P

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 — god, what a douche he was — 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 break—"

Suddenly, you're cut off by some shuffling on the other end, and you think you hear some yelling — 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 — 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 — someone you faintly recognize — 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 — who you think you may have spoken to once when you were both juniors, and that's it — 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 — the attractive jock all-star everyone had a crush on, that is — 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 — 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 — 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. "Oh— did you— 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 — the caretaker, nurse part of you, you assume — 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 — 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 — 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 — 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.

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 don’t look up.

he leans against the counter, arms crossed, watching you like he’s trying to decide something.

you still don’t look up.

he exhales, quiet, and pushes off the counter.

“hey,” he says.

“hm?” you answer, distracted, eyes still on the screen.

he hovers for a second, then steps closer. “what’re you working on?”

“just something i need to finish,” you mumble. “give me like ten minutes?”

he nods. “yeah. yeah, okay.”

he doesn’t move.

you type a few more lines before it registers — his presence, right there, just slightly too close.

you glance up.

he’s 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 doesn’t know how to ask for it.

“what?” you ask, a smile tugging at your mouth.

he shrugs. “nothing.”

you raise an eyebrow. “carmy.”

a beat.

“…can i sit?” he asks, like it’s not his own apartment.

you laugh under your breath. “yeah, come here.”

that’s 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 he’s not even aware he’s doing it. his head tilts slightly, resting just barely against yours for a second before he pulls back, like he’s testing the boundary.

you don’t pull away.

so he does it again. this time staying there.

“you said ten minutes,” he murmurs.

“i know, i’m sorry,” you say, softer now.

“it’s been like… eight.”

you huff a quiet laugh. “you’re actually counting?”

“no,” he says immediately. then, after a second, “maybe.”

you finally close the laptop halfway, turning toward him. “you’re being clingy.”

he freezes.

“…’m not.”

you smile, reaching up to push a curl off his forehead. “you are.”

he looks at you, caught, but he doesn’t deny it this time. just shrugs, a little helpless.

“just wanna be close to you,” 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 he’s 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.

“hi,” you whisper.

he smiles, small and soft and completely gone for you. “hi, baby.”

you close the laptop fully this time, setting it aside.

“ten minutes can wait,” you say.

he nods, drawn back to you by a pull he clearly can’t fight. 

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 — closer than you already are, like he’s trying to erase whatever distance was there before.

“carmy—” you murmur, smiling against his lips.

“yeah,” he breathes, not stopping.

he shifts in his chair, angling himself toward you fully now, one arm sliding around your waist. and then, like it’s the most natural thing in the world, he tugs you — gently but insistently — until you’re halfway in his lap.

you blink. “what are you—”

“stay,” he says, quiet, almost shy, but his grip doesn’t loosen.

you huff a soft laugh. “i am staying.”

“no, like—” he exhales, forehead pressing into your shoulder for a second. “like this.”

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 he’s 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.

“better,” he mumbles.

you run your fingers through his hair, slow, soothing. “you’re really not letting me go, huh?”

“no,” he says, his voice dropping to a low, steady vow. it isn’t just about this moment. it’s a claim on every second you’re willing to give him.

you smile against the sharp line of his jaw. “clingy.”

“…yeah,” he admits, after a second.

there’s no embarrassment in it now. just truth.

he nuzzles closer, face tucked into your neck, and for a moment he just stays there — 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.

“what brought this on?” you ask softly.

he shrugs, but his arms tighten. “you were busy.”

“for ten minutes, babe.”

“yeah,” he says, like that explains everything.

you laugh quietly, but your grip on him tightens too, fingers tracing slow patterns along his strong back.

“you could’ve just said you missed me.”

he huffs, pulling back just enough to look at you. “i did.”

“no, you hovered,” you tease.

he narrows his eyes a little, but there’s no heat in it. “same thing.”

“not even close.”

he leans in again, stealing another kiss, slower this time, like he’s proving a point. his thumb brushes along your side, absentminded, grounding, like he needs to keep feeling you there.

when he pulls back, he doesn’t go far.

“i missed you,” he says properly this time.

your expression softens, completely undone by how sincere he sounds.

