off the shelf?"
Your eyes follow to where he's pointing and you nod, standing from your spot on the bed. You retrieve it and hand it to him, watching as he flips to the back pages. It doesn't take him long to find the masses of autographs â not to mention, a couple of lipstick marks and more than a few phone numbers.
"Looks like you had quite a few admirers." you joke.
"Yeah, and none of them cared once high school wasn't real anymore," he snorts humorlessly. It's a second more before he points to your messy handwriting, shoving the yearbook into your lap. Sure enough, your signature is there, followed by a short message. "Read it and weep, doc."
You roll your eyes. "So? Everyone signs each other's yearbooks at the end of the year. It's a whole nostalgia thing."
"Read it."
"To Steve," you read aloud, "It's been great going to school with you all these years. Excited to see where you land. Wishing you the best of luck."
You look up at him expectedly. He shoots you a look.
"Keep going."
Below your handwriting is someone's unfamiliar penmanship. It takes you a few seconds to decipher it, but when you do, your stomach flips.
Coolest girl in Hawkins. Super smart. Wants to be a nurse. If she ever comes back to this loser town, it's a sign I have to ask her out.
"Who wrote that?"
Steve puffs out a breathy laugh. "Who do you think?"
"You thought that about me?"
"Of course." he says it like it's the easiest answer in the world. "I still do."
You can't help it when a loud laugh bubbles up out of you. Steve grins, wide and toothy, and you think it's the cutest thing you've ever seen in the world.
"I think you're delusional, Harrington. Maybe you are concussed."
"You said I wasn't, and you've been a damn good nurse so far."
You laugh again, shaking your head at the boy before you. You feel unbelievably giddy, like you just found out your middle school crush likes you back.
And maybe, really, that's exactly what it is â even if you're hesitant to admit it to yourself.
With a swallow, Steve gently shuts the hard covered yearbook before pushing it to the side, as if closing it will put some kind of finality to the ridiculousness of everything that was Hawkins High.
You remember Steve having a rough go of it his senior year. You don't know the details, but you heard rumors. No college acceptances, Nancy Wheeler drunkenly breaking up with him at a Halloween party that fall. It had been a long freefall for King Steve â one that had twisted up your insides at the time, even if the extent of your interactions were longing glances in the hallways.
"Stay," Steve suddenly says, and this time, his ask is breathier, quieter than it was 20 minutes ago.
You look at him. Allow your eyes to wash over the golden boy sitting in front of you, who's no longer such a golden boy at all, but bruised and beaten down and cut up by supernatural forces that you still don't quite understand. He's been swallowed up and spit out by Hawkins and young adulthood and Scoops Ahoy and Nancy Wheeler and Tommy Hagan and Mr. and Mrs. Harrington and even his latest venture at Family Video, where he works with Robin but regularly gets yelled at by teens trying to rent R-rated movies.
(He swears it's not that bad, but his eyes all but twitched at the mention of his boss, who apparently has a dictator-like approach to running the store.)
"I already told you I'll stay." you reply softly, hand pressing into the soft mattress. Your fingers make an indentation in the foam, and Steve's mouth parts. Carefully, he reaches out, his larger palm covering yours. Your breath hitches in your throat and you feel like the biggest loser alive, your gaze remaining low on your now-joined fingers.
"No... I mean, stay here. In my bed. If you're comfortable." Steve amends. He almost sounds nervous, and it finally makes you look up. When you do, his eyes are wide, and you realize you're right.
You nod. "Do you want the TV on?"
He thinks for a moment. The past few nights, you've been sleeping to the sounds of the local news and late night re-runs of sitcoms. You don't ask why and Steve's grateful for it.
"No, 's fine," he decides, trying to shift into a more comfortable position against the pillows.
"Don't strain yourself," you scold. "I'll help you move if you need it."
Steve snorts lowly as you round the bed, clicking the lamp off. His bedroom, now bathed in the inky blue of 1 1 pm, feels less intimidating this way.
You climb in on the other side, pulling his comforter over your body.
"Are you comfortable?" he asks as you move onto your side.
"Shouldn't I be asking you that?"
"Shush."
You smile. Steve doesn't miss it.
He wishes he could face you, but he can't with the wounds on his side. Instead, he lays on his back, his arm splayed out between you two, his hand palm face up. It's quiet for the first few minutes as you both listen to each other's breathing.
Steve's not sure if you're sleeping when he says it.
"Can I ask you something?"
You open your eyes. "Hm?"
"Sorry. Did I wake you up?"
"No," you answer honestly. "I was drifting a little, but I'm awake. What'd you wanna ask?"
He pauses. Promises himself he won't lose his nerve.
"When I'm a little better... Maybe before you head back to school, or maybe in the summer when you come back, like after the semester's over... can I take you on that date?"
Steve stretches his neck to look at you. Even with his eyes adjusted to the darkness, he can't quite make out your facial expression, with the way you're biting your lip and smiling at him. He can't figure out if you're looking at him with pity or if you're excited, but either way, he can't recall the last time he was this nervous to ask someone out.
And then, he feels your hand slide into his, and it's like all of his worries never even existed at all.
"I would really, really love that, Steve." you murmur, intertwining your fingers with his.
You both grin at each other in the dark like fools.
grace rocky save stars đ
did two more project hail mary screencap redraws and wanted to have them all in one place!!
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i can't stop thinking about these, they are so beautiful!
Patron saint of one way trips
you donât notice it at first.
youâre sitting at the small table by the window, laptop open, half a cup of coffee gone cold beside you. something for work, something that needs your full attention â and youâre giving it. brows slightly furrowed, fingers moving steadily across the keyboard.
carmyâs been moving around the apartment for the past half hour. not loud. never loud. just⌠there.
drawer opens. closes. the fridge hums. a cabinet door taps shut a little too carefully.
he glances at you. once. twice.
you feel it, but you donât look up.
he leans against the counter, arms crossed, watching you like heâs trying to decide something.
you still donât look up.
he exhales, quiet, and pushes off the counter.
âhey,â he says.
âhm?â you answer, distracted, eyes still on the screen.
he hovers for a second, then steps closer. âwhatâre you working on?â
âjust something i need to finish,â you mumble. âgive me like ten minutes?â
he nods. âyeah. yeah, okay.â
he doesnât move.
you type a few more lines before it registers â his presence, right there, just slightly too close.
you glance up.
heâs standing beside your chair, hands shoved into the pockets of his sweats, looking at you in that soft, unsure way he gets when he wants something but doesnât know how to ask for it.
âwhat?â you ask, a smile tugging at your mouth.
he shrugs. ânothing.â
you raise an eyebrow. âcarmy.â
a beat.
ââŚcan i sit?â he asks, like itâs not his own apartment.
you laugh under your breath. âyeah, come here.â
thatâs all the permission he needs.
he slides into the chair beside you, close enough that his knee presses against yours. then closer. until his shoulder is brushing your arm, warm and steady.
you try to keep working.
you really do.
but then his hand finds your thigh, absentminded, thumb tracing slow, idle patterns like heâs not even aware heâs doing it. his head tilts slightly, resting just barely against yours for a second before he pulls back, like heâs testing the boundary.
you donât pull away.
so he does it again. this time staying there.
âyou said ten minutes,â he murmurs.
âi know, iâm sorry,â you say, softer now.
âitâs been like⌠eight.â
you huff a quiet laugh. âyouâre actually counting?â
âno,â he says immediately. then, after a second, âmaybe.â
you finally close the laptop halfway, turning toward him. âyouâre being clingy.â
he freezes.
ââŚâm not.â
you smile, reaching up to push a curl off his forehead. âyou are.â
he looks at you, caught, but he doesnât deny it this time. just shrugs, a little helpless.
âjust wanna be close to you,â he admits, voice low.
that does it.
you soften completely, hand sliding to the back of his neck, pulling him in. he goes easily, like he was already halfway there, forehead bumping yours before his lips find yours.
the kiss is warm, a little desperate in that quiet way. like heâs been holding it in, like this is what he needed all along. his hand tightens on your thigh, the other coming up to cradle your jaw, grounding, anchoring.
you hum softly against his mouth, and he melts into it, tension draining out of him all at once.
when you pull back, he stays close, nose brushing yours.
âhi,â you whisper.
he smiles, small and soft and completely gone for you. âhi, baby.â
you close the laptop fully this time, setting it aside.
âten minutes can wait,â you say.
he nods, drawn back to you by a pull he clearly canât fight.Â
he catches your mouth with his again, before you can even say anything else. like the space between you is suddenly unacceptable.
your laugh gets swallowed by his mouth, soft and surprised, and his hand tightens on your thigh, pulling you closer â closer than you already are, like heâs trying to erase whatever distance was there before.
âcarmyââ you murmur, smiling against his lips.
âyeah,â he breathes, not stopping.
he shifts in his chair, angling himself toward you fully now, one arm sliding around your waist. and then, like itâs the most natural thing in the world, he tugs you â gently but insistently â until youâre halfway in his lap.
you blink. âwhat are youââ
âstay,â he says, quiet, almost shy, but his grip doesnât loosen.
you huff a soft laugh. âi am staying.â
âno, likeââ he exhales, forehead pressing into your shoulder for a second. âlike this.â
and there it is again. that honesty he only gives you.
you soften instantly, shifting properly this time, settling into his lap. his arms wrap around you like heâs been waiting to do that all day, holding you close, one hand splayed warm against your back.
he lets out a breath you feel more than hear.
âbetter,â he mumbles.
you run your fingers through his hair, slow, soothing. âyouâre really not letting me go, huh?â
âno,â he says, his voice dropping to a low, steady vow. it isnât just about this moment. itâs a claim on every second youâre willing to give him.
you smile against the sharp line of his jaw. âclingy.â
ââŚyeah,â he admits, after a second.
thereâs no embarrassment in it now. just truth.
he nuzzles closer, face tucked into your neck, and for a moment he just stays there â breathing you in, grounding himself, like this is the only place he wants to be.
you tilt your head, pressing a kiss into his hair.
âwhat brought this on?â you ask softly.
he shrugs, but his arms tighten. âyou were busy.â
âfor ten minutes, babe.â
âyeah,â he says, like that explains everything.
you laugh quietly, but your grip on him tightens too, fingers tracing slow patterns along his strong back.
âyou couldâve just said you missed me.â
he huffs, pulling back just enough to look at you. âi did.â
âno, you hovered,â you tease.
he narrows his eyes a little, but thereâs no heat in it. âsame thing.â
ânot even close.â
he leans in again, stealing another kiss, slower this time, like heâs proving a point. his thumb brushes along your side, absentminded, grounding, like he needs to keep feeling you there.
when he pulls back, he doesnât go far.
âi missed you,â he says properly this time.
your expression softens, completely undone by how sincere he sounds.
âi was right here,â you whisper.
âyeah,â he murmurs, resting his forehead against yours. âi know. still.â
you donât argue with that.
you just wrap your arms around him, settle deeper into his hold, and let him keep you there â as long as he wants.
your laptop sits forgotten while you kiss for what feels like hours. and carmen berzatto doesnât loosen his grip once.
 âËâšâĄ
thank you for reading.
please reblog or comment. or both âť
â kiss me âĄ
2:33 am pt2 â read part 1 here
pairing: Robert "Bob" Reynolds x f!civilian reader synopsis: 5 times bob nearly kisses you and the 1 time he finally does content: fluff!!! pure fluff, some tension but nothing explicit, talk of his kill switch, shy bob, bob's powers yay, alcohol mention word count: 6.8k taglist: @she-sounds-hidieous, @dracuula98, @fandomxo, @hallowedactias, @cillixn, @magicwithaknife, @mornomn, @theoriginalfemmebot, @laniec03, @kitkatkaitin, @raidstarz, @hoodharlow, @someblessedmonster, @everydaydreamer, @xxsquiddkiddxx, @heliosphere8 author's note: part twooo i love these two so much. we love u boyfriend bob. as always, i hope you guys enjoy!! feel free to comment, reblog or even come leave an ask ^_^!! Š divider credit @/cursed-carmine
main masterlist â join my taglist âĄĚ
Bob shoots a nervous look at the mirror, Yelena next to him with her brows furrowed in contemplation. Bobâs desperate â this is his last outfit and he has five minutes before he really has to get going if he wants to get to your date on time. Heâs holding his breath, waiting for Yelenaâs final verdict and it feels like a weight has been lifted off his shoulders when she finally nods her assent. Tan corduroys, his best pair of black sneakers, a just-smarter-than casual dress shirt borrowed from Johnâs closet and a sweater and coat bought under Buckyâs keen eye.
Heâd spent the week since you guys had rescheduled your date oscillating between disbelief and a stomach churning anxiety. Heâd immediately enlisted the help of the rest of the team to help him prepare. A week of being dragged in and out of stores, grilled on how he expected the night to go (âYou need a backup plan, and a backup for that backup plan,â Yelena had drilled into him, her fingers poking his chest as he nodded), and a long lecture about chivalry and etiquette from Bucky, who delivers it with all the seriousness of a father sending his son off on a first date.
To call it torture would be light.
He takes one last breath before he awkwardly shuffles into the living room to say goodbye. Everyoneâs head turns as they look at him, nodding in approval.
âOkay, Bob do not forget you walk on the outside of the pavement,â Ava reminds him.
âAnd you scan for ice where she walks,â Alexei adds, even though Bob is pretty sure youâre better at navigating icy sidewalks than he is.
âAnd make sure you have mints. Sheâs not gonna kiss you if you taste like leftovers,â John reminds him right as he steps into the elevator.
âThereâs no kissing happening. Itâs our first date,â Bob blusters, but even as he says it, he finds heâs not opposed to the idea of kissing you so soon.
Youâre right outside the corner store, hands shoved deep into your pockets as you watch Bob cross the street, his fingers drumming nervously on the stems of the flowers he got you.
He thinks you look beautiful, radiant, even in the inky black winter night. He must be staring for too long because you clear your throat.
âHi Bob. You look a little different,â you tilt your head as you look at him and against his better judgement, Bob starts panicking.
âIs that-is that bad?â he asks.
âNo. I think you just look a little more dressed up. Itâs cute,â you smile. âI can see you panicking. Stop panicking. I think you look handsome.â
You lean into him as you say it and he half stumbles back which launches you into a fit of giggles. He blinks away his anxieties as he stretches his hands out to you.
âThese are yours,â he says.
âThank you. What a gentleman. So pretty, Bob,â you mumble as you bring them up to your face.
He mumbles his thanks, cut off when you loop your arm through his so that you can actually get going.
âYouâre so warm,â you press into him, the crinkle of the cellophane echoing through the night. You stay close, pressed up against him by the crowds.
Crowds make Bob nervous, but when youâre pressed into him like this, shoulders practically touching your ears in an attempt to keep warm, he can bear them a little more.
The gallery you go to is small, tucked between the bright neon lights of an Italian family restaurant on one side, and a flashy cocktail bar on the other.
Bob thinks maybe heâll take you for a drink afterward. He wants to see what youâre like when youâre a little more ⌠loose. Flustered even. When youâre not rushing to get back to the register or placate your unbearably snappy manager.
He snaps out of his daydreams when you tug on his arm slightly.
In front of you, the girl at the door fixes a particularly unimpressed look on him while she holds a ticket scanner in her hands. Bob apologises while he fumbles for his phone, shakily swiping through to the in-app QR codes.
âEnjoy your night,â door lady says as she waves you guys through.
Itâs a lot darker inside than you thought it would be, and you find yourself leaning on Bob, your hand threaded through his as you two walk through. Bobâs relieved when he finds out youâre not an art buff.
âI just like looking at pretty things,â youâd said, smiling at him as you held his gaze before turning back to the plaque beneath what looked to be a neon storefront diorama . He canât stop thinking about that sentence. The way youâd held eye contact and smiled at him like he was the only one in the room.
He feels lights as you lead him through to look at the various exhibits. Your favourite is a whale, made entirely of plastic waste items, bursting from a sea of electric blue lights.
He wants to look at you forever â at your face awash in the bright blue glow â and he doesnât notice heâs staring until you quirk a brow at him and ask if thereâs something on your face.
âNo-no, your face is perfectâ I mean itâs fine,â he utters and you laugh.
âFrom perfect to fine in 0.2 seconds I feel like Iâve been demoted.â
You nudge his shoulder gently as he guides you towards the door, the two of you nodding your thanks to the door lady.
âThatâs not what I meant. I swear,â he emphasises and you move your hand up his arm as you walk.
âI know itâs not. Iâm just teasing Bob,â you hum. âThe art was really pretty. Glad we got round to seeing it,â you say as he leads you into the cocktail bar.
Itâs busier than he likes and the music booming through the speakers has Bobâs teeth rattling but you donât complain so he doesnât either. You lead him to a quiet corner, the seats half hidden behind a leafy potted plant.
âBetter?â you ask as you squeeze his hand.
âBetter,â he sighs, grateful to be able to hear his own thoughts again. And then he isnât because all he can think about is Walkerâs comment, and then heâs staring at your lips. It takes him a moment to realise that youâre asking him something and he stammers out a weak apology. He follows the curve of your lips as you smile.
âDo you want anything to drink?â you ask again. You lay your hand over his and the soft press of your palm pushes the breath out of him in a surprised exhale.
âOh um. Whatever youâre having,â he says, fumbling for his wallet.
Youâre walking away before he can slip his card out.
âMy treat.â Then youâre half dancing, half sauntering over to the bar. You sway as you order, tapping your foot while you wait for the bartender to make you the drinks. When you slide back into your seat you have two electric blue drinks.