“i was right here,” you whisper.

“yeah,” he murmurs, resting his forehead against yours. “i know. still.”

you don’t argue with that.

you just wrap your arms around him, settle deeper into his hold, and let him keep you there — as long as he wants.

your laptop sits forgotten while you kiss for what feels like hours. and carmen berzatto doesn’t loosen his grip once.

 ₊˚⊹♡

thank you for reading.

Bob shoots a nervous look at the mirror, Yelena next to him with her brows furrowed in contemplation. Bob’s desperate — 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. He’s holding his breath, waiting for Yelena’s 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 John’s closet and a sweater and coat bought under Bucky’s keen eye.

He’d spent the week since you guys had rescheduled your date oscillating between disbelief and a stomach churning anxiety. He’d 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 (“You need a backup plan, and a backup for that backup plan,” 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. Everyone’s head turns as they look at him, nodding in approval.

“Okay, Bob do not forget you walk on the outside of the pavement,” Ava reminds him.

“And you scan for ice where she walks,” Alexei adds, even though Bob is pretty sure you’re better at navigating icy sidewalks than he is.

“And make sure you have mints. She’s not gonna kiss you if you taste like leftovers,” John reminds him right as he steps into the elevator.

“There’s no kissing happening. It’s our first date,” Bob blusters, but even as he says it, he finds he’s not opposed to the idea of kissing you so soon.

You’re 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.

“Hi Bob. You look a little different,” you tilt your head as you look at him and against his better judgement, Bob starts panicking.

“Is that-is that bad?” he asks.

“No. I think you just look a little more dressed up. It’s cute,” you smile. “I can see you panicking. Stop panicking. I think you look handsome.”

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.

“These are yours,” he says.

“Thank you. What a gentleman. So pretty, Bob,” 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.

“You’re so warm,” 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 you’re 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 he’ll take you for a drink afterward. He wants to see what you’re like when you’re a little more … loose. Flustered even. When you’re 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.

“Enjoy your night,” door lady says as she waves you guys through.

It’s 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. Bob’s relieved when he finds out you’re not an art buff.

“I just like looking at pretty things,” you’d 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 can’t stop thinking about that sentence. The way you’d 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 — at your face awash in the bright blue glow — and he doesn’t notice he’s staring until you quirk a brow at him and ask if there’s something on your face.

“No-no, your face is perfect– I mean it’s fine,” he utters and you laugh.

“From perfect to fine in 0.2 seconds I feel like I’ve been demoted.”

You nudge his shoulder gently as he guides you towards the door, the two of you nodding your thanks to the door lady.

“That’s not what I meant. I swear,” he emphasises and you move your hand up his arm as you walk.

“I know it’s not. I’m just teasing Bob,” you hum. “The art was really pretty. Glad we got round to seeing it,” you say as he leads you into the cocktail bar.

It’s busier than he likes and the music booming through the speakers has Bob’s teeth rattling but you don’t complain so he doesn’t either. You lead him to a quiet corner, the seats half hidden behind a leafy potted plant.

“Better?” you ask as you squeeze his hand.

“Better,” he sighs, grateful to be able to hear his own thoughts again. And then he isn’t because all he can think about is Walker’s comment, and then he’s staring at your lips. It takes him a moment to realise that you’re asking him something and he stammers out a weak apology. He follows the curve of your lips as you smile.

“Do you want anything to drink?” 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.

“Oh um. Whatever you’re having,” he says, fumbling for his wallet.

You’re walking away before he can slip his card out.

“My treat.” Then you’re 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. “This looks like something I’ve seen in an OXE lab.” He picks it up, lets his tongue swipe over the sugar that’s 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. It’s sickly sweet, but he pretends not to notice it too much.

“So, Bob. Tell me about yourself,” you lean back a little. “All I know is that you’re a sweetheart who is also my nephew’s favourite hero.”

Bob bashfully recounts the less off-putting parts of his life, sanitises the addiction that led him to Malaysia. He ghosts over the deaths he’s died, and the total wipeout of New York City. If you notice the gaps you don’t say anything, just nod politely.