Bob lets out a nervous chuckle. âThis looks like something Iâve seen in an OXE lab.â He picks it up, lets his tongue swipe over the sugar thatâs all around the rim. The exhale you let out is embarrassingly loud and when Bob lifts his brows at you, you throw back the contents of your glass. Bob follows suit. Itâs sickly sweet, but he pretends not to notice it too much.
âSo, Bob. Tell me about yourself,â you lean back a little. âAll I know is that youâre a sweetheart who is also my nephewâs favourite hero.â
Bob bashfully recounts the less off-putting parts of his life, sanitises the addiction that led him to Malaysia. He ghosts over the deaths heâs died, and the total wipeout of New York City. If you notice the gaps you donât say anything, just nod politely.
âYouâre really cool,â you giggle, leaning over so you can put your hands over his. âYou want another drink?â
âLet me get it. Bucky will kill me if he finds out I let you buy me drinks,â he reassures you before stuffing his hands into his pockets and slouching over to the bar.
You guys are three drinks in when you lean over with a pout.
âHow come youâre still fine,â your words are rushed and light over the thrum of the music. He looks around before he slides in on the couch next to you. You lean in closer and his head spins when he gets a whiff of your perfume â fun and fruity â but he manages to hold it together long enough to half-whisper âSentry serumâ in your ear. âHavenât been able to get drunk since.â
âHuh.â You tilt your head. âIt never occurred to me it did more than just make you the Sentry.â Youâre touchier, Bob notices when you squeeze his bicep on the âSentryâ. âWhat else did it do to you,â you ask, hand trailing up, up, up until youâre cupping his cheek.
âYeah. Lots of things. Canât remember the last time I got sick, my insomnia doesnât affect me as badly as it used to either. Itâs kinda cool,â he shrugs.
âAnd youâre super warm,â you sigh.
âThat was pre-serum,â he laughs nervously as your thumb keeps rubbing at his cheek.
âEven better.â
Suddenly, Bob feels too warm and the weight of your gaze is beginning to crush what little resolve he has left as he watches the way the lights of the bar dance across your face â blue then purple then pink then red â as you just keep looking at him, relaxed smile painted across your face.
The moment ends when a yawn rips through you, and Bob canât help but laugh.
âLetâs get you home, okay?â
You look like youâre going to complain, brows furrowed together and bottom lip almost immediately jutting out, but Bob doesnât let you. He slides your coat over your shoulders and ignores the hammering of his heart as his finger glide against your skin.
He canât help the way he smiles as you slide your hand into his on the way back to yours, swinging it to and fro as he does his best not to give you crush-induced burns.
Bob short-circuits when you invite him up, mind desperately racing through what the most appropriate reaction is. His decision is made for him when his phone vibrates insistently against his thigh, Buckyâs name flashing across his screen.
âCanât. Emergency, I think,â he sighs.
âOh. Forgot. Iâll see you soon though, right?â
You step into him as you ask, and Bob fights the urge to take an immediate step back, letting you slide your arms around him.
It takes a few tries, but he finally manages to get his voice to work when he pushes out a disjointed agreement.
He watches you scan yourself in, then waits for you to text him once youâre in your apartment before he finally walks himself back home, light on his feet and head still spinning with the scent of you.
Youâre having the longest day of your life, and itâs only 10:30am. Your alarm hadnât gone off and youâd woken up with barely any time to get to work, narrowly missing a tongue-lashing from your boss. His wife might be leaving him, and heâd decided it needed to be everyoneâs problem. In your rush, youâd forgotten to bring an actual coat, and contrary to the bright blue sky beyond the slightly grimy storefront, it was freezing.
No one who had set foot in the store today seemed to have any sense either. Items were being accidentally knocked off shelves by bags at a rate youâd never really seen before. Everyone wanted to argue about price, and your checkout system had decided to reboot mid-serving the most irritable finance bro you had ever encountered.
Your day had started off bad and gotten worse. Thatâs why â despite the biting cold and icy winds â you were currently leaning against the wall, freshly-lit cigarette in your mouth. You were trying to quit, you were, but this was an emergency.
You almost choke when Bob materialises in front of you, hat pulled down over his ears, and the lower half of his face covered by a thick black scarf. His brows knit in confusion as he takes in your thin grey hoodie.
Before you can tell him not to, heâs taking his jacket off and gently coaxing you into it before he zips it up.
âBetter?â
It is better. Warm, and slightly oversized, and laced with the smell of him. It makes your stomach churn in a way you thought youâd outgrown.
âI donât want you to freeze, Bob. Iâm going back inside once Iâve finished my cigarette anyways,â you say as you inhale again. You turn your head so youâre not exhaling at Bob and when you turn back, his eyes are locked on your lips, his teeth worrying at his bottom lip.
You sigh.
âI know itâs bad for me, but Iâve had a really long day. You wonât deny me one single smoke, will you,â you say. Bob blinks his attention back to you, and then you watch as a steady flush colours his face.
âUh yeah. I mean no. No you can smoke if you have a bad day. I mean Iâd prefer if you didnât-â he stumbles, and you tilt your head in confusion, even as you pull from the cigarette again. His eyes flick almost imperceptibly to where your lips pucker around the orange tip, how you visibly seem to relax as you inhale.
âLook, if it makes you uncomfortable, I really will stop smoking. This is my first in like,â you pause to do the math and while you wish you could give him a more optimistic answer you settle on, âthree days.â
âItâs fine.â he puts his arms up and shrugs. âItâs okay you can smoke. Iâm not ⌠uncomfortable,â he explains.
You watch his breath mist in front of him as he sighs.
âYour jacket. Iâll give it back to you before I go inside, I promise,â you say to him as you flick your ash onto the pavement.
âNo. You need it more than me. You have to go home later, and I might not be able to walk you,â he says. âThatâs what I came down here for, actually. Iâm gonna be on standby. Technically am right now, but,â he just shrugs.
You laugh softly, and his hand comes up to rub at the nape of his neck.
âYou couldâve texted, Bob,â you smile.
âI wanted to tell you in person. I wanted to see you,â he whispers, eyes downcast like itâs his first time saying it. His hands wring nervously while you crush your cigarette under your toes.
âYouâre so sweet. Thank you, Bob,â you smile as you take his hands. You frown in confusion when you feel your hands heating up. When you look up, heâs got his brows furrowed in concentration.
âIf I get distracted it gets too hot,â Bob murmurs.
âAnd you think looking at me while we hold hands is a distraction?â
âYes,â he answers immediately.
Your laughter is interrupted by sound of the store door opening.
âI donât pay you to stand out here and canoodle your boyfriend,â your manager snaps.
âOh-oh, w-we.. not really yet,â Bob mumbles, and there a sharp spike in the temperature of his hands. âIâm so sorry, Iâve gotta go, goodbye,â he fumbles, shoving his hands into his pocket.
âThanks, now weâve pissed off the Avengersâ favourite intern,â you roll your eyes as you shove past him.
Despite your managerâs protests you spend the rest of your shift in Bobâs jacket, wrapped up in a cloud of something woody and earthy and a warmth that feels like Bob is right there with you.
Your second proper date with Bob is quieter than the first â a candle-lit necklace making workshop run out of the basement of someoneâs home. Youâd booked a private session; just you, Bob, and the instructor â a colourfully dressed woman who jingled when she walked â and you were glad you did. Bob seemed a lot more relaxed here than he did at the museum. As far as dates go, itâs definitely quiet. Bob focuses on putting your necklace together, picking out the right beads and occasionally stealing glances at you so he can match it to your style. You donât complain because it gives you plenty of time to openly watch him. He doesnât break focus for even a minute it seems. Not even when he glances up and catches you staring at him, head resting on your hand. He just connects chains and attaches charms and beads like this is the easiest activity in the world to him. You like watching him this relaxed; no fumbling over words, or anxiously rushing to explain himself.
The finished product is complex, chains that wrap around each other in spirals and glass beads that catch the low light of the jewelery studio.
âYou donât like it?â Bob asks when you donât say anything for a while.
âNo, no. Of course I like it. Itâs just that yours is so complex and pretty, mine looks like a really long charm bracelet,â you murmur.
âThatâs okay. You made it for me and I appreciate that,â he says, turning around so you can put it on him.
âYouâre not gonna get shit from the rest of the team for wearing your girlfriendâs DIY necklace?â you ask.
A steady flush creeps up Bobâs neck.
âYouâre my girlfriend?â
âIâm not?â you ask, hands faltering as he turns to look at you.
âYou are. You can be, if you want. I just didnât know, since we didnât talk,â he replies, trailing off. An anxious energy crackles through the air before he clears his throat.
âI mean yes. Yeah youâre my girlfriend. Iâm not seeing anyone else.â
Youâre relieved that your forwardness hasnât scared him off and you smile as you clasp the necklace in place. Your fingers brush over a scar, a small incision at the base of his neck, raised and smooth and you canât help but ask what it is. Itâs not like the other scars youâve seen on him, haphazardly scattered around his arms.
âOh uh. I guess thatâs where they put the kill switch,â he murmurs as you run your finger over it, pressing softly.
âKill switch?â
He turns you around so he can put your necklace on, gentle as he brings it around.
âCanât have the power of a million suns walking around with no backup plan. Itâs just in case I hurt people,â he shrugs.
âCanât imagine you hurting anyone who doesnât deserve it,â you whisper and Bob laughs softly.
âWalkerâs shield? I did that,â he admits, once youâve turned around.
âNo way. You turned his shield into a taco? What were you guys fighting over, dishes?â
Bob canât help the laugh that barrels its way out of his chest, sudden enough to make the instructor look up from organising her equipment. He mutters a quick apology, ushering you back outside.
Youâre still looking at him, concern and curiousity plain as day on your face.
âNot dishes, but it was minor. Water under the bridge now,â he explains as you as you take his hand in yours.
âIâd hate to see what a major fight results in,â you joke as you nudge your shoulder into his slightly. Thereâs a beat of silence as you weave through throngs of people, your hand never leaving his no matter how many people are between you, but when the sidewalk is emptier you turn to him. âIâm sorry you have a kill switch in your head. You donât deserve that.â
âYou didnât put it there. Itâs okay,â he shrugs.
âNot really. Whatâs the point of having heroes if you canât trust them to do the right thing without putting a kill switch in their head,â you mumble.
The conviction in your voice roots Bob to the sidewalk as you look at him, sincere as ever under the fluorescent glow of the streetlights. Heâs heard similar sentiments of course.
From the rest of the team.
Mel.
Staggered apologies from people whoâd had a hand in implementing the kill switch.
He tells them all the same thing: it doesnât matter. Heâd proven that Valentinaâs kill switch meant nothing â and the knowledge that the one thing meant to stop the Sentry only unleashed something far worse was always enough to keep him in line anyways â but when youâre looking at him like this, words laced with a hint of anger at the injustice of it, he canât bring himself to give you the same spiel.
So he cups your face instead.
âIâm okay. I donât mind,â he says, thumb absentmindedly dragging across your bottom lip. âItâs not something you need to worry about, promise,â he says as he watches your eyebrows furrow.
Bob shivers as you trail your hand up so you can feel the scar again, finger ghosting over it, as if pressing too hard might accidentally set it off. When your hand cups his cheek he reflexively turns to press a kiss to the heel of your palm.
âSo romantic,â you smile, guiding him to you until your foreheads are touching. Bob doesnât think, just keeps leaning in further, and heâs so close to home when a stranger walks straight into him, jolting you both out of the bubble youâd been in since you stepped outside.
âSorry,â she mumbles with barely a look back, but the magic is gone. Youâre dusting off your clothes and looping your arm back into his as you continue your walk home.
Itâs like the Universe always knows when you need everything to go your way and always decides that youâre never allowed to have that. Everything is perfect. You have all the ingredients laid out and an easy-to-follow recipe is on your laptop screen. Youâd marinated the meat overnight and even pre-diced everything else so that cooking today was as easy as possible. It should have been easy, but your stove picked this very moment to pack in, an error code flashing across the front like you were supposed to know what it meant.
Maintenance tells you they can only fix it on Monday. The problem is your date is today, and youâve promised Bob a home-cooked meal.
âFuck,â you hiss as you pace around your kitchen, a mounting sense of panic building in your chest. You consider cancelling, but you know thatâs the one way to guarantee that Bob materialises outside your window, cape and all.
You text him instead, an emoji-filled, rambling paragraph about getting takeaway and letting him pick tonightâs movie instead with a promise to reschedule once your stove is fully functional again.
Bob shows up to your house with a toolbox and a look of sheer determination, giving you a quick hug before he marches into the kitchen, determined to fix the problem.
âYou really donât have to. I shouldâve gotten it looked at when it first started acting out.â
âItâs okay. I used to do stuff like this all the time at home. Besides, whatâs the point of being able to do this kind of stuff if my girlfriend has to wait for maintenance to get her stove fixed?â
Bobâs nonchalance canât hide the flush that creeps up his neck when he says the word âgirlfriendâ, and you resist the urge to tease him for it, choosing instead to sit on the kitchen floor as he gets to work and you order food.
It doesnât take long for him to diagnose the problem â a loose element â and heâs silent as he repositions it, gets it back to what itâs supposed to be. You just watch in awe at the sureness in his hands, the way the muscles in his forearms contract as he works. His face is still, save the smallest movements of his mouth as he mutters to himself, and you have to resist the temptation to drag your knuckles across the light scruff that covers his jaw.
âWhat?â Bob asks when he turns to see you staring.
âYou look really good right now,â you say.
âOh, um. Thank you.â Heâs blushing when he turns away, and the lights above you hum, burning a little brighter.
âIs that you?â
âWhat?â
âThe lights. Are you doing that?â You nod up at the lights flickering above you.
âOh yeah. Iâm sorry, I thought I had it under control.â He puts the parts of your stove back together and turns to face you, then jumps when he realises how close you are.
âSo the lights⌠at the store. That was you?â
Youâre walking towards him, backing him into the stove. The lights burn bright as his ears tinge red. His eyes dart around the kitchen as he avoids eye contact.
âIt was me, yeah.â
âYou know I thought my manager was gaslighting me when he told me there was nothing wrong with the lights,â you exclaim as you poke a finger into his chest. âYou have been the root of my problems all along,â you laugh as you squeeze his cheeks, shaking his head.
âIâm not tryinâ to be,â he sighs when you let go. He wraps his arms around you as he crushes you to his chest.
âI know youâre not,â you soothe as you push his hair back. âI just canât believe I didnât notice it at all. Guess I was distracted.â
âIâm distracting?â
You donât get a chance to answer because the doorbell rings, and youâre reluctantly peeling yourself off of him so you can go get the food.
He lets out a breath he didnât know he was holding, then silently curses at the lights before joining you in the living room for dinner.
Bobâs taken to walking you home after every shift now. If heâs not needed, itâs a guarantee that ten minutes before the end of your shift heâll come into the store and wait near the door for you, a shy smile plastered to his face as he greets you.
âYour boyfriend know youâre capable of getting home alone?â
Your manager is behind the counter, angrily shelving and unshelving vapes as he glares at Bob. You donât pay him any mind. You had it on good authority that his bad mood was a direct result of an unusually bad sports betting run, and youâd give him grace just this time.
âI just like to make sure she gets home safe,â Bob answers from the door.
âJesus. Fuckinâ ears on that guy,â your manager grumbles as he slides boxes into place.
You just laugh.
You donât wait for the next person to get there, just slide your jacket on before half-skipping over to Bob.
âHe is right, you know. You keep walking me home Iâm gonna forget how to fend for myself.â
âIf someone attacks us, Iâll let you fight them off yourself. If you want to practice,â Bob shrugs with a laugh. âI just want to keep you company.â
âIs that why youâre constantly steering me away from puddles? And you would half carry me over icy patches?â
When Bob chokes, you laugh.
âYou arenât subtle. Not even a little bit,â you smile as you press into him.
âBucky said thatâs what gentlemen do,â he huffs.
âEvery new thing you tell me about Bucky makes him sound like an old timey cartoon. Thereâs absolute no way he was guiding women around puddles,â you counter.
âHe opens the door for Ava even though she can phase through easily enough,â he offers.
âOh.â
âYeah,â he laughs.
âWell I havenât experienced near death by puddle yet, so you can ease up bodyguard,â you tease.
âJust making sure you get home in once piece is all,â he says as he lets his hand rest on the small of your back.
âPlease. Itâs fifteen minutes, whatâs the worst that could happen?â
It happens less than a block from your house, while youâre waiting at a crossing. Days of rain had left giant puddles near street corners, and normally it wasnât an issue. No one drove fast enough along this road to splash up big quantities of water anyways.
Except for the asshole in a red pickup truck who apparently didnât get the memo.
Bob reacts first, almost a blur as he pulls you away from the edge, stepping right in front of you as the wave hits heavy and icy.
âBob, oh my god.â
Heâs blinking water out of his eyes and shaking himself off.
âImagine if I hadnât walked you home,â he beams.
âMy hero,â you swoon. âDo you wanna come up? I have in-unit laundry,â you explain as the pedestrian light finally comes on.
âI can dry myself,â he shrugs.
âYou saved me from icky road water. Please come up so I can wash and dry your clothes.â You hazard a look at him. âI have clothes you can wear while you wait,â you laugh as steam radiates from his clothes.
He doesnât take much convincing, but his clothes are half dry by the time you make it to your apartment .
âYou really didnât need to go to all this trouble,â he says as he pulls a faded red hoodie on over his head. âWhose clothes are these anyways?â
âMy exâs. Left them here the last time we saw each other then forgot to get them when he moved overseas. Donât worry Iâm not emotionally attached or anything, I just donât wanna pay the postage,â you say as you watch him from the corner of your eye.
His relief is palpable, even as he sheepishly tries to pretend he wasnât worried at all.
You wrap him in a hug as the washing machine rumbles in the background, swaying side to side. You catch Bob by surprise when you slide your hands underneath the hoodie, pressing your nose into him as you inhale.
âYouâre always so warm,â you comment, as Bob struggles to find an intact train of thought to follow.
âThatâs me. Space heater.â He cringes when you laugh, but when he looks into your eyes thereâs no malice.
âBob Reynolds: insomniac, milkshake enjoyer, space heater, god among men.â You smile at him, and he feels something in him shift when he catches the subtle flicker of your gaze from his eyes to his lips and then back again.
This was a sign, he knew. A clear indication of what you wanted from him, but before he can close that gap thereâs a knock on your door, loud and insistent.
âIgnore it, itâs just my nosy neighbour he doesnât even know if Iâm home,â you say as you try get closer.
But the knocking ramps up, and a voice calls from the other side of the door: âI know youâre home, my camera saw you and your guest,â he spits the words out in a way that makes Bob frown, âwalking in together. Just a reminder that if you intend to keep him overnight, to please have some consideration for the rest of us.â
That seems to draw you out as you walk briskly to the door and yank it open.
âYou canât use your camera to check when people bring guests home, itâs an invasion of privacy. You definitely canât come knocking on peopleâs doors to pre-emptively complain about rowdy sex,â you hiss. âYou donât even know if heâs my boyfriend. He could be my cousin.â
âThis the cousin that walks you home after work and hangs around at the front door like a lovesick puppy? Didnât think-â he starts. The rest of his sentence is muffled by the indignant slam of your door.
âCousin?â Bob pouts, before you can apologise.
âThatâs what youâre stuck on?â
âYeah, I donât want you to cousin-zone me to your neighbours. What if they believe you?â
âHe called you a lovesick puppy, I donât think he believed me,â you laugh.
âHold on he said I hang around like a lovesick puppy,â he pouts.
âOh and thereâs a difference?â
âUh yeah,â he argues as he follows you into your living room.
âThatâs a shame. Iâm quite partial to a lovesick man,â you faux complain as you lay down on your couch. You open your arms for Bob and he doesnât hesitate, letting his head rest on your chest as you laugh softly above him.
He spends the rest of the evening on the couch with you, his cheek pressed into the soft cotton of your sweater while you play with his hair, your fingers occasionally dipping below the collar of the hoodie to dance along his skin. He carries you to bed when your eyes start staying shut for longer and your answers come in delayed whispers.
He takes his clothes out of the dryer, folds them up neatly and leaves them on your coffee table with a note:
â these might fit better than your exâs :). see you soon ⥠.
The text arrives an hour before your shift ends.
Anna: you commit a crime lol? Sentry @ ur apartment :o
Thereâs a video attached; a grainy, stealthily recorded video of Bob in full Sentry gear letting himself into your apartment.
You: lol no. I know him, itâs okay
You get a thumbs up react back, but the rest of your shift is spent with an impatient buzzing under your skin. Two weeks without him and it felt like your heart was humming just at the thought of seeing him.
When your shift is over you donât wait for your manager to give you the go-ahead to leave, just push through the door with a wave over your shoulder.
Heâs stretched out on your couch, chest rising and falling softly as he reads, the TV providing some background noise. He sits up at the sound of the door opening, dog-earing a page in his book.
Heâs changed at least, but you can see fading bruises on his jaw.
âIâm fine,â he says when he notices you looking. âI missed you,â he sighs, when you finally settle into his arms.
âMy neighbour saw you come in here,â you mumble into his neck. âYou might need to be a little more careful.â
âDonât care. I missed you,â he sighs again. âCame straight here. I thought you were home,â he explains.
You sit up so you can look at him, then press a soft kiss to his jaw.
âI missed you too. Two weeks is a long time.â
You donât tell him that youâd spent all two weeks worried sick. It was one thing to know your boyfriend was the closest thing to a god among humans youâd ever see; another thing to believe it when you had no way of contacting him.
You donât need to tell him, because he notices your silence.
âWhatâs wrong?â he asks, thumb under your chin so he can make you look at him. âDid something happen at work?â
âNo, Bob. I was worried about you, you know. Itâs not easy to know that somewhere out there youâre getting shot at and I just have to trust youâll make it home.â
A look of surprise flits across his face.
âYou were worried about me? Iâm bulletproof; you donât need to worry about me.â
âIâll worry anyway,â you say as you press at the bruise peeking out from the collar of his shirt. âItâs not that I donât think youâre capable, itâs just⌠youâre just Bob to me. Sweet insomniac Bob who likes milkshakes and wants me to stop smoking and stops to pet everyoneâs dogs when we go on walks. I donât like the thought of you in danger.â
Your voice catches, and you hate that it does. What was there to be upset about when you were lying in his arms right now? How could you possibly doubt heâd never get hurt when youâd seen footage of him taking blows like they were nothing?
âIâll always come home, I promise you,â he says as he presses a kiss into your forehead. His lips linger, and you can almost hear the cogs turning in his head before he shifts so he can press his forehead against yours. Thereâs a flicker of indecision in his eyes, an expression that was settling over his face more and more, but before you can ask him whatâs on his mind he presses his lips to yours, soft and hesitant when you donât immediately kiss him back.
You cup his face with your hands before he can move away, pressing yourself against him as your eyes flutter shut. You can feel him smiling, imagine the soft lines around his eyes. It feels like his body hums when you put your hands on his chest, a soft sigh slipping out of you when his tongue swipes tentatively against your bottom lip.
You tuck it away in your Bob catalogue when he lets out a soft whine as your hands slide into his hair and pull slightly. You feel him squirm beneath you, his hands flitting indecisively to different parts of your body. From waist, to cupping your face, then back to your waist. He kisses you like he never needs to come up for air (hell, maybe he doesnât need to).
In a show of strength that surprises you, Bob flips you guys over so youâre lying on the couch, his body above yours as his hands sink into the cushions by your head. He peppers your jaw with kisses, presses his lips lightly to the base of your throat before attaching them to your lips again. Thereâs no hesitation this time, just pure want as he presses his whole body onto yours. You can feel the heat radiating off his hands where he has them fisted into the cushions.
âBob,â you mumble against his lips. âBob youâre overheating,â you laugh as you push against his chest, Bob groaning in protest.
âBob, sweetie,â you try again when you get a whiff of smoke. âMy cushions, Bob.â
That seems to do it. His eyes fly open then, irises glowing gold as he carefully removes his hands.
âIâm sorry. I tried to control itââ he starts, but heâs cut off by your hand on his cheek.
âI know you did, Iâm not mad. Just think maybe we should cool down a little,â you wink as you pat his chest. âBefore we set off the smoke alarms. My neighbours will not forgive that.â
You press a kiss to his cheek, and despite the brief loss of control, Bob feels warm.
Bobâs impatient while he waits for his heart to stop humming, cycling through breathing exercises his therapist had given him exactly for situations like this, but itâs difficult now that he has the knowledge of what itâs like to kiss you. He wants to feel your skin under palms again, press his chest to yours soi he can feel the hammering of your heart. He wants to feel that soft sigh into his mouth, breathe you in like youâre the only thing that matters again. He hates that it took him this long, but she wouldnât have had it any other way. A soft moment just between the two of you, like every moment leading up to it. Moments where you were just his and he was just yours.
No Sentry mantle to worry about, no teammates encroaching on your space. Just you and him on your couch while something heâd long stopped listening to played in the background.
Heâs on cloud nine when you kiss him again, hands fisting in his sweater in an attempt to bring him closer, noses bumping a couple of times in your fervour. He savours the feeling of your fingers in his hair, the way they tighten when he grazes his teeth along your bottom lip before giving it a gentle tug. He knows he wonât be able to stop thinking about the way you half wriggle beneath him, hips pressing up against his.
âYou canât do that,â he tells you once, when you roll up against him particularly hard.
âWhy not?â you whine.
âYou know why. I nearly set your couch cushions on fire from a kiss. Iâll blow the entire electrical grid if we do anything else,â he explains with a soft kiss to your throat.
âYou donât know that,â you coax, dragging your lips back to his.
âTrust me. I do.â
He ends the discussion with another kiss to your lips.
You donât argue, just let him keep kissing you in intervals â slow and sweet until the heat of him becomes too much to bear and heâs pulling away flushed, waiting to return to normal so he can do it all over again.
I was craving some menacing badie Steve because we didn't get enough of that. Think he just ended up looking like he's about to take his last breath though, whoopsie

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sorry i barked when i saw your happy trail do you still want me
âWithout a gun, I look like a teacherâs assistant.â
tower fics are so back baby
sitting on his lap as his big hand cups the side of your face. you lean into his touch, eyes blown with lust and lips a little pouty. he gets unbelievably hard underneath you

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short skirt weather ; robert 'bob' floyd
fandom:Â top gun
pairing:Â bob x reader
summary:Â you and bob are obviously into each other, but he's hesitant to make a move claiming you're too young for him, until a whole lot of miscommunicationâjealousy, tension, the worksâand a training accident lands you in hospital
notes:Â the lew spiral is still spiralling and i almost struggled writing this because i love him so much??? anyways, it's heaps of fun, has all the tension, jealousy, angst, fluff, and of course... lots of horny thoughts! please let me know what you think!!! (p.s. shout out to the critical role nerds for the callsign, iykyk)
warnings: swearing, miscommunication, reference to a slight age gap (but it isn't specified and it's also described as 'barely there'), teasing, short skirts (sorry bob), jealousy, switching pov (kind of), plane crash, very minor description of injury, and horniness so 18+ ONLY MDNI! (let me know if i missed anything)
word count: 18022 (i have no chill whatsoever)
your callsign is vex
Bob Floyd never thought of himself as someone who took particular interest in the weatherâunless it had to do with flying, of course. But on the ground? He couldnât care less. Or, he shouldnât.Â
Especially not when it comes to what the weather makes people wear. How is that any of his business? It shouldnât matter how hot it is outside or how that directly affects the amount of material someoneâs wearing. It really shouldnât.Â
But it does. And not just with anyone. Noâthis has everything to do with you.Â
You, in that damn sundress and those ridiculous cowboy boots that shouldnât be giving Bob a semi in the middle of the goddamn bar.Â
And yet, there you are in all your glory. Legs on display, that flowy little skirt just barely covering the curve of your ass. And fuck if it isnât making it impossible for Bob to keep his eyes from wandering.Â
âGod damn,â Jake says, his southern drawl thick as his green eyes lock onto youâor more specifically, your ass. âDo you think she knows?âÂ
Bob blinks, brows pulling together as he turns toward Jake, tryingâand failing, miserablyânot to sound annoyed that heâs checking you out. âKnow what?âÂ
âWhat a girl like that does to guys like us,â Jake replies easily.Â
Reuben chuckles and takes a slow sip of his beer. âOh, she knows. She definitely knows.âÂ
âUgh,â Natasha groans. âCould you creeps stop looking at her like sheâs something to eat? Itâs gross. Sheâs our friend. Our teammate.âÂ
Jake opens his mouth, lips already curled into his usual smirk, but Natasha puts a hand up to stop him.Â
âAnd sheâs barely younger than us, so donât say anything weird about her age.âÂ
Jake rolls his eyes and lifts his beer. âWasnât gonnaâŚâÂ
Thereâs a beat of silence as Bob lets his eyes drift back to you, drinking in the way youâre leaning against the bar. Elbow propped, hip cocked, one boot crossed over the other, and your head tipped just slightly as you talk to the dark-haired stranger beside you.Â
âWait,â Mickey leans forward, squintingâvery unsubtlyâacross the bar. âIs that her date?âÂ
Natasha nods. âThink so. Looks like the guy she showed me.âÂ
Bobâs head snaps toward her, dark blue eyes wide. âSheâs on a date?âÂ
Mickey giggles. Reuben snorts. Even Bradley has to hide a laugh behind his beer.Â
âAlright,â Jake says, slapping a hand on the table in mock outrage. âWho didnât tell Bob?âÂ
Natasha shoots him a flat look before turning back to Bob. âDidnât you hear us talking about it at lunch? She met some guy on Hinge or something.âÂ
âSaid she was gonna go home with him and let him keep her up all night,â Jake adds with a wicked grin. âYâknow, since weâre starting night rides next weekâfigured sheâd get used to staying up late.âÂ
âI was intentionally leaving that part out,â Nat says, glaring at Jake. âBut thanks for clearing it all up, Bagman.âÂ
Jake tips his beer toward her. âAnytime.âÂ
Bobâs jaw twitches. His teeth are clenched so tight it hurts, but he canât relaxânot with that guyâs hand on your hip, fingers digging into the soft fabric like he has some right to touch you. Like you belong to him.Â
Which you donât. You donât belong to anyone.Â
At least, thatâs what Bob has to keep telling himself.Â
âEasy, Floyd,â Bradley mutters beside him. âYou keep staring like that, the poor guyâs gonna catch fire.âÂ
Bob doesnât respond. He canât. His voice is gone, breath caught somewhere in his throat. Heâs too focused on your smileâhow it flickers, just a little off. Not quite like the one you wear with them. With him.Â
It shouldnât matter. He shouldnât care whether or not youâre giving that stranger the same bright smile or soft laugh you always give him. Because itâs none of his business.Â
Who you date and what you doânone of it is his business. Youâre allowed to wear tiny dresses, flirt with strangers, and laugh at guys who think theyâre clever.Â
It shouldnât matter.Â
But it does.Â
God, it fucking mattersâway more than it should.Â
Because for the first time in weeks, youâre not looking at him. Youâre looking at... that guy.Â
And even though he tells himselfârepeatedly, a thousand times a dayânot to enjoy being the centre of your attention... he does.Â
He lives for it.Â
âYou know,â Reuben says slowly, lips curled into the tiniest smirk, âthis wouldnât even be happening if youâd sack up andââÂ
âPayback,â Natasha warns. âDonât.âÂ
âWhat?â He raises both hands in mock innocence. âAll Iâm trying to say is, if he likes her that much, he should just ask her out. Sheâs clearly into him. We all know it.âÂ
Bobâs eyes flick between you and Reuben, his brows furrowed slightly as his thoughts tug in opposite directions. On one hand, yeah, Reubenâs logic makes perfect sense. Bobâs not blindâhe sees the way you look at him. The way your face lights up when you talk to him, the quiet smile you wear just for him, the blush you try to hide when he says something low and teasing.Â
But on the other hand? He just canât do it. Youâre youngâtoo young. And heâs... well, heâs not old, but heâs older. Itâs not a huge age gap, not really, but that paired with how drop-dead gorgeous you are? Itâs enough to make him feel like aâÂ
âNothinâ wrong with being a cradle-snatcher,â Jake chimes in, eyes sparkling as he lifts his beer.Â
Bradley chuckles quietly. âJesus, Hangman. Youâre on fire tonight.âÂ
âWhy thank you, Rooster,â Jake replies smoothly.Â
Natasha rolls her eyes and downs the rest of her beer in one long swig, looking thoroughly done with all of them.Â
The conversation shifts thenâto next weekâs night ops trainingâbut Bob barely hears it. The pounding of his pulse is too loud, drowning everything out. And he canât stop watching you.Â
The way your hands move when you talk, how your dress sways as you shift your weight, the gentle curve of your smile. Even over the music and chatter, he swears he can hear your laughterâif he strains.Â
And it kills him. Because heâs not the one making you laugh tonight.Â
-Â
âWanna get out of here?â Ryan asks, his voice low in your ear, breath warm against your neck.Â
But not in a sexy way. Not in the way that sends goosebumps down your arms or makes your skin prickle with anticipation. It just makes you feel warmâtoo warmâin the packed, overheated bar.Â
Honestly, for the last forty-five minutes, while Ryan has been telling you all about his super interesting jobâhe's a carpenter, itâs not that interestingâyouâve been seriously considering hopping behind the bar to help Penny and Jimmy.Â
âItâs barely nine,â you say, forcing a polite smile as you tilt your head.Â
âYeah,â he chuckles, scratching the back of his neck. âBut Iâve got to be at work by six tomorrow morning, so I figured if we ducked out now, we could... you know, mess around a bit before bed.âÂ
The way he says it nearly makes you laugh. He sounds like a teenager trying to sneak in some action before curfew.Â
âLook,â you sigh, laying a hand on his knee, âthis has been fun, but Iâm just not your girl. And honestly? I was kinda hoping this would distract me from someone else, but... youâre not him. Iâm sorry. Itâs not your faultâthis oneâs on me. But, uh... good luck!âÂ
He looks completely flabbergasted. Like the blank stare youâve worn for most of the eveningâor the way your gaze kept drifting across the bar toward someone elseâwasnât a hint. God, he might be even dumber than you thought.Â