“You’re really cool,” you giggle, leaning over so you can put your hands over his. “You want another drink?”

“Let me get it. Bucky will kill me if he finds out I let you buy me drinks,” 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.

“How come you’re still fine,” 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 — fun and fruity — but he manages to hold it together long enough to half-whisper “Sentry serum” in your ear. “Haven’t been able to get drunk since.”

“Huh.” You tilt your head. “It never occurred to me it did more than just make you the Sentry.” You’re touchier, Bob notices when you squeeze his bicep on the ‘Sentry’. “What else did it do to you,” you ask, hand trailing up, up, up until you’re cupping his cheek.

“Yeah. Lots of things. Can’t remember the last time I got sick, my insomnia doesn’t affect me as badly as it used to either. It’s kinda cool,” he shrugs.

“And you’re super warm,” you sigh.

“That was pre-serum,” he laughs nervously as your thumb keeps rubbing at his cheek.

“Even better.”

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 — blue then purple then pink then red — as you just keep looking at him, relaxed smile painted across your face.

The moment ends when a yawn rips through you, and Bob can’t help but laugh.

“Let’s get you home, okay?”

You look like you’re going to complain, brows furrowed together and bottom lip almost immediately jutting out, but Bob doesn’t let you. He slides your coat over your shoulders and ignores the hammering of his heart as his finger glide against your skin.

He can’t 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, Bucky’s name flashing across his screen.

“Can’t. Emergency, I think,” he sighs.

“Oh. Forgot. I’ll see you soon though, right?”

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 you’re in your apartment before he finally walks himself back home, light on his feet and head still spinning with the scent of you.

You‘re having the longest day of your life, and it’s only 10:30am. Your alarm hadn’t gone off and you’d 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 he’d decided it needed to be everyone’s problem. In your rush, you’d 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 you’d 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. That’s why — despite the biting cold and icy winds — 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, he’s taking his jacket off and gently coaxing you into it before he zips it up.

“Better?”

It is better. Warm, and slightly oversized, and laced with the smell of him. It makes your stomach churn in a way you thought you’d outgrown.

“I don’t want you to freeze, Bob. I’m going back inside once I’ve finished my cigarette anyways,” you say as you inhale again. You turn your head so you’re 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.

“I know it’s bad for me, but I’ve had a really long day. You won’t deny me one single smoke, will you,” you say. Bob blinks his attention back to you, and then you watch as a steady flush colours his face.

“Uh yeah. I mean no. No you can smoke if you have a bad day. I mean I’d prefer if you didn’t-” 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.

“Look, if it makes you uncomfortable, I really will stop smoking. This is my first in like,” you pause to do the math and while you wish you could give him a more optimistic answer you settle on, “three days.”

“It’s fine.” he puts his arms up and shrugs. “It’s okay you can smoke. I’m not … uncomfortable,” he explains.

You watch his breath mist in front of him as he sighs.

“Your jacket. I’ll give it back to you before I go inside, I promise,” you say to him as you flick your ash onto the pavement.

“No. You need it more than me. You have to go home later, and I might not be able to walk you,” he says. “That’s what I came down here for, actually. I’m gonna be on standby. Technically am right now, but,” he just shrugs.

You laugh softly, and his hand comes up to rub at the nape of his neck.

“You could’ve texted, Bob,” you smile.

“I wanted to tell you in person. I wanted to see you,” he whispers, eyes downcast like it’s his first time saying it. His hands wring nervously while you crush your cigarette under your toes.

“You’re so sweet. Thank you, Bob,” you smile as you take his hands. You frown in confusion when you feel your hands heating up. When you look up, he’s got his brows furrowed in concentration.

“If I get distracted it gets too hot,” Bob murmurs.

“And you think looking at me while we hold hands is a distraction?”

“Yes,” he answers immediately.

Your laughter is interrupted by sound of the store door opening.

“I don’t pay you to stand out here and canoodle your boyfriend,” your manager snaps.

“Oh-oh, w-we.. not really yet,” Bob mumbles, and there a sharp spike in the temperature of his hands. “I’m so sorry, I’ve gotta go, goodbye,” he fumbles, shoving his hands into his pocket.