You slip off the barstool with a clipped smile, wishing you looked more sincere, but your body is already moving toward where you really want to beâwhere your squad is.Â
Where Bob is.Â
Youâre just about to head for the booth when your eye catches on Pennyâand the very large crowd waiting to be served.Â
âDamn it,â you sigh, pivoting sharply and hurrying around the bar.Â
You slip through the swinging wooden doors behind the bar and fall in beside Penny, listening closely to the man ordering drinksâhis voice raised over the music and chatter. Without hesitation, you start grabbing clean glasses, catching Penny off guard as you begin pouring pints of golden beer.Â
âSorry,â you say with a soft laugh. âI saw the crowd and couldnât just let you suffer.âÂ
She rolls her eyes but smiles. âIâd tell you to scram if you werenât so gorgeousâand a literal lifesaver.âÂ
You give her a cheeky wink before lining up the beers on a tray for the man. Penny swipes his card, and heâs gone in half the time. Then the next patron steps up, and you keep working smoothly, moving effortlessly behind the bar and easing the pressure.Â
Eventually, the line dies down, and Penny takes full advantage of your presence by sending Jimmy out back for more stock. You stay behind the bar while she ducks off to collect empties, keeping yourself busy wiping benches, refilling lime wedges, and unloading the freshly washed glasses.Â
Youâre so focused on scrubbing at a particularly stubborn stain on the bar top that you donât notice someone approachâsomeone you usually have a hard time not noticing.Â
âYou donât work here,â Bob says, voice light, lips twitching at the corners.Â
You glance up, your heart immediately jumping into overdrive. âI could,â you say, straightening. âMaybe I should quit the Navy. Bartending might be my true calling.âÂ
He chuckles. âYouâre one of the best fighter pilots in the country, and you think slinging drinks is your destiny?âÂ
You shrug, leaning forward casuallyâknowing exactly what youâre doing. His eyes flick down to your chest for a split second before snapping back up, fast enough to pretend it didnât happen.Â
âHey, donât knock it. This job is harder than it looks.âÂ
âOh, I donât doubt that,â he says softly, watching with quiet intensity as you pour him a pint of cherry sodaâwithout him even needing to ask.Â
You slide it over with a small smile. âWhat do you think? Iâm a pretty good bartender, huh?âÂ
His cheeks tint pink, the flush dusting across his nose. âYeah. I think you make a very pretty bartender.âÂ
You smirk. âWas that a compliment, Lieutenant?âÂ
He rolls his eyes and drops a crumpled ten onto the bar like it might save him from saying more.Â
You shake your head. âDonât worry, itâs on the house.âÂ
âYou sure youâve got that kind of authority?â he teases.Â
âPenny said our drinks are free tonight,â you reply, smug. âPayment for being an excellent bartender.âÂ
âAnd for filling the tip jar faster than Iâve ever seen,â Penny chimes in as she reappears, arms full of empty glasses.Â
Your cheeks heat as Bobâs gaze flicks toward the overflowing jar.Â
âWow,â he chuckles softly.Â
You flick your hair dramatically and bat your lashes. âPerks of being a pretty bartender, I guess.âÂ
Then you turn around and bend over to grab something from the fridgeâvery aware of the effectâand sure enough, Bob promptly chokes on his soda. He coughs, his whole face turning red as he pounds a fist against his chest.Â
âJesus,â he mutters under his breath, âmore like consequences of a skirt that short.âÂ
You snap upright, brows lifting and eyes gleaming with amusement. âBob Floyd, did you just comment on the length of my skirt?âÂ
He blinks fast. âNo.âÂ
You tilt your head, fighting a grin. âYou sure? Because the colour in your cheeks looks a little guilty to me.âÂ
He straightens up, his usual walls clicking into place like armour. âDidnât say anything.âÂ
You roll your eyes and plant both hands on the bar, leaning forward just enough to make him squirm. âBob, Iâm not a baby. And Iâm not some virginal schoolgirl, either. Youâre not going to hell just for flirting with me.â You pause, letting your gaze hold his. âHell, if you did it more often, I might take you to heaven.âÂ
His throat bobs as he swallows hard, and you see the want flicker in his eyesâjust before he reins it back in.Â
âBut if the age gap is that big of a deal to youâwhich, for the record, is barely anythingâthen maybe stop looking at me like youâre picturing me naked.â Your voice drops. âMixed signals can really confuse a girl.âÂ
You hear the softest laugh from Penny, but your eyes stay locked on Bobâsâdaring him to look down again, to do something other than walk away.Â
He clears his throat. âThanks for the drink.âÂ
Then he turns and walks away, heading straight back to the booth where all your friends areâacting like they havenât been watching, but you know better. Theyâre all too nosy for their own good.Â
You sigh heavily. âMen. Fucking impossible.âÂ
Penny laughs again, resting a hand on your shoulder. âFighter pilots, actually. Theyâre a very special breed of difficult.âÂ
âHey,â you giggle. âI am a fighter pilot.âÂ
She nods, smirking. âAnd thereâs not a doubt in my mind how difficult youâre makinâ life for that boy right now.âÂ
You press your lips together and give her a flat lookâbecause yeah⌠sheâs not wrong.Â
After all, why else bring a guy to the bar you knew your friends would be atâyou knew he would be at? Why wear a dress this short? And why spend half the night with your eyes locked on him, just wishing heâd walk over and interrupt your lousy date?Â
-Â
Graveyard shift. Bat hours. Vampire runs. Ghost hops. Night rides.Â
Whatever you want to call itâthe squad hates night ops.Â
Itâs dark, itâs eerie, and your NVGs fog up if you so much as breathe wrong. Fatigue hits harder, the skeleton crew slows everything down, and visibility is shotâso youâre flying blind, trusting your radar and your WSO to keep you alive.Â
âYou know whatâs great about night ops?â Mickey says, head tipped back in his chair. âNothing. Not the dark, not the sleep deprivation, not the existential dread at two a.m. while staring into the black void wondering if your wingman ghosted you or just changed frequency.âÂ
You roll your eyes and take a sip of coffee.Â
âItâs night one, Fanboy,â Natasha mutters beside you. âWe still have four weeks of this. Are you going to complain the whole time?âÂ
Mickey shrugs. âYeah. Probably.âÂ
âDid Mav piss Cyclone off or something?â Reuben asks.Â
You shake your head. âNah. He heard there might be a mission coming up with night flying. Figured we should get ahead of it.âÂ
âOr he just hates us,â Javy sighs, eyes half-shut.Â
Natasha snorts. âDid you sleep at all today, Coyote?âÂ
âNope,â he grumbles, shifting a glare toward Jake. âSomeone had his whale noises up too loud and bit my head off when I told him to turn it down.âÂ
Jake shoots him a look. âThey help me sleep. If youâve got a problem, buy some earplugs.âÂ
âDamn,â you mutter. âGlad youâre not my wingman tonight, Coyote.âÂ
He shifts his glare your way and flips you off lazily before letting his eyes shut completely.Â
âSo, Vex,â Jake says, twisting in his seat toward you, ânever did hear how that date went the other night.âÂ
You arch a brow. âOh, so now I have to report back on all my dates?âÂ
Jakeâs lips twitch, his gaze flicking toward Bob. âDates? As in plural? Just how many are we talking here?âÂ
âThatâs none of your business,â you reply, taking another sip of coffee.Â
Thereâs a brief pause, and his eyes narrowâseeing through you a little too easily. âThe date tanked?âÂ
Natasha snorts and you quickly elbow her in the side.Â
âYes,â you mutter. âIt sucked. He was boring. And no, I didnât get laid. So yes, Iâm in a less-than-favourable mood.âÂ
Jakeâs smirk turns wicked. âSweetheart, if getting laid is what you need, you only have to ask.âÂ
Your brows shoot up. âThat so?âÂ
He nods.Â
You turn to Javy, whoâs about one breath away from snoring. âCoyote.âÂ
His eyes snap open. âHuh?âÂ
âWant to fuck me?âÂ
He startlesâeyes wide, mouth dropping open. âIâuh, what?âÂ
Laughter rumbles through the roomâeveryone giggling softly at poor, confused Javy.Â
Well... almost everyone.Â
Bob isnât laughing. In fact, heâs not even smiling, or looking your way. His eyes are glued to his phoneâeven though you can see the screen is blank.Â
Which means heâs definitely listening.Â
You shift in your chair and give Natasha a sidelong smirk. Her brow furrows slightlyâa silent question about what youâre up toâbut she nods anyway, signalling that sheâll follow your lead no matter where it goes.Â
âDoes anyone know if Cycloneâs single?â you ask, voice light and dripping with faux innocence.Â
Mickeyâs eyes go wide. âAdmiral Simpson?âÂ
You nod, as if itâs the most obvious thing in the world. âYeah. Heâs hot.âÂ
âAgreed,â Natasha saysâand from the way her mouth curves, sheâs not just playing along. She definitely agrees.Â
âIsnât he married?â Reuben asks.Â
Javy frowns, still half-asleep but clearly paying attention now. âNah, I think they divorced.âÂ
âSo,â you say slowly, âwhat Iâm hearing is... heâs single?âÂ
Bradleyâs gaze flicks to Bobâjust for a secondâbefore settling back on you, reading you like a damn open book. âBit old for you, isnât he, Vex?âÂ
You shrug with a smile. âNot at all. I like older men. More experience.âÂ
Out of the corner of your eye, you catch the way Bob shifts in his seatâjust slightly, but itâs enough. Heâs not looking at you, but the tips of his ears have turned pink, and his jaw is locked tight as he keeps his eyes on his phone. Still blank.Â
âI swear heâs still married,â Mickey says, clearly trying to get this train back on the rails.Â
âYeah,â Reuben adds. âDidnât they do couples counselling?âÂ
âThey did,â Maverick says, breezing into the room like the punchline to your joke. âDidnât stick. So yes, heâs single.â He pauses in front of you, green eyes sparkling with amusement. âBut Iâm not sure how he feels about dating subordinates. Want me to find out?âÂ
You match his smirk with one of your own, sitting up a little straighter as you meet his gaze. âHow generous of you, Captain. That would be great.âÂ
He chuckles, shaking his head as he moves to the front of the room and sets a stack of papers down on the desk. âAlright, aviators,â he says. âWelcome to night ops.âÂ
After an hour-long briefing and way too many questions about why youâre all stuck on night training, Maverick orders everyone to get ready for the first hop. Youâre on deck with Jake, Natasha, and, of course... Bob.Â
The four of you ride in silence across the flight line, packed into one of the motorised carts as Maverick drives you from the squadron building to the hangar. Thereâs a low buzz of anticipation in the air, but no one says much. Itâs late, and everyone is focusing on their own little preflight rituals.Â
Once you reach the hangar, the ground crew directs you toward the night ops staging area where your NVGs and gear are laid out. Youâve done enough of these late-night flights to know the drill, so you join the others in wordlessly collecting your kit and starting to suit up.Â
By the time you make it out onto the tarmac, your jets are already prepped and the crew chiefs are finishing up their walk-arounds. You head over to your jet, nodding to the plane captain before starting your own pre-flight checkâwalking the length of the fuselage, scanning for anything off, running a practiced eye over control surfaces, landing gear, intakes. Itâs second nature by now, but you donât cut corners. Especially not in the dark.Â
Once youâre satisfied, you turn to face the runway and pull your helmet on, checking the vision through your NVGs. Itâs blurryâjust enough to make you squint. The image is skewed, the edges fuzzy, crawling inward like shadows that shouldnât be there.Â
You mutter something sharp under your breath, reaching up to adjust the settings yourself whenâÂ
âDonât move.â The voice is low. Steady. Too close.Â
You freeze instinctively as Bob steps inâright into your space, like youâre the only two souls on the glowing stretch of tarmac. His gloved hand finds the side of your helmet, fingers sliding into place with steady control. It should feel clinicalâroutineâbut it doesnât. It burns. Even through the goddamn helmet.Â
âI can fix it,â he murmurs, eyes on your goggles, not your face. âTilt your chin up.âÂ
You obeyâbarelyâand he leans in, his body almost touching to yours. One hand on your cheek-plate now, the other carefully turning the tiny focus dial above your temple. You can feel his breath against your skin, warm and shallow, and it sends a pulse through your ribs that youâre trying desperately not to show.Â
âDidn't this happen last time?â he asks, the corner of his lips twitching. âYou jam the strap too tight.âÂ
âI like it snug,â you mutter, not trusting your voice with anything flirtier. Not when heâs this close.Â
Bob hums, low in his throat. âOf course you do.âÂ
Your heart stutters.Â
He adjusts something with a flick of his thumbâthe pad of it grazing down along the side of your face, slow and careful. Like he's memorising the shape of you under the gear. Your jaw flexes.Â
âYou always get this close when youâre adjusting gear?â you ask, pretending the heat in your voice is a joke and not a plea.Â
Bob stills for a beat. Just one.Â
Thenâvery softlyâhe whispers, âOnly yours.âÂ
You swear your knees nearly give.Â
But before you can breathe or speak or lean the half-inch forward that would start something you probably shouldnât want this badly, Bob finishes the final adjustment and lets his hands fall. Slowly. Like it costs him something.Â
âThere,â he says, voice low but distant now. âBetter?âÂ
You blink behind the goggles. âYeah. Clear.âÂ
He lingers for half a second moreâjust enough to feel like maybe he wants to say something elseâthen turns and walks back toward the others without another word.Â
You donât move. You canât. Youâre just standing there in the dark, goggles perfectly focused, heart pounding like youâre about to hit Mach 1.Â
It takes an embarrassingly long minute for you to remember how to function. To stop thinking about how close heâd just beenâhow you could smell him, feel his heat, and how, if youâd tipped your chin up and stretched just a little⌠you mightâve been able to kiss him.Â
But then you hear Maverick shouting across the tarmac, calling for a final rundown before wheels-up.Â
You shake your head, yank your helmet off, and join the others for a quick debrief before splitting up again and climbing into your jets. You settle in, strap your helmet back on, check your now perfectly focused NVGs, and run your usual internal systems check.Â
Thenâafter the green light from ground crewâyouâre in the sky. Squinting through your goggles, seeing the world saturated in green and grey, and wondering why the fuck no one has invented a better form of night vision yet.Â
âRemind me again why weâre stuck on the graveyard shift,â Jake says, voice dry. âBecause as much as I love flying blind through pitch-black nothingness, Iâd really rather be in bed right now.âÂ
âYouâre not blind, Hangman,â Maverick replies. âWeâve got one of the best WSOs in the world with us.âÂ
âOh, good,â Jake says sarcastically. âMy lifeâs in the hands of Phoenixâs baby on board.âÂ
You roll your eyes. âIâd rather have my life in Bobâs hands than yours, Bagman.âÂ
His chuckle crackles through the radio. âYeah, I know where youâd like to have Bobâs hands. And itâs not holding your life.âÂ
Heat rushes to your cheeks, making the cockpit suddenly feel way too hotâyour flight suit practically suffocating.Â
âHangman,â Maverick warns. âBe professional.âÂ
Jake scoffs. âOh, so those two can eye-fuck each other all night long, but I canât say the obvious out loud?âÂ
Thereâs a pauseâa beat where you wonder if heâs finally pushed it too farâbut then Maverickâs laughter cuts through.Â
âYes. Because they do it quietly.âÂ
Your eyes go wide and you almostâalmostâfumble a right bank. âMav!âÂ
More laughter crackles through the radio, Natasha now joining in. Youâre just about to tell them all to stick it when the mood shifts, and the laughter stops.Â
âVex, check your two,â Maverick says, voice sharp and low. âSomethingâs throwing heat.âÂ
âNegative,â Bob cuts in. âLet me scan it first.âÂ
You hesitate, holding formation, but frustration flares under your skin. Did Bob really just override a direct order?Â
âConfirming IR spike,â Bob says after a beat. âSomethingâs cooking down there, but it doesnât match any known signature.âÂ
You glance down at the blur on your MFD. âIâll break off, check it out.âÂ
âWait. Donât.â Bobâs voice is low but tense, edged with something more than caution.Â
âWhy?â you snap, anger prickling your chest.Â
âI... I donât like it,â he says. âItâs not worth the risk.âÂ
You grit your teeth and break off anyway, flying low and steady toward the suspicious heat signature.Â
âIâm going to check it out, Mav,â you say, voice tight. âHangman, got my six?âÂ
âCopy,â Jake replies.Â
You bank left, staying quiet as you approach the stretch of uninhabited grassland. Your HUD flickers with the steady IR pulseâa dull orange glow against the dark terrain. Too concentrated for a campfire. Too controlled for a random burn. Itâs creeping northâmethodical.Â
You drop lower when you spot flashing lightsâfire crews moving with purpose, reflective gear flickering like stars in the NVG haze. This isnât an accident. Itâs a controlled burn.Â
âMav, why is there a fire in a training zone?â you ask. âShouldnât that be logged?âÂ
âItâs just brush management?â Maverick asks, sounding almost relieved.Â
âAffirmative,â Jake replies before you can.Â
âCopy. Iâll flag it with air trafficâlooks like someone forgot to tell the rest of us.âÂ
You and Jake return to formation without issue.Â
âLucky it wasnât Bigfoot, huh Bob?â Jake says, his smug grin practically audible. âMightâve leapt right onto Vexâs jet and dragged her into the woods.âÂ
Thereâs no response, just the soft static of the open channel.Â
Then Natasha mutters, âDonât be a dick, Hangman. He was being cautious.âÂ
âWell, Iâm sure she appreciates the concern,â Jake says. âBut sheâs not made of glass.â He waits for a retortâgets noneâand chuckles. âAnd if sheâd died out there, I wouldâve avenged her. Dramatically.âÂ
âHangman,â Maverick sighs. âThatâs enough. Bobâs got better eyes than the rest of us tonight. Maybe donât piss him off.âÂ
Still, nothing from Bob. You even crane your neck, catching sight of his and Natasha's jetânothing but a shadow at your five oâclock. Like you could somehow see him in the cockpit, tensing his jaw or rolling his eyes at Jakeâs jabs.Â
Frustration simmers in your chest. You know he was just being cautiousâor protectiveâbut this is your job. He doesnât get to tell you what you can and canât do, especially when itâs a direct order from your CO. Even if you were dating, you wouldnât let him boss you aroundâwell, not outside of the bedroom, anyway. He can care. He can worry. But making it sound like youâre incapable? Thatâs what he just did. And it makes your skin crawl.Â
The rest of the flight passes without incident, but the comms stay unusually quietâeven Jake gives up his teasingâand youâre still pissed by the time youâre back on the ground.Â
You move through the post-flight motions with a frown on your face and your jaw locked tight. First, the ground crew helps you out of the jet and you do a quick walk-around. Then you ditch your night gear, knock out a maintenance report, and sit through a short debrief with Maverick before jumping in the cart back to the ready room.Â
By the time you walk in, the others are already gone. Youâre not sure if you were too caught up in your own grumpiness to notice them pass you on the way over, but you donât bother asking. Youâre still too busy being pissed.Â
In fact, youâre so busy scowling at the coffee machine as it splutters out an espresso shot you know is going to taste like dirt that you donât notice someone step up beside you.Â
âIâm sorry,â Bob says, voice soft. âAbout what happened up there.âÂ
You jumpâjust slightlyâthen twist to face him, arms crossed tight over your chest. He's standing just a few feet awayâhelmet gone, flight suit half unzipped with the collar tugged open just enough to make your stomach flip.Â
âI didnât mean to undermine you.âÂ
âSure felt like it,â you mutter.Â
âI know.â His eyes finally lift to meet yoursâmidnight blue, heavy with regret and something else that makes your breath catch. âThatâs why Iâm apologising.âÂ
You turn back to the coffee machine, hoping the clatter and gurgle of the old machine will cover the sudden pounding of your heart. âLook, I get you were trying to be cautious, but Mav gave me a directive. You donât get to override that just because your gut didnât like it.âÂ
âI wasnât thinking about you as a teammate back there,â he says quietly. âI was thinkingââÂ
âThat Iâm a little kid?â you snap, spinning to face him again. âBecause whatever issue you have with my age, I need you to remember that I got here the same way you did. I worked my ass off to be the pilot I am today, and I donât need someone second-guessing me just because theyâre a little older. Especially when I know what Iâm capable of.âÂ
His frown deepens. âNo, itâitâs not that at all. I justâI didnât see what it was, it was dark, and when you went low...â He drags a hand through his hair. âI couldnât breathe. I thought, what if something happens to her?âÂ
You blink, startled by the raw edge in his voice.Â
âIf anything had gone wrong, it wouldâve been my fault,â he says, softer now. âIâm the WSO. I shouldâve seen it first.âÂ
âBob,â you whisper, stepping closer before you can stop yourself. You can feel the heat radiating off him now. âIf I ever end up in a bad spot, thatâs on me. I trust you to have my back, alwaysâbut itâs my responsibility when I make a call. And I broke off because I knew youâd be there. You and Phoenix, Mav, Hangman... I knew I had the best team in the sky behind me.âÂ
His jaw clenches as his gaze drifts over your face, like heâs trying to memorise every inch.Â
Then he moves closerâclose enough for one of the clips on his suit to catch yoursâand reaches out. His fingers hook gently into the edge of your suitâs hip pocket, tugging you forward just enough to make your breath hitch.Â
âYouâre not just my teammate,â he murmurs. âDonât you get that? I care about you. More than a teammate. More than a friend. IââÂ
âI donât believe it,â a familiar voice cuts through the room. âThe famous Dagger Squad stuck on the graveyard shift? Whatâd you do, lose another bet?âÂ
Bob startles, stepping quickly away from you with bright red cheeks, unnecessarily adjusting his glasses.Â
You turn toward the door, ready to rip into whoever just decided to interrupt the closest youâve ever gotten to Bob... when you realize who it is. Itâs Trevorâan old friend from flight school and one of the newer instructors on NAS. Youâve been meaning to catch up with him, but being in an elite squadron doesnât leave you much time for a social life.Â
âDamn,â you say with a playful smile, âwho let you in the building?âÂ
He steps fully into the room, wearing his signature shit-eating grin. âVex,â he says, voice full of mock disbelief. âYouâre still here? I figured Maverick wouldâve canned your reckless ass by now.âÂ
Jake swivels in his chair to look at you. âSo youâre a renowned little chaos gremlin? Good to know.âÂ
You roll your eyes and step toward your friend. âGuys, this is Trevorâor GrinderâIâve known him since flight school. He gave me my callsign, actually.âÂ
Trevor snorts. âTechnically, Admiral Prescott gave you your callsign. What exactly was it he said again? That youâre a living, breathing vexation whoâs going to be the sole reason for his retirement?âÂ
Jake and Natasha giggle from across the room, and Trevor grins proudly.Â
You narrow your eyes at him. âWant to tell my squad how you got yours?âÂ
He tips his head, brows raised. âMaybe I should get to know them first.âÂ
Then his eyes flick toward Jakeâgrinning, handsome, utterly clueless Jake. Yep. Thatâs the real reason Trevor decided to drop by your squadron building tonight, because he knew Jake âHangmanâ Seresin would be here. The very pilot heâs had a crush on for more months than you care to remember. Heâs been bugging you for ages to introduce them, even though you told himârepeatedlyâthat youâre not sure Jake swings that way. He wasnât deterred though; he said heâs happy to figure it out and see if he can negotiate if not. You just rolled your eyes.Â
âSo, Grinder,â Natasha says, âwhat do you do?âÂ
Trevorâs face lights up and he quickly launches into a long-winded explanation of his new role as a flight instructor. He walks toward her as he talks, inching closer to where Jake is seated not far from Natasha.Â
You turn back to Bob, clearing your throat. âSorry about him. Heâs... a lot. But you were saying...?âÂ
He shakes his head, keeping his eyes fixed on the floor. âNothing. Itâs fine.âÂ
You frown. âIt didnât sound like nothing.â You take a slow step forward. âDidnât feel like... nothing.âÂ
âItâs okay,â he says quickly, his eyes snapping up as he forces a tight smile. âWe can talk later. Really, itâs fine.âÂ
You hesitate, wanting to push but knowing itâs no use nowâthose walls are well and truly back in place.Â
âOkay,â you say, nodding once. âLater.âÂ
-Â
Unfortunately, later never comes.Â
You want to talk to him toward the end of the shift, but youâre both so exhausted after the first night that you canât find the energy to push him for answers. So you let it go and head home.Â
The next night, youâre on opposite hops, which means you donât see him until the debrief in the early morningâwhen, once again, everyone is too wiped out to talk and just wants to wrap up and get home.Â
The rest of the week slips by the same way. Every little thing keeps getting in the way of you and Bob actually talking. Even Thursday night, after a routine hop, when youâre both finally in the ready room and the moment couldnât be more perfectâTrevor bursts in again, and Bob shuts down.Â
When you finally leave base on Friday morningâglaring at the well-rested day-shifters on your way out like itâs their fault youâre dead insideâyou make a promise to yourself. Youâre going to talk to him this weekend. It doesnât matter when or how or if you have to fake an emergency just to get five uninterrupted minutes. Youâre going to do it. Because whatever weird, half-finished thing is hanging between you and Bob has been living rent-free in your head all weekâand honestly, itâs starting to redecorate.Â
âYou sure you donât mind?â Trevor asks, even though heâs already at your door with a duffel bag and a pillow.Â
You roll your eyes. âWhy would I mind?âÂ
He shrugs as he steps into your apartment. âI donât know. Maybe you were planning to invite that gorgeous little blue-eyed lieutenant over.â He throws a cheeky wink over his shoulder. âYou know, the one with the glasses. Iâve seen the way you look at him andâoofâdoes the man know what heâs in for? I mean, he looks at you just the same butâactually, come to think of it⌠why havenât you screwed his brains out yet?âÂ
You shut your eyes and let out a deep sigh. When you open them again, Trevor is already sprawled across your three-seater couch like he owns the place.Â
âFirst of all, heâs not littleâyouâre just freakishly tallâand secondlyâŚâ You step slowly toward the lounge, shoulders sagging in defeat. âHeâs too good.âÂ
Trevor frowns. âToo good? Like⌠too good for you orâ?âÂ
âThat. And heâs respectful,â you say, flopping onto the end of the couch. âHeâs got this thing about our age gap. Itâs not a big one, but itâs⌠there, I guess. Maybe itâs also because weâre in the same squad.âÂ
Trevor watches you, eyes narrowed slightly, expression unreadable.Â
âWow,â he mutters.Â
You frown. âWhatâs that supposed to mean?âÂ
He shrugs. âJust never took you for a quitter.âÂ
You rear back, incredulous. âA quitter?âÂ
âYeah,â he says, tone cool and baiting as he casually searches for the TV remote. âI mean, if I was in love with a guyâwhich, youâre clearly in love with himâI wouldnât stop until he had a restraining order against me.âÂ
You snort. âYeah? Well, I like my job and my squad, soââÂ
He lets out an exasperated sigh. âMy God, Vex. Donât take everything so literally. The manâs in love with you too. Just fucking go for it before your whole squad murders both of you for being whiny dumbasses.âÂ
He finds the remote and flicks the TV on, giving you a very pointed lookâbrows raisedâbefore settling in and scrolling through streaming apps.Â
And God, you hate to admit it, but maybe heâs right. Maybe instead of teasing Bob, you just need to go for it. Cut through the hesitation, stop him from overthinking, and make the damn decision for him.Â
âFine,â you say, standing up with purpose. âIâm going out tonight, by the way.âÂ
âGood,â he replies, not even glancing your way. âJust keep it down if you bring him home. He might look like an uptight officer, but I can tell that man fucks.âÂ
âTrev!âÂ
He chuckles. âWhat? Iâm just saying.âÂ
You roll your eyes, cheeks burning, and storm off toward your room.Â
Tonight, the squad has decided to go bowling. Everyone wanted to shake things up from the usual at The Hard Deck, and the only thing you could all agree on was bowling.Â
Even though you hate the gross bowling shoes that have been worn in by a hundred other peopleâand the sticky holes on the balls after grubby little kids have been shoving their nasty fingers in them.Â
But when Bob mentioned that heâs actually pretty good at bowling⌠well, how could you protest?Â
Plus, itâs still short skirt weatherâBobâs favourite, as youâve come to noticeâand bowling in a tiny skirt feels like a fun, flirty little risk youâre more than willing to take.Â
All in the name of science, of course. And your hypothesis? Bob doesnât stand a chance.Â
At 7PM, Natasha picks you up, shooting a very pointed look at the flowy little sundress youâre wearing under your denim jacket. But she doesnât say a word.Â
The drive to the bowling alley isnât far, and soon youâre walking inside with Mickey and Reubenâwho arrived around the same time. Jake, Bradley, Javy, and Bob are already there. Theyâve got a lane, swapped into their shoes, and Jake is busy squeezing creative versions of everyoneâs callsigns into the limited-character name slot.Â
âCanât you just be âRosterâ?â he asks Bradley.Â
Bradley frowns. âCanât I just be Brad?âÂ
âUgh,â Natasha groans. âNo way. Youâre not a Brad. Just put Roo.âÂ
Jakeâs face lights up like he just solved the mystery of why the sky is blue. âGood one, Phoenix. Thanks.âÂ
âWhat am I?â she asks.Â
âPhone,â Javy replies, deadpan.Â
Natasha blinks. âPhone? As in P-H-O-N-E?âÂ
âYep,â Bradley chuckles.Â
âWhat the fuck, Bagman?â She steps up to the little tablet where heâs typing the names. âMove. Youâre an idiot.âÂ
You stifle a laugh and turn to Mickey and Reuben. âWant to get shoes?âÂ
They both nod, and you head toward the main counterâthough not without catching the way Bobâs eyes drop to your legs, his throat working on a swallow as you walk away.Â
You grab your shoes and rejoin the group, flopping down beside Bob just close enough to make him squirm. Then you lean forward, swapping your Converse for the white, red, and blue striped Velcro bowling shoes.Â
When youâre done, you stand up and put one foot out. âThese shoes are hot. Might have to steal them.âÂ
âYou know what,â Jake says with a smirk, âI think youâre just gorgeous enough to make âem work. What do you think, Bobby?âÂ
You glance down at the man sitting beside you. The poor guy whoâs basically eye-levelâthanks to these ridiculously low seatsâwith your ass. The man whose glasses are just a little foggy by the bridge of his nose as he breathes a bit faster than usual. His cheeks are pink, lips parted, and his eyes are so wideâand so blatantly glued to your short, short skirtâthat you can barely keep from laughing.Â
âBob?â you ask, voice full of faux innocence.Â
He clears his throat, blue eyes flicking up to your face. âY-Yeah. Itâs a nice dress.âÂ
Thereâs a beatâeveryone turns to Bobâand then they all burst out laughing. Mickey curls over, Reuben tips his head back, Jakeâs face twists up, and Natasha has to hold on to Bradleyâs shoulder to keep from falling over.Â
Bob blinks, brow furrowed, looking back at you as the red in his cheeks deepens. âHe wasnâtâwe werenât talking about the dress⌠were we?âÂ
You shake your head, biting back a smile. And with the way heâs looking at youâwide-eyed, breathless, full of heatâyou feel a spark of boldness rise up in your chest.Â
You reach out, pinch his chin between your fingers, and tilt his face up toward you. Then you lean in, slow and teasing, until thereâs barely an inch of air between youâyour voice a soft whisper just for him.Â
âDonât worry, Bobby,â you murmur. âI wore this dress just for you.âÂ
Then you straighten up with a wicked smile, leaving him speechless, blushing, and absolutely wrecked.Â
You resist the urge to look backâeven with all the teasing going on behind youâas you browse the rack of bowling balls. You pick one, mostly for its colour rather than its weight, and carry it over to the ball return where the others have already placed theirs.Â
âWe ready?â Natasha asks, finally tapping âfinishâ on the tablet.Â
The names pop up on the screen above the lane: Roo, Hngmn, Pback, Fboy, Nix, Bob, and Vex.Â
âRooster,â she calls, âyouâre up.âÂ
Bradley steps forward, grabs a ball, and promptly sends it flying into the gutter. Thatâs all it takes. One terrible bowl and the trash talk ignitesâlike gasoline on an open flame.Â
âJesus, Rooster,â Reuben says. âMy nephew could bowl better than that blindfoldedâand heâs six, man.âÂ
âYeah, dude,â Mickey laughs, âyou sure you should be flying jets with that kind of coordination?âÂ
Bradley flips them off before picking up the ball again, dialling in his focus and managing to knock over seven pins on his second try.Â
âAlright, losers,â Jake says, swaggering up to the ball return. âTime to watch how a real man bowls.âÂ
Unfortunately for everyone, Jake is obnoxiously good at bowling and casually lands a spare without breaking a sweat. But then Reuben steps up and nails a strike, which earns him an impressive amount of booing.Â
âWhat can I say?â he grins as he drops back into his seat. âIâm just too good.âÂ
Next up is Mickey, who insists he has a âsignature move that never failsâ. He then immediately wipes himself out and lands on his ass as the ball rolls tragically slow down the lane. It takes everyone a solid few minutes to recover from laughing.Â
Natasha follows, andâwith terrifying precisionâmanages to hit a spare, knocking down a seven-ten split like itâs nothing.Â
âAlright, Baby,â Jake says, clapping a hand on Bobâs shoulder. âYou ready to show us what you got?âÂ
Bob rolls his eyes and shrugs off Jakeâs hand, the corner of his mouth twitching as he stands and heads for the ball return. Youâre not sure if itâs intentional, but the jeans hugging his ass are outrageously distracting, and it takes a considerable amount of effort to look at the pins instead of his backside.Â
By the time you finally manage to drag your eyes down the lane, the pins are already goneâswept clean away as Bob turns around with just the faintest hint of a smug grin.Â
âFuck,â Reuben mutters. âBob can bowl.âÂ
âOh, damn,â Mickey giggles. âGoing after that is gonna suck.âÂ
You shoot him a look as you push out of your seat. âThanks, Mick.âÂ
Bob doesnât sit down right awayâhe steps over to the ball return, picks up your ball, and hands it to you with a soft smile.Â
You take it, intentionally placing half a hand over his. âThanks.âÂ
He nods once, then retreats to where the rest of the squad are waiting.Â
âNeed a little guidance, Vex?â Jake drawls, voice low and smug. âI give excellent hands-on instruction.âÂ
You roll your eyes, sliding your fingers into the holes. âI think Iâd rather roll a gutter ball than have you breathing down my neck, Bagman. But thanks for the offer.âÂ
There's a chorus of oohs behind you as you turn back toward the lane. You step forward, swing the ball back, andâthunkârelease it way too late. Youâre honestly surprised it doesnât leave a dent in the floor. It wobbles down the lane before veering off and sinking into the gutter just before the pins.Â
âDamn,â you sigh, turning around with a sheepish grin. âIâm going to score lower than Rooster.âÂ
There are a few murmured insults about your lack of bowling skill, but you barely hear them. Bob catches your eye, his lips parted like heâs about to say somethingâoffer to help maybeâbut then he just... doesnât.Â
You watch him sink back in his seat as you pick up your ball and turn to the laneâthis time with a bit more intention.Â
Bending lower than strictly necessary, you wiggle your fingers into the ballâs grip and line up your shot with exaggerated focus. The hem of your dress shifts just enough to tease the tops of your thighs, and you donât have to look to know Bobâs watching. You can feel itâthe weight of his stare, the sudden shift in the air like gravity is a pressing down just little harder.Â
You swing the ball back and release with a cleaner motion this time. It rolls straightâmiraculouslyâand clips five pins on the right. Not bad. Not great. But right now, you're more interested in the reaction behind you.Â