“Thanks, now we’ve pissed off the Avengers’ favourite intern,” you roll your eyes as you shove past him.

Despite your manager’s protests you spend the rest of your shift in Bob’s 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 — a candle-lit necklace making workshop run out of the basement of someone’s home. You’d booked a private session; just you, Bob, and the instructor — a colourfully dressed woman who jingled when she walked — and you were glad you did. Bob seemed a lot more relaxed here than he did at the museum. As far as dates go, it’s 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 don’t complain because it gives you plenty of time to openly watch him. He doesn’t 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.

“You don’t like it?” Bob asks when you don’t say anything for a while.

“No, no. Of course I like it. It’s just that yours is so complex and pretty, mine looks like a really long charm bracelet,” you murmur.

“That’s okay. You made it for me and I appreciate that,” he says, turning around so you can put it on him.

“You’re not gonna get shit from the rest of the team for wearing your girlfriend’s DIY necklace?” you ask.

A steady flush creeps up Bob’s neck.

“You’re my girlfriend?”

“I’m not?” you ask, hands faltering as he turns to look at you.

“You are. You can be, if you want. I just didn’t know, since we didn’t talk,” he replies, trailing off. An anxious energy crackles through the air before he clears his throat.

“I mean yes. Yeah you’re my girlfriend. I’m not seeing anyone else.”

You’re relieved that your forwardness hasn’t 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 can’t help but ask what it is. It’s not like the other scars you’ve seen on him, haphazardly scattered around his arms.

“Oh uh. I guess that’s where they put the kill switch,” he murmurs as you run your finger over it, pressing softly.

“Kill switch?”

He turns you around so he can put your necklace on, gentle as he brings it around.

“Can’t have the power of a million suns walking around with no backup plan. It’s just in case I hurt people,” he shrugs.

“Can’t imagine you hurting anyone who doesn’t deserve it,” you whisper and Bob laughs softly.

“Walker’s shield? I did that,” he admits, once you’ve turned around.

“No way. You turned his shield into a taco? What were you guys fighting over, dishes?”

Bob can’t 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.

You’re still looking at him, concern and curiousity plain as day on your face.

“Not dishes, but it was minor. Water under the bridge now,” he explains as you as you take his hand in yours.

“I’d hate to see what a major fight results in,” you joke as you nudge your shoulder into his slightly. There’s 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. “I’m sorry you have a kill switch in your head. You don’t deserve that.”

“You didn’t put it there. It’s okay,” he shrugs.

“Not really. What’s the point of having heroes if you can’t trust them to do the right thing without putting a kill switch in their head,” 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. He’s heard similar sentiments of course.

From the rest of the team.

Mel.

Staggered apologies from people who’d had a hand in implementing the kill switch.

He tells them all the same thing: it doesn’t matter. He’d proven that Valentina’s kill switch meant nothing — 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 — but when you’re looking at him like this, words laced with a hint of anger at the injustice of it, he can’t bring himself to give you the same spiel.

So he cups your face instead.

“I’m okay. I don’t mind,” he says, thumb absentmindedly dragging across your bottom lip. “It’s not something you need to worry about, promise,” 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.

“So romantic,” you smile, guiding him to you until your foreheads are touching. Bob doesn’t think, just keeps leaning in further, and he’s so close to home when a stranger walks straight into him, jolting you both out of the bubble you’d been in since you stepped outside.

“Sorry,” she mumbles with barely a look back, but the magic is gone. You’re dusting off your clothes and looping your arm back into his as you continue your walk home.

It’s like the Universe always knows when you need everything to go your way and always decides that you’re 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. You’d 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 you’ve promised Bob a home-cooked meal.

“Fuck,” you hiss as you pace around your kitchen, a mounting sense of panic building in your chest. You consider cancelling, but you know that’s 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 tonight’s 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.

“You really don’t have to. I should’ve gotten it looked at when it first started acting out.”

“It’s okay. I used to do stuff like this all the time at home. Besides, what’s the point of being able to do this kind of stuff if my girlfriend has to wait for maintenance to get her stove fixed?”

Bob’s nonchalance can’t hide the flush that creeps up his neck when he says the word ‘girlfriend’, 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 doesn’t take long for him to diagnose the problem — a loose element — and he’s silent as he repositions it, gets it back to what it’s 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.

“What?” Bob asks when he turns to see you staring.

“You look really good right now,” you say.

“Oh, um. Thank you.” He’s blushing when he turns away, and the lights above you hum, burning a little brighter.

“Is that you?”

“What?”

“The lights. Are you doing that?” You nod up at the lights flickering above you.

“Oh yeah. I’m sorry, I thought I had it under control.” He puts the parts of your stove back together and turns to face you, then jumps when he realises how close you are.

“So the lights… at the store. That was you?”

You’re 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.

“It was me, yeah.”

“You know I thought my manager was gaslighting me when he told me there was nothing wrong with the lights,” you exclaim as you poke a finger into his chest. “You have been the root of my problems all along,” you laugh as you squeeze his cheeks, shaking his head.

“I’m not tryin’ to be,” he sighs when you let go. He wraps his arms around you as he crushes you to his chest.

“I know you’re not,” you soothe as you push his hair back. “I just can’t believe I didn’t notice it at all. Guess I was distracted.”

“I’m distracting?”

You don’t get a chance to answer because the doorbell rings, and you’re reluctantly peeling yourself off of him so you can go get the food.

He lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding, then silently curses at the lights before joining you in the living room for dinner.

Bob’s taken to walking you home after every shift now. If he’s not needed, it’s a guarantee that ten minutes before the end of your shift he’ll come into the store and wait near the door for you, a shy smile plastered to his face as he greets you.

“Your boyfriend know you’re capable of getting home alone?”

Your manager is behind the counter, angrily shelving and unshelving vapes as he glares at Bob. You don’t 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 you’d give him grace just this time.

“I just like to make sure she gets home safe,” Bob answers from the door.

“Jesus. Fuckin’ ears on that guy,” your manager grumbles as he slides boxes into place.

You just laugh.

You don’t wait for the next person to get there, just slide your jacket on before half-skipping over to Bob.

“He is right, you know. You keep walking me home I’m gonna forget how to fend for myself.”

“If someone attacks us, I’ll let you fight them off yourself. If you want to practice,” Bob shrugs with a laugh. “I just want to keep you company.”

“Is that why you’re constantly steering me away from puddles? And you would half carry me over icy patches?”

When Bob chokes, you laugh.

“You aren’t subtle. Not even a little bit,” you smile as you press into him.

“Bucky said that’s what gentlemen do,” he huffs.

“Every new thing you tell me about Bucky makes him sound like an old timey cartoon. There’s absolute no way he was guiding women around puddles,” you counter.

“He opens the door for Ava even though she can phase through easily enough,” he offers.

“Oh.”

“Yeah,” he laughs.

“Well I haven’t experienced near death by puddle yet, so you can ease up bodyguard,” you tease.

“Just making sure you get home in once piece is all,” he says as he lets his hand rest on the small of your back.

“Please. It’s fifteen minutes, what’s the worst that could happen?”

It happens less than a block from your house, while you’re waiting at a crossing. Days of rain had left giant puddles near street corners, and normally it wasn’t 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 didn’t 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.

“Bob, oh my god.”

He’s blinking water out of his eyes and shaking himself off.

“Imagine if I hadn’t walked you home,” he beams.

“My hero,” you swoon. “Do you wanna come up? I have in-unit laundry,” you explain as the pedestrian light finally comes on.

“I can dry myself,” he shrugs.

“You saved me from icky road water. Please come up so I can wash and dry your clothes.” You hazard a look at him. “I have clothes you can wear while you wait,” you laugh as steam radiates from his clothes.

He doesn’t take much convincing, but his clothes are half dry by the time you make it to your apartment .

“You really didn’t need to go to all this trouble,” he says as he pulls a faded red hoodie on over his head. “Whose clothes are these anyways?”