When you turn, Bobâs gaze jerks up like heâs been caught red-handed. His lips are parted, cheeks flushed, and he looks absolutely wreckedâlike someone just knocked the wind out of him with a feather.Â
Jake whistles low. âPretty sure what I just witnessed is actually a crime in several states.âÂ
Reuben leans forward, eyes on Bob. âOh, no. I think Bob is broken.âÂ
Mickey snorts. âSomebody reboot him.âÂ
Bob blinks hard, still dazed, and mumbles something under his breath. The rest of the squad continue laughing quietly, their eyes flicking between you and the flustered lieutenantâwho is now very interested in the floor. Â
You smile to yourself as you walk back, fighting the urge to smirk too hard as you drop into the seat beside him.Â
âYou know,â Bradley says as he steps up to the ball return, âif Iâd known this game was about showing as much ass as possible, I wouldâve worn my shortest skirt.âÂ
You roll your eyes and lean back, crossing your arms over your chest. âPlease. You would've blinded everyoneâand thatâs probably the only way you'd have a shot at winning.âÂ
The squad bursts out laughing again while Bradley shoots you an unimpressed glare. Then he grabs his ball, turns toward the lane, and kicks off the next round.Â
You stay quietly pressed to Bobâs side while the others take their turns. And honestly? You donât care if the game ever continues. With his jean-clad thigh snug against your bare one, you could stay right here all night.Â
And Bob doesnât seem eager to move either. He stays close, legs aligned, knees brushing, arm grazing yoursâhis warmth wrapped around you like your favourite blanket.Â
Youâre seconds away from resting your head on his shoulder when Mickey pipes up, announcing that itâs Bobâs turn. He shifts slowly, giving you a soft smile as he stands and walks toward the ball return.Â
This time, instead of watching his ass, your eyes track his hands.Â
Youâve always had a thing for handsâespecially Bobâs. Theyâre just... really nice hands. Big and steady, with long fingers that look like they could touch you in ways that would rewrite your entire understanding of pleasure. Youâve imagined those hands everywhereâghosting over your skin, gripping your thighs, digging bruises into your hips, clawing down your back.Â
Youâve thought about them more than what could ever be considered healthy. You could write poetry about those hands. Recite sonnets. Start a religion.Â
And when those fingers sink into the bowling ball holes?Â
Well, fuck. Thereâs nothing PG about this gameânot when your brain is spiralling into fantasies about all the downright filthy ways that Bob Floyd could ruin you.Â
âHey,â Javy nudges your shoulder, knocking you out of your Bob-induced daydream. âItâs your turn, dude.âÂ
You blink, shaking your head and hoping your blush isnât as obvious as it feels as you push out of your chair and walk up toward where Bob is.Â
âDo youâuh, do you want some help?â he asks, holding your bowling ball in his hands.Â
You fight the grin threatening to break across your face, nodding. âSure.âÂ
âHey!â Jake calls from behind you. âI offered first.âÂ
Reuben snorts. âYeah, but she doesnât want to bone you, does she?âÂ
Both you and Bob ignore them. You take the ball from his hand and move up to the lane, slipping your fingers into the holes and holding it at your chest.Â
âOkay, coach,â you say with a small smirk. âTell me what to do.âÂ
âAlright, here,â he says, voice barely above a whisper as he reaches out and gently takes your wrists.Â
His touch is light, reverent, and it makes your breath catch. He adjusts your hands around the ball, slow and precise, like heâs memorising the shape of you. How warm you are. The way you respond so eagerly to his touch.Â
âFingers like this,â he murmurs. âYou want a solid grip. Not too tight.âÂ
Your heart stutters. His hands are bigâwarm and rough in the best wayâand they settle over yours like they were made to. When he steps closer to correct your stance, his chest brushes your back, and you feel everything. The press of him. The tension in his thighs. The tremble in his exhale.Â
âNow,â he says, gently guiding your arm, âswing back like thisâsmooth, steadyâŚâÂ
You try to follow, but itâs hard to focus when his hands slide down to your hips, positioning them with the lightest squeeze. You swear he groans under his breathâjust barely audible, like heâs suffering.Â
âThatâs⌠yeah. Perfect.âÂ
He freezes.Â
You donât move. Neither does he. His hands are still on your hips, his breath coming faster now, his body just slightly more rigid.Â
And then you feel it.Â
Oh.Â
Oh.Â
You shift your hipsâjust a fractionâand he instantly jerks back like heâs been electrocuted.Â
âShitâuh, yeah, youâyou got it. Youâll do great,â he stammers, voice suddenly strangled and two octaves higher. âIâuhâIâve got toâbathroom. Real quick.âÂ
You turn just in time to see him rush off, pink in the ears, tripping slightly over a chair leg.Â
âWas it something I said?â you call after him sweetly.Â
Jake cackles from the bench. âNah, I think you just short-circuited the poor guy.âÂ
Natasha leans forward, watching Bob disappear down the hallway. âOh no,â she says with a grin. âI think Bob is completely falling apart at this point.âÂ
You grin, still tingling from where his hands touched you, as you turn back toward the lane. You roll the ball and, somehow, end up getting a spareâdespite your brain being completely stuck on Bob... and what exactly had made him bolt so fast.Â
Bradley gets up for his turn as you move dazedly back to your seat, mind hazy with thoughts of how Bob had felt pressed against you.Â
âGod, youâre so gone,â Natasha says with a soft laugh.Â
You roll your eyes, but the dopey smile refuses to budge.Â
âItâs a shame heâs too stupid to do anything about it,â Jake mutters.Â
Natasha shoots him a look. âHeâs not stupid. Heâs cautious.âÂ
Reuben chuckles. âYeah, well, if tonightâs anything to go by, Bobby might be throwing caution to the wind pretty soon.âÂ
You sigh as you sink into one of the low seats. âNot tonight, unfortunately.âÂ
They all look at you, confused.Â
âTrevorâs staying at my place,â you explain simply.Â
The group gaspsâeveryone but Natasha staring at you in disbelief.Â
You frown. âWhat?âÂ
âI thoughtââ Mickey glances around like someone else might back him up. âI thought you only liked Bob.âÂ
You and Natashaâthe only two in this group with any emotional intelligence, apparentlyâexchange a look.Â
âSheâs not into Trevor,â Nat says dryly. âAnd heâs definitely not into her.âÂ
âYeah,â you add. âHeâs gay.âÂ
âLike, very gay,â Natasha says. âLike, into Hangman gay.âÂ
Jakeâs head snaps toward her. âExcuse me?âÂ
âOhhh,â Mickey sighs. âThat makes so much sense.âÂ
Reuben laughs. âIs that why heâs been stopping by every couple nights?âÂ
You laugh too, nodding. âYeah. Heâs been stuck on nights since getting stationed here, and heâs been bugging me to introduce him to Hangman. Thought it was fate when he found out our squad got moved to nights too.âÂ
âExcuse me,â Jake repeats. âWhat exactly makes a man extra gay for being into me?âÂ
The whole group breaks out laughingâBradley included as he returns from taking his turn.Â
âYouâre just... pretty,â Javy says with a shrug.Â
âSo?â Jake throws up his hands. âWhatâs that supposed to mean?âÂ
âItâs a compliment, dude,â Reuben says. âJust take it.âÂ
Jake huffs, but the rest of the group turns back to you.Â
âSo, why is he staying at your place?â Mickey asks.Â
âYeah,â Bradley adds, âand why canât you bring someone home? Itâs your place.âÂ
âHis plumbing at the barracks is all messed up, so I offered him my couch,â you explain, before looking at Bradley. âAnd I could bring someone home, but Iâm pretty sure heâd make it weird. Plus, Iâm not exactly a fan of⌠being quiet.âÂ
Jake tips his head back with a dramatic groan. âGod, why is it always the quiet nerds who get the hot freaky girls?âÂ
You giggle and pat his knee. âOh, Hangman. Youâre delusional if you think Floyd isnât a freak too.âÂ
âUgh,â Natasha groans. âWhy does this feel like youâre talking about my brother?âÂ
âSheâs right, though,â Mickey says, thoughtful. âBobâs got something about him.âÂ
The rest of the squad nods, unspoken agreement passing between them while Jakeâs eyes flick around in horrified disbelief.Â
âWhatâd I miss?â Bob asks, suddenly reappearing at the edge of the group.Â
Everyone falls silent.Â
âHangmanâs stalling,â Natasha says coolly, âbecause he realised heâs going to lose.âÂ
Jake narrows his eyes at her as he stands. âYouâre going down, Trace. This next oneâs a strike.âÂ
He stalks off toward the ball return, and the game resumes.Â
Thankfully, Bob doesnât question the odd look Mickey gives him as he sits down beside you. Only this time, he keeps his distanceâat least an inch between your bodies, careful not to let even the fabric of his shirt brush your arm. He doesnât look at you, either. His gaze stays locked on the lane, watching each turn with intense focus. And he definitely doesnât offer any more hands-on guidance for the rest of the nightâ though the blush on his cheeks stays stubbornly in place.Â
After two games of bowling, a round of hot dogs, and more shit-talking than could possibly be quantified, everyone decides to call it a night. It isnât even that late, but with your wrecked sleep schedules, youâre all starting to feel a little loopy.Â
You swap back into your own shoes, return the bowling pair, duck into the bathroom, and head for the door. Everyone but Bob is already outside, but like the gentleman he is, heâs still insideâwaiting by the claw machine with his nose buried in his phone.Â
âHey, superstar,â you say as you approach. âHowâs it feel to be the best bowler in the squad?âÂ
He glances up with a soft smile. âOne of the best,â he corrects. âI only won the first game.âÂ
You smirk, confidence flooding your gut. âWas it first-game luck or my skirt that threw you off during the second?âÂ
His face flushes bright red, eyes going wide like heâs just been caught in a lie. âIâuh, no, I justââÂ
You roll your eyes playfully. âI was joking, Bob. Calm down.âÂ
He presses his lips together and nods, eyes flicking down to your bare legs for the briefest second before returning to your face.Â
You nod toward the doors. âCome on. Letâs get out of here before the others get suspicious.âÂ
He nods and gestures for you to lead the wayâso you do, swinging your hips just a little extra.Â
He hesitates for a beat, and you can feel his gaze sear into the exposed skin of your legs before he doubles his steps to catch up and walk beside you.Â
âI was wondering,â you say quickly, forcing the words out before you lose your nerve. âDid youâum,â you clear your throat, âwant to hang out tomorrow night?âÂ
He glances at you, blue eyes swimming with something you canât quite place.Â
âJust us,â you clarify, voice dropping. âKind of like⌠a date?âÂ
Thereâs a pause. An awkward pause.Â
The hairs on the back of your neck rise and your stomach twists.Â
âUm,â he drops his gaze to the ground, brows knitting. âIâI canât tomorrow. Iâve gotâI mean, I havenât done laundry like⌠all week with the shift change, and I really need to catch up before Monday.âÂ
Heat floods your face, embarrassment settling heavy and sour in your gut.Â
âIâm sorry,â he mutters, still staring at the floor.Â
You dip your chin and blink hard, swallowing the burn rising behind your eyes. âNo problem,â you say, keeping your voice even. âHope you have fun doing laundry.âÂ
Then you double your pace and slip out the doors, not bothering to hold it open. You cross the parking lot quickly, making a beeline for Natashaâs car without so much as a glance toward the others. You yank the passenger door open, slide in, and slam it shut.Â
- Bob -Â
âWhatâd you do?â Natasha asks, arms crossed and eyes narrowed.Â
Bob takes a slow breath as he drags his eyes up to meet her glare. âNothing,â he mutters.Â
âYeah?â She arches a brow. âSo, Vex will say the same thing when I ask her?âÂ
He pinches the bridge of his nose, rubbing the spot where his glasses sit. âProbably not, Phoenix. But you know what? I donât really feel like explaining myself to you right now, so pleaseâjust drop it.âÂ
She rolls her eyes and lets her arms fall to her sides, keys jingling in one hand. âI really thought you were one of the good ones, Floyd. Iâm a little disappointed.âÂ
Then she turns and mumbles goodbye to the rest of the squadâwho are all watching with wide eyesâbefore walking to her car and climbing into the driverâs seat.Â
Bob can still feel your glare through the windshield, even if the dark night doesnât let him see you clearly inside the car.Â
As soon as Natasha peels out of the lot, Bob feels the shiftâthe boysâ eyes snap toward him.Â
âSo,â Jake says, brows raised, âwhat did you do?âÂ
Bob exhales and leans back against his car, arms crossing over his chest. âShe asked me out,â he says quietly, âand I told her no⌠because I have laundry to do.âÂ
Thereâs a collective intake of breath. The atmosphere sharpens with something unspoken but easily understood: Bob fucked upâbad.Â
âYou what?â Reuben asks, leaning in.Â
Bradley lets out a low chuckle. âHoly shit, Floyd. That was dumb.âÂ
âI know,â Bob huffs.Â
Heâs not sure why he couldnât tell Natasha but has no issue telling the others. Maybe because Natasha was about to get in a car with you and hear the story anywayâso why bother? Or maybe itâs because heâs a little afraid of Nat. And he knows, deep down, that he messed up. He just didnât feel like getting chewed out by his sharp-tongued pilot tonight.Â
âWhy the hell wouldnât you say yes?â Jake frowns. âSheâs so into youâitâs almost a joke. And sheâs gorgeous. Who cares about the age gap?âÂ
Bobâs eyes snap toward him, brow furrowed. âYouâre the one who always has something to say about it. You literally call me a cradle-snatcher, like⌠once a week.âÂ
Jake rolls his eyes. âBecause itâs fun to get a rise out of you. I donât actually mean it.âÂ
âYeah, dude,â Javy adds. âIf we thought it was wrong, weâd say something. We make fun of you both because itâs obvious youâre obsessed with each other.âÂ
âHonestly,â Mickey pipes up, âI thought you two were already dating and just keeping it from us.âÂ
Bob buries his face in his hands, the heat in his cheeks burning against his palms. âFor fuckâs sake.âÂ
âOh, wow,â Reuben mutters. âBob just swore.âÂ
Bradley drops a hand on Bobâs shoulder. âMaybe you should call her. OrâI donât knowâgo see her tomorrow. Apologise. You donât have to date her, but if thatâs how you feel, you need to be clear. Donât lead her on. And you definitely owe her an apology for that shitty laundry excuse.âÂ
Bob nods slowly, letting his hands drop. âYeah. I know.âÂ
Mickey chuckles, pulling his keys from his pocket. âGood luck, dude.âÂ
They all say their goodbyes and head for their cars, leaving Bob still leaning against the side of his own, a far-off look in his eyes and guilt twisting in his chest.Â
He barely sleeps that night.Â
Every time he closes his eyes, he sees the profile of your face after he said noâthe way your eyes glossed over, your jaw clenched, and your lips pressed into a thin, unshakable line. The memory cuts through him like a blade.Â
He hates the thought of hurting you. But more than that, he hates himselfâbecause he knows he did. He knows you cried, whether it happened in the car or the moment you got home. Either way, the result is the sameâhe made you cry. And that thought alone makes him feel sick.Â
Before the sun even rises, heâs out of bed. Sleep abandoned, guilt gnawing at his insides, he laces up his shoes and goes for a runâtrying to outrun the tight knot in his chest. He knows heâll have to sleep later and stay up again tonight, thanks to another stretch of night shifts. But that doesnât matter. What matters is talking to you. This morning. If youâll even let him.Â
After his run, sweat still cooling on his skin, he finally works up the nerve to text you: âHey, sorry about last night. Are you free this morning?âÂ
An hour passes. Nothing.Â
And he knows youâre ignoring himâbecause youâve reacted to a couple of messages in the group chat. Youâre awake. Youâre just not answering him. And honestly, he doesnât blame you.Â
By ten oâclock, he canât stand it anymore.Â
The ache in his chest is unbearable. His head is pounding. The guilt in his stomach is curling tighter with every passing second. But itâs not just guilt. Itâs not just the regret of hurting a friendâs feelings.Â
Itâs worseâbecause itâs you.Â
Youâre his favourite person in the whole damn world. He can admit that now. You make him laugh. You make him feel like himself. And as much as heâs tried not to need you⌠he does. Desperately.Â
The age gap isnât the real problemâit never was. Maybe itâs just an excuse, something to hide behind because deep down, he doesnât think he deserves you. But thatâs not good enough anymore. He has to fix this. Even if you never forgive him, even if things canât go back to how they wereâhe has to try.Â
Because Robert Floyd knows now, without a doubt, that heâs in love with you.Â
And God, he hopes he can say it out loudâbecause it might be the only thing that can save him now.Â
Before Bob even knows exactly how heâs going to say everything thatâs been spinning through his head, heâs already outside your apartment building. He knows where it is because he helped you move in after the Dagger Squad was made a permanent unit at North Island.Â
He still thinks about that day, too. About the exercise tights you woreâhow they clung to your ass like a second skin. About the loose tee you eventually peeled off because you were overheating, leaving you in nothing but a sports bra. And when you finally took a break, beer in hand on your new balcony, he watched you cool down⌠and watched your nipples pebble beneath the Lycra fabric.Â
Bob felt like a total creep that day, but that hasnât stopped him fromârepeatedlyâgetting off to the memory of you on that balcony. Cheeks pink, lips wet with beer, eyes so wide and innocent, even though heâs pretty sure you knew exactly what you were doing to himâŚÂ
He shakes his head and forces his feet to moveâinto the building, into the elevator, and up to your floor. The hallway feels both way too long and not nearly long enough as he approaches your door. Then, with a deep breath, he raises his hand and knocks three times.Â
His heart is caught in his throat, hammering like itâs trying to escape. Heâs felt pressure in the cockpit, but nothing like this. This is worse than pulling 8 Gs.Â
The door swings open, and he opens his mouth to immediately beg you to hear him outâbut⌠itâs not you.Â
âBob,â Trevor says with a sleepy grin and a wicked glint in his eye. âWhat a surprise to see you here.âÂ