“My ex’s. Left them here the last time we saw each other then forgot to get them when he moved overseas. Don’t worry I’m not emotionally attached or anything, I just don’t wanna pay the postage,” you say as you watch him from the corner of your eye.

His relief is palpable, even as he sheepishly tries to pretend he wasn’t 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.

“You’re always so warm,” you comment, as Bob struggles to find an intact train of thought to follow.

“That’s me. Space heater.” He cringes when you laugh, but when he looks into your eyes there’s no malice.

“Bob Reynolds: insomniac, milkshake enjoyer, space heater, god among men.” 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 there’s a knock on your door, loud and insistent.

“Ignore it, it’s just my nosy neighbour he doesn’t even know if I’m home,” you say as you try get closer.

But the knocking ramps up, and a voice calls from the other side of the door: “I know you’re home, my camera saw you and your guest,” he spits the words out in a way that makes Bob frown, “walking in together. Just a reminder that if you intend to keep him overnight, to please have some consideration for the rest of us.”

That seems to draw you out as you walk briskly to the door and yank it open.

“You can’t use your camera to check when people bring guests home, it’s an invasion of privacy. You definitely can’t come knocking on people’s doors to pre-emptively complain about rowdy sex,” you hiss. “You don’t even know if he’s my boyfriend. He could be my cousin.”

“This the cousin that walks you home after work and hangs around at the front door like a lovesick puppy? Didn’t think-” he starts. The rest of his sentence is muffled by the indignant slam of your door.

“Cousin?” Bob pouts, before you can apologise.

“That’s what you’re stuck on?”

“Yeah, I don’t want you to cousin-zone me to your neighbours. What if they believe you?”

“He called you a lovesick puppy, I don’t think he believed me,” you laugh.

“Hold on he said I hang around like a lovesick puppy,” he pouts.

“Oh and there’s a difference?”

“Uh yeah,” he argues as he follows you into your living room.

“That’s a shame. I’m quite partial to a lovesick man,” you faux complain as you lay down on your couch. You open your arms for Bob and he doesn’t 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:

— these might fit better than your ex’s :). see you soon ♡ .

The text arrives an hour before your shift ends.

Anna: you commit a crime lol? Sentry @ ur apartment :o

There’s 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, it’s 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 don’t wait for your manager to give you the go-ahead to leave, just push through the door with a wave over your shoulder.

He’s 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.

He’s changed at least, but you can see fading bruises on his jaw.

“I’m fine,” he says when he notices you looking. “I missed you,” he sighs, when you finally settle into his arms.

“My neighbour saw you come in here,” you mumble into his neck. “You might need to be a little more careful.”

“Don’t care. I missed you,” he sighs again. “Came straight here. I thought you were home,” he explains.

You sit up so you can look at him, then press a soft kiss to his jaw.

“I missed you too. Two weeks is a long time.”

You don’t tell him that you’d spent all two weeks worried sick. It was one thing to know your boyfriend was the closest thing to a god among humans you’d ever see; another thing to believe it when you had no way of contacting him.

You don’t need to tell him, because he notices your silence.

“What’s wrong?” he asks, thumb under your chin so he can make you look at him. “Did something happen at work?”

“No, Bob. I was worried about you, you know. It’s not easy to know that somewhere out there you’re getting shot at and I just have to trust you’ll make it home.”

A look of surprise flits across his face.

“You were worried about me? I’m bulletproof; you don’t need to worry about me.”

“I’ll worry anyway,” you say as you press at the bruise peeking out from the collar of his shirt. “It’s not that I don’t think you’re capable, it’s just… you’re just Bob to me. Sweet insomniac Bob who likes milkshakes and wants me to stop smoking and stops to pet everyone’s dogs when we go on walks. I don’t like the thought of you in danger.”

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 he’d never get hurt when you’d seen footage of him taking blows like they were nothing?

“I’ll always come home, I promise you,” 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. There’s a flicker of indecision in his eyes, an expression that was settling over his face more and more, but before you can ask him what’s on his mind he presses his lips to yours, soft and hesitant when you don’t 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 doesn’t need to).

In a show of strength that surprises you, Bob flips you guys over so you’re 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. There’s 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.

“Bob,” you mumble against his lips. “Bob you’re overheating,” you laugh as you push against his chest, Bob groaning in protest.

“Bob, sweetie,” you try again when you get a whiff of smoke. “My cushions, Bob.”

That seems to do it. His eyes fly open then, irises glowing gold as he carefully removes his hands.

“I’m sorry. I tried to control it–” he starts, but he’s cut off by your hand on his cheek.

“I know you did, I’m not mad. Just think maybe we should cool down a little,” you wink as you pat his chest. “Before we set off the smoke alarms. My neighbours will not forgive that.”

You press a kiss to his cheek, and despite the brief loss of control, Bob feels warm.

Bob’s 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 it’s difficult now that he has the knowledge of what it’s 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 you’re the only thing that matters again. He hates that it took him this long, but she wouldn’t 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 he’d long stopped listening to played in the background.

He’s 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 won’t be able to stop thinking about the way you half wriggle beneath him, hips pressing up against his.

“You can’t do that,” he tells you once, when you roll up against him particularly hard.

“Why not?” you whine.

“You know why. I nearly set your couch cushions on fire from a kiss. I’ll blow the entire electrical grid if we do anything else,” he explains with a soft kiss to your throat.

“You don’t know that,” you coax, dragging your lips back to his.

“Trust me. I do.”

He ends the discussion with another kiss to your lips.

“Ugh,” Natasha groans. “Could you creeps stop looking at her like she’s something to eat? It’s gross. She’s our friend. Our teammate.” 

Jake opens his mouth, lips already curled into his usual smirk, but Natasha puts a hand up to stop him. 

“And she’s barely younger than us, so don’t say anything weird about her age.” 

Jake rolls his eyes and lifts his beer. “Wasn’t gonna…” 

There’s a beat of silence as Bob lets his eyes drift back to you, drinking in the way you’re 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. 

“Wait,” Mickey leans forward, squinting—very unsubtly—across the bar. “Is that her date?” 

Natasha nods. “Think so. Looks like the guy she showed me.” 

Bob’s head snaps toward her, dark blue eyes wide. “She’s on a date?” 

Mickey giggles. Reuben snorts. Even Bradley has to hide a laugh behind his beer. 

“Alright,” Jake says, slapping a hand on the table in mock outrage. “Who didn’t tell Bob?” 

Natasha shoots him a flat look before turning back to Bob. “Didn’t you hear us talking about it at lunch? She met some guy on Hinge or something.” 

“Said she was gonna go home with him and let him keep her up all night,” Jake adds with a wicked grin. “Y’know, since we’re starting night rides next week—figured she’d get used to staying up late.” 

“I was intentionally leaving that part out,” Nat says, glaring at Jake. “But thanks for clearing it all up, Bagman.” 

Jake tips his beer toward her. “Anytime.” 

Bob’s jaw twitches. His teeth are clenched so tight it hurts, but he can’t relax—not with that guy’s hand on your hip, fingers digging into the soft fabric like he has some right to touch you. Like you belong to him. 

Which you don’t. You don’t belong to anyone. 

At least, that’s what Bob has to keep telling himself. 

“Easy, Floyd,” Bradley mutters beside him. “You keep staring like that, the poor guy’s gonna catch fire.” 

Bob doesn’t respond. He can’t. His voice is gone, breath caught somewhere in his throat. He’s too focused on your smile—how it flickers, just a little off. Not quite like the one you wear with them. With him. 

It shouldn’t matter. He shouldn’t care whether or not you’re giving that stranger the same bright smile or soft laugh you always give him. Because it’s none of his business. 

Who you date and what you do—none of it is his business. You’re allowed to wear tiny dresses, flirt with strangers, and laugh at guys who think they’re clever. 

It shouldn’t matter. 

But it does. 

God, it fucking matters—way more than it should. 

Because for the first time in weeks, you’re not looking at him. You’re looking at... that guy. 

And even though he tells himself—repeatedly, a thousand times a day—not to enjoy being the centre of your attention... he does. 

He lives for it. 