His hairâs a mess, his cheeks are flushed, and his eyes are half-lidded. He looks like he either just woke up⌠or just got done doing something naked and personal with someone else. Which might explain why heâs shirtless, wearing nothing but a crooked pair of boxers thatâat least in Bobâs opinionâarenât leaving much to the imagination.Â
âIâuh, Trevor?âÂ
Trevor nods, brow furrowing slightly. âThe one and only. You good, man? You look like youâve seen a ghost.âÂ
Bob wishes it were a ghost. Because what heâs seeing right now is ten times more horrifying than anything spooky or undead.Â
He clears his throat. âY-Yeah, Iâm good. I justâum, I was going to ask Vex ifââÂ
âWho is it?â you call groggily from deeper inside the apartment, your voice thick with sleep.Â
Trevor smirks over his shoulder. âFloyd!âÂ
âWhat?âÂ
He nudges the door open a little wider, revealing you in nothing but an oversized U.S. Navy tee. Your hair is mussed, your cheeks are flushed, and your eyes are narrowedâdefinitely not surprised. Just⌠pissed.Â
âWhat are you doing here?â you ask, arms crossed tight against your chest.Â
Bob stares, wide-eyed. Youâre not shocked. Youâre not flustered. You're still mad. How could you still be mad at him now?Â
âIâuh, wellââ He shakes his head and steps back, his stomach swirling nauseously. âNothing. Itâs fine. Justâforget it. You two have fun.âÂ
Then he turns on his heel and practically jogs down the hall, mashing the elevator button hard enough to hurt. He can hear your voice behind him, Trevorâs too, but he doesnât care. He doesnât want to care. He just wants to get the hell out of here before he goddamn cries over the fact that the woman he loves just jumped into bed with the next guy right after he turned her down.Â
Does he have any right to be this angry? Probably not. But stillâwhy couldnât you see it from his point of view? Why couldnât you understand he was just⌠hesitant? That he needed some time to wrap his head around it?Â
But no. You couldnât be patient. You couldnât wait.Â
Because maybe youâre not as into him as everyone keeps saying. Maybe you never were.Â
God, he shouldâve known. He should have known it was too good to be true. Why would someone like you want someone like him? And why would you waste your time waitingâwhen you could have just about any man you wanted?Â
- You -Â
âWhat was that about?â Trevor asks, his head still half-stuck out the door like Bob might suddenly come back.Â
You drop onto the couch, shoving aside the blanket Trevor had been using. âDonât know,â you mutter. âMaybe he was thinking about apologising for being a jerk, but then decided to just keep being one.âÂ
Trevor turns to you with a puzzled frown. âWhat?âÂ
âYou heard me.âÂ
He shuts the door and walks slowly toward to the lounge. âYeah, but I didnât understand you. Whatâs with the attitude?âÂ
You sigh, rolling your eyes. âI asked him out last night.âÂ
Trevor gaspsâloudly.Â
âBut he said no.âÂ
He rears back, brows drawn. âWhat? Why?âÂ
âBecause he has laundry to do.âÂ
Trevorâs eyes go wide, his mouth falling open. âNo.âÂ
âYup,â you mutter, sinking deeper into the cushions. âThatâs what the attitude is for.âÂ
He nods slowly, still staring. âRight⌠but then why did he show up here?âÂ
You shrug. âMaybe to apologise. Or maybe he was going to let me down for good. Tell me to stop flirting with him, or whatever.âÂ
Trevor frowns again, his eyes glazing over like he's lost in thought.Â
You nudge his knee with your foot. âWhatâs that look for?âÂ
âNothing,â he says quickly, though the curiosity stays fixed on his face.Â
âTrevorâŚâÂ
He exhales a short breath. âI meanâdo you think he thought⌠you and IâŚ? You know?â He gestures vaguely between the two of you. âHe knows Iâm gay, right?âÂ
You snort. âYes, Grinder. Bob Floyd, along with all of North Island, is very aware that youâre gay. I was literally talking about it with the squad last night.âÂ
He nods. âGood. âCause if he didnât, me opening the door shirtless and you in that ridiculously oversized tee mightâve looked real bad.âÂ
You barely hear him as he continues to rant about men and miscommunication. Instead, you flick on the TV, letting the background noise of old cartoon reruns wash over you while the memory of last night replays on loop.Â
You let yourself feel itâlet your chest ache with itâand hope itâs enough to kill off this stupid crush once and for all.Â
But deep down, you know the truth.Â
Whatever this is, it stopped being just a crush a while ago.Â
And youâre starting to fear that maybeâjust maybeâyouâve accidentally fallen in love with Bob Floyd.Â
You spend the rest of the day sulking on the couch like itâs your full-time job, while Trevor obliterates your kitchen trying to make homemade macarons to âcheer you up.â Normally, youâd be in there with him, correcting his technique and keeping the apartment from burning down, but not today. Today, youâre tired and heartbroken.Â
The two of you stay up late trying to adjust to the coming week of night shifts, but by two a.m. youâre passed out on the lounge⌠and promptly woken at four by Trevorâs snoring. Thatâs when you give up, throw on your shoes, and go for a runâhoping to burn through enough energy to sleep through the day before shift.Â
Trevor is gone by the time your alarm goes off at eight p.m., giving you an hour to tidy the apartment before showering and heading off to base. You stopped living on base when the Dagger Squad was made permanent at North Island, same as most of the others. Itâs nice not having to share bathrooms or constantly wonder whether youâre going to get all your socks back from the laundry room. But youâd be lying if you said you didnât miss running into your friends all the timeârunning into Bob.Â
The sky is dark and the base is quiet as you park your car and make your way to the squadron building. Your stomach twists nervously at the thought of seeing not just Bob, but your whole squad. You know theyâd all know by nowâthat you asked Bob out and he shut you down.Â
Honestly, you wouldnât even be surprised if Maverick knew.Â
âHey,â Natasha says, meeting you by the stairs before you enter the briefing room.Â
You give her a tight smile.Â
âFeeling any better?âÂ
You shake your head, lips still pulled into a watery smile as you push the door open.Â
Bob is already in his usual seatâbecause of course he isâbut he doesnât look up when you walk in. He doesnât give you that soft smile he usually does whenever he sees you.Â
Instead, he keeps his eyes locked on the lid of his travel mug, jaw tight as he flicks the little tab open and closed.Â
Natasha gives you a sidelong glance, her brows drawn curiously. She knows what happenedâyou told herâbut you havenât yet filled her in on the part where he showed up at your apartment and then left in a hurry.Â
You shake your head, giving her a silent look that says youâll fill her in later. Then you turn and make your way to the back of the room, sinking into one of the furthest possible chairs from where Bob is seated.Â
It isnât long before Maverick walks in and starts the briefing. He rambles on about a possible mission on the horizon, which means upcoming hops and drills are going to be more purpose-driven. He wants to work closely with the WSOs, having them and their pilots fly point to spot anything the night might hide from the F/A-18E drivers.Â
Youâre not particularly bothered by that, because after tonight, the rest of your hops are scheduled with Reuben and Mickey. Which means you only have to deal with Bob for one night. Just one. You only have to pretend to listen to him for one night. Then you get almost a full weekâs reprieve.Â
âAlright,â Maverick says, shutting his notebook. âPhoenix, Bob, Hangman, Vexâyouâre on deck. The rest of you, head to the ready room.âÂ
Everyone shuffles out, the group splitting down the corridor as half of you head outside and the other half veer toward the ready room.Â
You let Natasha and Bob take the lead, half-listening to Jake whine about how much he hates NVGs and how night shifts ruin his gym schedule.Â
Then the cart ride is silentâtension so thick that even Maverick doesnât bother breaking it.Â
Once at the hangar, you start gearing up and going through the motionsâchatting with ground crew, checking your jet, adjusting your equipment, running internals. You wait until itâs your turn to be taxied out, then climb into the cockpit and try to settle your nerves.Â
You take a deep breath and call on every ounce of focus and maturity you have just to stop yourself from shutting off comms. You might be pissed right now, but this is your job. The job you worked way too hard for to let some ridiculously gorgeous lieutenant break your heart badly enough to get you grounded.Â
Tonight, the sky is clear but moonlessâthe darkness heavier than usual. You check your instruments twiceâthree timesâand remind yourself itâs just another hop. Youâve done this a thousand times before.Â
But still, your hands stay tight on the controls.Â
You fly in relative radio silence for the first twenty minutes, squinting through slightly misaligned NVGs. Youâd fiddled with them on the ground until you gave up and told yourself your vision was good enough. Itâs quieter than usual, and youâre not sure if thatâs because no one has anything to sayâor because the night feels eerily still.Â
Natasha and Bob are flying point, with you and Jake in the second element. Maverick is out here too, but only observingâwatching closely as you run a low-level, terrain-following route meant to simulate a high-risk strike.Â
Youâve done this kind of thing a hundred times, even at night. But something about this hop feels off. Or maybe itâs just you, flying like youâve got something to proveâto yourself, or to someone else. You havenât decided yet.Â
Then Bobâs voice crackles through the comms, steady and low. âVex, youâre a little wide on your spacing.âÂ
You donât answer, but you adjustâbarely.Â
âMaintain visual, Vex,â Natasha adds, voice firm. âDonât ride solo tonight.âÂ
You bite the inside of your cheek and flick your radio toggle. âCopy.âÂ
You fall back into formation as the terrain-following manoeuvres beginâtight dips, sweeping curves, a mock run on radar targets ahead. You lock in, gripping the stick, head tipped forward, forcing your focus to drown out the simmering frustration.Â
Itâs not an easy run, but youâve done it before. You know the tricky spots, and youâre watching out for your team, flying just a little closer than whatâs usually comfortable. Youâd be flying almost perfectlyâif it werenât for Bobâs corrections crackling through the radio. His voice in your ear every few minutes, low and steady. Commanding. Itâs making your skin crawl and your pulse race.Â
You know youâre better than this. Youâve trained to handle the worst. To stay sharp pulling 10 Gs, to keep cool weaving through canyons at Mach 2. And yet somehow, Bob Floydâs maddeningly smooth voice telling you and Jake how not to crash is whatâs making you consider pulling the damn ejection handle.Â
âVex, youâve got a ridge coming up,â Bob says, his tone sharper now, more urgent. âDrop throttle. Adjust heading five degrees right.âÂ
You hesitate. Your altimeter says youâre good, and your gut says youâre fine. You thinkâno, you knowâyou can hold it.Â
âVexââ he tries again.Â
âIâve got it,â you snap, breathless as you press on, trying to hold your line.Â
Jake cuts in with something sharp, but you donât catch itâbecause suddenly the warning tone in your headset screams.Â
Your heart lurches.Â
Terrain. Too close. Too fast.Â
âPull up! Pull up!â Bobâs voice slices through the comms. âVex, youâre too low!âÂ
You grit your teeth, trying to correct, trying to climbâbut itâs too dark, too fast. Everything is a blur.Â
âVex, listen to meâpull up!â His voice cracks. âYouâre going to hitââÂ
âEject!â Maverick shouts, raw panic in his tone. âVex, eject now!âÂ
âI can save it,â you mutter, voice strained. âI canâ"Â
Then you see it. A flash of jagged terrain through the cockpit glassâa dark silhouette where there should be sky. And in that split second, the truth hits you like a punch to the chest.Â
Youâre not going to make it.Â
Your hand flies to the ejection handle, pulling it hard.Â
The canopy blasts away with a deafening crack, wind slamming into you like a freight train. The violent jolt of the seat launches you skyward, your body wrenched into the dark as the jet disappears in a blur of motion below.Â
Thenâfreefall.Â
The sky spins. The world tilts. The parachute deploys with a brutal yank that rattles your spine.Â
But youâre too low. Far too low.Â
You donât even have time to brace.Â
You hit the ground hardâa bone-snapping impact that knocks every breath from your lungs. The force slams through your leg with a sickening pop.Â
White-hot pain detonates through you.Â
Your vision flashes. Your stomach turns. You canât even scream.Â
And then⌠everything goes still.Â
Muted.Â
Quiet.Â
Like the world took a breathâand left you behind.Â
-Â
You wake to the steady beep of a monitor. Your eyelids are heavy, your mouth is dry, and thereâs pain everywhere. Itâs not as excruciating as it had been right before you blacked out, but itâs thereâdull and throbbing, a bitter reminder of what had happened when you ejected from your jet.Â
It feels like it was only seconds ago, but you know better than that. Youâre not that out of it.Â
The sharp sting of antiseptic hits your nose. There are low murmurs nearby, the shuffle of feet across tile, and the distant sounds of other beeping machines. Even before you manage to open your eyes, you knowâyouâre in a hospital.Â
The white and blue walls are almost blinding, but after a few sticky blinks, your vision finally sharpens. You roll your tongue against the roof of your mouth, searching for moisture.Â
You tryâand failâto sit up. Your body is too heavy against the crunchy hospital pillows, and your right leg is pinned down even more by a thick black-and-white brace.Â
âOw,â you mutter, voice hoarse and barely audible.Â
Thereâs a sudden gasp beside you, then a quick shuffle of movement.Â
A warm hand wraps around yours as dark blue eyes swim into focus above you, wide and full of concernârimmed red, with deep purple shadows underneath.Â
âYouâre awake,â he says, voice rough before he clears his throat, like he's trying to swallow down something heavier.Â
âBob,â you whisper, lips cracking as they stretch into a soft smile.Â
He doesnât say anything. He just looks at you. His face is pale, exhaustion carved into every line, his eyes scanning your face like heâs trying to memorise it. Or maybeâtrying to recognise it. Because whatever softness was there fades fast, replaced by something harder. His lips flatten into a thin line. His hand tightens around yours⌠then lets go.Â
He stands straight, jaw clenched, and turns to the wall to press the nurse call button.Â
You frown, but before you can speakâif you even could with how dry your mouth isâa nurse rushes in.Â
âOh, youâre awake!â she says brightly, green eyes lighting up as she stops beside the bed. âHow are you feeling?âÂ
You clear your throat. âThirsty.âÂ
She nods and quickly wheels the little table over, pouring water from the pitcher into a small plastic cup. She then hands it to you before using the bed remote to ease you into a more upright position.Â
âThanks,â you rasp after a few sips, your voice clearer now.Â
The nurse smiles softly, her eyes flicking between you and Bob. âHe didnât leave your side. Not for a second.âÂ
You turn to look at him, but all traces of warmth are gone. He looks almost angry, his gaze fixed straight aheadânot at you or the nurse, but at the wall. His jaw is tight, his shoulders tense, and his hands are clearly balled into fists in his pockets.Â
Heâs still in his flight suit, which means heâs been with you since the second search and rescue found you.Â
âIâll give you two a minute,â the nurse says. âIâm just going to grab the doctor, alright?âÂ
You nod, not even looking at her, and she shuffles out of the room, swinging the door half shut on her way.Â
Bobâs eyes flick to you. âAre you in pain?âÂ
You shift slightly, the dull throb in your leg pulsing back to life. âYeah,â you wince. âA little. But itâs bearable.âÂ
He doesnât move. His whole body is tense, only his eyes locked on youâsharp and unrelenting.Â
âYou have a hairline fracture in your femur,â he says.Â
You glance down at the brace wrapped around your leg.Â
âYouâre lucky it wasnât a full break,â he adds. âYouâd have been grounded for at least six monthsâor longer. Probably wouldâve had to requalify, if you even got cleared again.âÂ
You swallow hard. Heâs angryâreally angry. The way heâs looking at you, itâs like heâs torn between wrapping you in his arms or walking out the door and never looking back.Â
âYou didnât listen,â he says, voice cracking as he takes a step forward. âYou were supposed to listen to me, and you didnât. IâI told you just last week that if something happened, it would be my fault.âÂ
Tears sting your eyes, blurring your vision. âThis isnât yourââÂ
âNo,â he snaps. âItâs not. This is your fault. Because you were reckless, and cocky, and too caught up in your own shit to listen to a perfectly sound call from your WSO.âÂ
You blink, warm tears slipping down your cheek. âBob, IââÂ
âDonât,â he says, voice low and raw. âDonât say my name like that. Donât look at me like Iâm the only person you want to see right now.â He lets out a shaky breath, dragging a hand through his hair. âIâve been here for two days. I havenât slept. I havenât eaten. You scared the shit out of me. I thought you were dead. You went down so fast, youâyouââÂ
The door swings open and a middle-aged woman with white-blonde hair pulled into a tight bun steps in. âLieutenants,â she greets briskly. âSorry to interrupt, but there are a few things we need to go over.âÂ
Bob straightens immediately. âThank you, Doctor. Iâll be leaving now.âÂ
Her brows knit together, but she doesnât stop him as he turns and walks out.Â
His footsteps are heavy. Forced. Like itâs taking everything heâs got to walk away and not look back.Â
After a whirlwind of doctors, nurses, and a long debrief with the flight surgeon, you're finally discharged. You canât driveâof courseâso they pack you into a general escort car with your leg still in the brace and a pair of crutches tossed in beside you. Fantastic.Â
Once youâre home, you collapse into bed and immediately pass out. But itâs not exactly restful. Your brain wonât shut offâwonât stop replaying the way Bob looked at you, the anger in his voice, the exhaustion written all over his face. How he never left your side. How he still hasnât responded to your text thanking him for staying. Or the one where you apologised for not listening to him in the air.Â
You want to talk to him. Need to talk to him. Because you're not planning on staying grounded forever, and when youâre back on your feet, youâre not transferring out. The Dagger Squad isnât just a group of friendsâtheyâre your family. Bob included. In a completely non-incestuous way, obviously. Even though there are definitely some things youâd like to do to him that would make a family dinner wildly uncomfortable.Â
But first, he has to reply. He has to acknowledge that you exist.Â
When you wake again, itâs dark, and your phone is lit up with a flood of messages from the team. You take your time replying to each one, then hobble into the bathroom, ditch the brace, and take the hottest, longest shower your body can tolerate.Â
The next few hours are spent on the couch, anxiously watching the clock until Natasha finally texts you to say theyâve been dismissed. Which means Bob is off. Which means he has no excuse.Â
But stillânothing. You call. He doesnât answer. Then Natasha texts again to let you know she watched him decline it.Â
Great. Another win.Â
Two whole days pass, and still no word.Â
Youâre supposed to be on bed rest for two weeks before the flight surgeon clears you for light duties, but youâre going stir-crazy. With the squad on night shifts and your circadian rhythm completely fucked, you havenât spoken to anyone but Trevorâonce, over the phoneâin forty-eight hours. Unless you count text messages, which you donât.Â
All you want is to talk to Bob. Ask him why the hell he came to your house that day. Why he was so pissed at you that night. And why he thinks itâs okay to spend two full days sitting beside your hospital bed and then just vanish like none of it happened.Â
At this point, you donât even care if he professes his undying love for youâthough youâd strongly prefer itâyou just want an explanation. You want to know what you did to hurt him so badly, and how to make it right. Because more than anything, you need him. And if friendship is the only version of him youâre allowed to have... then youâll take it.Â
Even if it kills you.Â
By the third day⌠or nightâyouâre not even sure anymoreâyou decide to take matters into your own hands.Â
Your alarm blares at four a.m., an hour before you know the squad will be dismissed, and you wriggle out of bed and into a loose pair of sweatpants before securing your brace over the top. Then you tug on your stupidly oversized U.S. Navy shirt, grab your crutches, and hobble out the door.Â
You know where Bob livesâin the least creepy way possibleâbecause you all moved out of the barracks around the same time, and you helped each other move. So, you call an Uber, hauling your injured self into the back seat with grim determination and only a small amount of whining.Â
Itâs barely a ten-minute drive, which gives you about half an hour to crutch your way up the fire stairsâbecause of course the elevator requires a swipe cardâto his apartment.Â
You know itâs ridiculous. You couldâve just waited in the lobby. But you donât want to give him the chance to run awayâagain, in the least creepy way possible. The plan is to corner him at his apartment door, and maybe guilt-trip him a little with how much effort it took just for you to get there. At the very least, heâd have to escort you back down to the lobby with his swipe card⌠and maybe you could âaccidentallyâ sabotage the lift so it broke down. Then heâd be stuck with you.Â
Jesus. Thirty-six hours alone and youâre already in full-blown serial killer mode.Â
It takes twenty minutes to reach his floor, with plenty of breaks along the way, but eventually, you make it. You hobble down the hallway and lean against his door, dropping your head back with a soft thunk.Â
Not even a minute later, Natasha texts you to say theyâve been dismissedâbecause of course you filled her in on your plan.Â
And then you wait. With a racing pulse, a throbbing leg, and about a thousand thoughts spiralling through your brain. You wait.Â
At one point, a neighbour emerges from a nearby door, startling you. They give you a deeply dubious look before slipping into the elevator, and you make a mental note to tell Bob that they might warn him about a crazy, broken-legged woman lurking outside his apartment.Â
Your breathing picks up as the minutes passâfaster and faster until it feels impossible to catch. You feel dizzy, like you might pass out just waiting for him. But thenâding.Â
The elevator doors slide open, and Bob steps out.Â
Seeing him for the first time in three days shouldnât feel like a religious experienceâbut it fucking does. God, he looks good. Even sleep-deprived, rumpled, and sporting messy helmet hair, heâs a walking wet dream in a flight suit deliberately designed for your destruction.Â
âHey,â you say quietly, not wanting to startle him.Â
He jumps anywayâjust a little. His feet still, eyes widening behind his glasses, brows pulling together.Â
âWhat are you doing here?âÂ
You push off the door, steadying yourself on your crutches. âGood to see you too,â you say dryly. âIâve been alright. A little lonely, borderline insane. My legâs killing me after a thousand stairs. But heyâyou look... tired. Howâs the squad?âÂ
He studies you for a moment. His frown softens, and you swear the corner of his mouth twitches.Â
âI am tired,â he says. âThe squadâs fine. Also tired.âÂ
You nod. âCool. So... everyoneâs tired.âÂ
He pulls his keys from his pocket and starts walking toward you, closing the distance.Â
âThat all you came to talk about?â he asks.Â
You roll your eyes and shuffle aside. âWhat do you think?âÂ
He sighs. âI think Iâm not going straight to bed anymore.âÂ
The door swings inward and he steps through, holding it open for youâwide as possible.Â
âThat would be correct,â you say, flashing a grin as you hobble inside.Â
He shuts the door behind you and slides the chain lock into place.Â
You try not to appear as awkward as you feel, but crutches arenât exactly gracefulâand you havenât had much practice. You make your way past the kitchen toward the small living room, where a plush cream sofa waits with perfectly fluffed pillows and a decorative throw draped neatly over the back. Youâre just about to drop onto it when a warm hand catches your elbow.Â
âHere,â he says softly, his other hand reaching to take the crutches from you.Â
Heâs so close you can feel his warmth. You catch his scentâclean linen, a hint of jet fuel, and something subtle and spicy thatâs so unmistakably him.Â
âThanks,â you murmur, eyes locked on his lips.Â
He helps ease you down slowly onto the couch before straightening and setting your crutches aside, leaning them against the wall beside the TV cabinet.Â
âLet me just get changed,â he says, already turning toward his bedroom without a second glance.Â
Heâs gone less than a minute. When he returns, heâs wearing dark blue joggers and a white sleep shirt worn so thin itâs almost translucent.Â
âWater?â he asks, detouring into the kitchen.Â
You shake your head. âIâm goodâbut thanks.âÂ
Heâs stalling. You know it. But you can be patient.Â
He pours himself a glass, drains it, then pours another before finally making his way back into the living room. He sits at the very end of the chaise loungeâabout as far from you as possible.Â
âOkay,â he says. âYou want to talk?âÂ
You nod, adjusting your posture even though you're already stiff with nerves.Â
âLook,â you begin, eyes dropping to your lap. âI know why youâre mad about the accidentâI get it. It was stupid. I was reckless. I deserve to be in this stupid brace. I shouldnât have ignored you, and I shouldnât have let personal shit bleed into work. Iâm sorry.âÂ
You glance up, but he doesnât reactâdoesnât move. He just blinks.Â
Still, you press on. âIf I could go back, I would. If there was anything I could do to make it up to youâor the squadâIâd do it. But weâre here now, I feel like shit, and the accident is on my record. Iâm just glad none of you, or Mav, are in trouble because of me.âÂ
Heâs still silent, but you can see it nowâhis eyes keep flicking down to your shirt, his frown darkening each time.Â
âWhat I donât get,â you say, your voice tightening, âis why you were already mad that night. Why you came to my apartment that morning but ran off withoutââÂ
âThatâs irrelevant,â he cuts in, voice lowâlethal.Â
You frown. âWhat do you mean irrelevant? The whole reason I was in a bad mood that night is because you rejected me and then acted like I did something wrong.âÂ
His eyes widen. âOh, so itâs my fault now? That what youâre saying?âÂ
âNo,â you snap. âOf course not. God, Bob, none of this is your fault. Itâs mine. Itâs all mine. I was the idiot who asked you out, the idiot who got mad when you said no, and the idiot who let it affect her at work. Iâm not blaming you. I just want to understand.âÂ
He takes an infuriatingly calm sip of water, gaze still fixed on your torso.Â
âYou want to know why I said no when you asked me out?âÂ
You shake your head. âI know why you said no.âÂ
His brow creases. âYou do?âÂ
You sigh, eyes falling to your fingers as they toy with the hem of your shirt. âBecause you donât like me. Thatâs it. And I need to accept that. I shouldnât have pushed it, or forced myself on you, andââÂ
He scoffsâsharp and dryâcutting you off. âYouâre joking, right?âÂ
You look up, blinking slowly. âUm⌠no. Not really.âÂ
His laugh is sharpâbitter and crackedâso not Bob.Â
âYou think I donât like you?â he says, voice risingâunsteady now. âAre you insane?âÂ
He stands suddenly, running a hand through his hair as if trying to keep himself from flying apart.Â
âI have never cared about anyone the way I care about you. You are the only damn thing I think about. I canât sleep, Iâm not hungry, I canât focusâI just want you. All the time. Do you know how maddening that is?â His eyes are wild when they meet yours. âAnd yeah, I said no when you asked me out, but that wasnât because I didnât want to. God, I wanted to. I wanted to say yes so badly it hurt. But I was scared.âÂ
He paces now, voice building like the pressure in a cockpit.Â
âIt wasnât about your ageâthat was just a dumb excuse. It was you. Youâre gorgeous, youâre smart, youâre funny, and youâre so sharp. You walk into a room and everything shifts. And I kept thinking, how the hell does someone like you want someone like me?âÂ
His voice cracks, and he stops pacing, facing you full on. âSo yeah. I panicked. I said no. And the second you walked away, I regretted it. I hated myself for it. And that morningâI came to tell you. I was ready to throw it all on the table.â He swallows hard, jaw flexing. âBut then he answered the door. Like he lived there. Like he belonged. And youââÂ
He gestures at you, helpless. His eyesâdark blue and burningâshine with the storm heâs been holding back.Â
âYou just stood there. In his shirt. Like you hadnât just ripped my heart out and stepped over it. Like I was nothing. Like Iâd missed my shot and youâd already moved on.â His voice dipsâraw now. âAnd now? Youâre here. In the same goddamn shirt.âÂ
He laughs again, broken this time.Â
âAnd I know I had no right to be angry. I know it. But Jesus Christ, do you have any idea how fucking hard it is to look at the woman you love knowing youâre the one who ruined it? Who let her go?âÂ
Heâs panting now, standing between the couch and the coffee table with wild eyes and flushed cheeks. Just looking at you. Waiting.Â
You swallow hard, blinking fast to keep the tears from falling. Your pulse is racing, pounding in your ears like a war drum. You can feel your heart hammering against your ribs, threatening to break bone. You canât breathe. You can barely think. Thereâs only one word echoing in your head.Â
âLove?â you whisper.Â
He rubs his hands down his face, letting out a shaky breath.Â
âYes. Love.â His arms drop to his sides as he meets your eyes again. âI love you.âÂ
Your heart lurches into your throat.Â
âBut that doesnât change anything,â he adds quickly, dropping onto the couchâcloser this time, close enough that his knee brushes yours. âI donât expect it to change anything. I let you down, and you moved on. You had every right to. I should never have been angry about itâand for that, Iâm sorry. JustâŚâ He sighs again. âJust give me some time, okay? Just let meââÂ
âTrevorâs gay,â you blurt, louder than you mean to.Â
He blinks. âWhat?âÂ
âGay,â you repeat. âHeâs gay. Like, so incredibly gay heâs into Hangman.âÂ
Bobâs lips part, a soft breath slipping out.Â
You lean forward, brows drawn tight. âHis callsign is Grinder. I mean, yesâpartly because heâs a hard workerâbut mostly because he got caught on Grindr before a briefing once and... it just stuck. ButâBob, I thought you knewââ You cut yourself off, eyes going wide. âOh my God. You were in the bathroom when I told the squad.âÂ
The room falls into a heavy, eerie silence.Â
The air between you cracklesâso thick, so charged, the smallest spark could burn the whole damn building down.Â
âHangman?â he whispers, nose scrunching just slightly.Â
You nod. âHangman.âÂ
He blinks slowly, wide eyes swimming with emotion. âSo, you didnâtââÂ
âNo,â you snap, frustration flaring hot beneath your skin. âIs that what you thought? That I asked you out, and when you said no I just ran off to find the nearest guy whoâd fuck me?âÂ
He cringesâactually cringes. âThatâs just how it looked, IââÂ
âSo you assumed?â you cut in, voice sharp. âYou didnât even ask. You just decided to get all broody and jealous and pissed off, even though youâre the one who rejected me?âÂ
You want to pace like he did, storm out, slam a door, somethingâbut you can't. Not with your stupid leg.Â
âI know I had no right,â he mutters.Â
âDamn straight you didnât,â you bite out. âYou think Iâd do that? You think Iâd throw myself at someone else just because you said no? Jesus, Bob, Iâm looking at a decade-long mourning period after you. Iâm in love with you. Do you really think I could move on? Ever? Let alone the next fuckingââÂ
His mouth is on yours before the word leaves your lips.Â
Itâs not a kissâitâs a collision. A detonation. A goddamn freefall.Â
His hands are in your hair, on your jaw, trembling as they try to hold you steady while his lips crash into yours with blistering need. Itâs hot and desperate and unrestrained, all teeth and tongue and pent-up ache, every ounce of frustration and longing heâs carried igniting in a single breathless second.Â
You gasp, shocked by the force of itâyour lips parting, letting him in.Â
And then itâs chaos. Raw, searing, beautiful chaos.Â
His touch is everywhere, frantic and reverent, as if heâs trying to memorise you with his fingertips and palms. Your hands claw into his shirt, his shoulders, his hair, dragging him closer, gasping into his mouth like youâre both trying to breathe each other in.Â
You feel like youâre on fire. Like this kiss could split you in half.Â
Thereâs a sharp pain in your leg from how hard youâre leaning in, but you donât care. Youâd burn your whole body just to keep this going.Â
Because he kisses you like itâs the last thing heâll ever do. Like stopping would kill him. And you kiss him back with the same reckless hungerâbecause youâve wanted this forever. Because heâs yours. And youâre his. And nothing else exists anymore but the way heâs holding you like heâs afraid youâll disappear.Â
âI love you,â he breathes against your lips. âI love you. I love you. Please donât go. Donât ever leave.âÂ
You press your forehead to his, a breathy laugh slipping out. âIâm not leaving.âÂ
âGood,â he murmurs, then kisses you againâsoft, lingering.Â
His lips find the corner of your mouth, then trail down the line of your jaw to your neck. Your skin ignites beneath every brush of his mouth, like your whole body is wired to spark beneath his touch.Â
Your stomach flips like youâve been dropped from a height. Your thoughts dissolve into haze. Limbs weightless, breath shallow. All you can feel is the hot press of his lips and the growing ache in your stupid leg.Â
âBob,â you whisper, broken and breathless, as his tongue traces the hollow where your shoulder meets your neck. âBob, mâmy leg.âÂ
He jolts back like heâs touched a live wire, eyes wide. The sudden loss of him leaves you cold, shivering in the space heâs no longer filling.Â
âIâm so sorry,â he gasps.Â
You shake your head quickly. âItâs fine. Iâm okay.âÂ
He looks so heartbreakingly beautiful it makes your chest tighten. His glasses are askew, his cheeks flushed, lips kiss-swollen and wet. His eyes are wild and wide, pupils blown so far they swallow the blue.Â
Then he frowns, glancing down at your shirt. âSo... whose shirt is that?âÂ
You blink, then glance down. âOh. No idea. Barracks laundry mix-up, I think. Makes a good sleep shirt, though.âÂ
He chuckles softly, the pink in his cheeks creeping all the way to the tips of his ears as his eyes lock on yours. âIt looks good on you,â he murmurs, voice low and rough, âbut I think I prefer the short skirts.âÂ
Your heart trips, racing straight into your throat. âBob Floyd,â you gasp, eyes wide with faux scandal, âdid you just admit how much you love short skirt weather?âÂ
He rolls his eyes, all sheepish charm. âOnly when the skirts are on you.âÂ
âThat so?â Your lips curl into a slow smirk. âWell, unfortunately, I think thisââ you tap the brace on your leg ââmeans short skirts are officially out. For now, at least.âÂ
He exhales hard, gaze dropping for just a second before snapping back to yoursâburning now. Thereâs a hunger there, dark and open and unfiltered, something youâve maybe only glimpsed before. It sparks heat low in your belly, your thighs aching to clenchâif it werenât for your stupid goddamn injury.Â
Then, low and shameless and deadly serious, he asks, âWhat about sex?âÂ
The question punches the breath right from your lungs. Your cheeks flush hot as you bite your lip to hide the grin already threatening.Â
âCan you be gentle?â you ask, voice barely above a whisper.Â
âI can try,â he mutters, so deep and rough it settles right between your legs and spreads like wildfire.Â
Your head is spinning. Logic fading fast. You donât care how sore your leg might beâyou want him. All of him. Finally.Â
So you lean in, brushing your lips to his in a soft, teasing kiss as you murmur against his mouth, âThen what the fuck are you waiting for, Floyd?â
Š 2025 geminiwritten. this work is protected by copyright. unauthorized use, reproduction, distribution, or training of artificial intelligence models with this content is strictly prohibited. all original elements of this fanfiction belong to geminiwritten. characters and settings derived from original works belong to their respective creators.
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