“You know,” Reuben says slowly, lips curled into the tiniest smirk, “this wouldn’t even be happening if you’d sack up and—” 

“Payback,” Natasha warns. “Don’t.” 

“What?” He raises both hands in mock innocence. “All I’m trying to say is, if he likes her that much, he should just ask her out. She’s clearly into him. We all know it.” 

Bob’s eyes flick between you and Reuben, his brows furrowed slightly as his thoughts tug in opposite directions. On one hand, yeah, Reuben’s logic makes perfect sense. Bob’s not blind—he 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. 

But on the other hand? He just can’t do it. You’re young—too young. And he’s... well, he’s not old, but he’s older. It’s not a huge age gap, not really, but that paired with how drop-dead gorgeous you are? It’s enough to make him feel like a— 

“Nothin’ wrong with being a cradle-snatcher,” Jake chimes in, eyes sparkling as he lifts his beer. 

Bradley chuckles quietly. “Jesus, Hangman. You’re on fire tonight.” 

“Why thank you, Rooster,” Jake replies smoothly. 

Natasha rolls her eyes and downs the rest of her beer in one long swig, looking thoroughly done with all of them. 

The conversation shifts then—to next week’s night ops training—but Bob barely hears it. The pounding of his pulse is too loud, drowning everything out. And he can’t stop watching you. 

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 laughter—if he strains. 

And it kills him. Because he’s not the one making you laugh tonight. 

- 

“Wanna get out of here?” Ryan asks, his voice low in your ear, breath warm against your neck. 

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 warm—too warm—in the packed, overheated bar. 

Honestly, for the last forty-five minutes, while Ryan has been telling you all about his super interesting job—he's a carpenter, it’s not that interesting—you’ve been seriously considering hopping behind the bar to help Penny and Jimmy. 

“It’s barely nine,” you say, forcing a polite smile as you tilt your head. 

“Yeah,” he chuckles, scratching the back of his neck. “But I’ve 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.” 

The way he says it nearly makes you laugh. He sounds like a teenager trying to sneak in some action before curfew. 

“Look,” you sigh, laying a hand on his knee, “this has been fun, but I’m just not your girl. And honestly? I was kinda hoping this would distract me from someone else, but... you’re not him. I’m sorry. It’s not your fault—this one’s on me. But, uh... good luck!” 

He looks completely flabbergasted. Like the blank stare you’ve worn for most of the evening—or the way your gaze kept drifting across the bar toward someone else—wasn’t a hint. God, he might be even dumber than you thought. 

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 be—where your squad is. 

Where Bob is. 

You’re just about to head for the booth when your eye catches on Penny—and the very large crowd waiting to be served. 

“Damn it,” you sigh, pivoting sharply and hurrying around the bar. 

You slip through the swinging wooden doors behind the bar and fall in beside Penny, listening closely to the man ordering drinks—his 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. 

“Sorry,” you say with a soft laugh. “I saw the crowd and couldn’t just let you suffer.” 

She rolls her eyes but smiles. “I’d tell you to scram if you weren’t so gorgeous—and a literal lifesaver.” 

You give her a cheeky wink before lining up the beers on a tray for the man. Penny swipes his card, and he’s 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. 

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. 

You’re so focused on scrubbing at a particularly stubborn stain on the bar top that you don’t notice someone approach—someone you usually have a hard time not noticing. 

“You don’t work here,” Bob says, voice light, lips twitching at the corners. 

You glance up, your heart immediately jumping into overdrive. “I could,” you say, straightening. “Maybe I should quit the Navy. Bartending might be my true calling.” 

He chuckles. “You’re one of the best fighter pilots in the country, and you think slinging drinks is your destiny?” 

You shrug, leaning forward casually—knowing exactly what you’re doing. His eyes flick down to your chest for a split second before snapping back up, fast enough to pretend it didn’t happen. 

“Hey, don’t knock it. This job is harder than it looks.” 

“Oh, I don’t doubt that,” he says softly, watching with quiet intensity as you pour him a pint of cherry soda—without him even needing to ask. 

You slide it over with a small smile. “What do you think? I’m a pretty good bartender, huh?” 

His cheeks tint pink, the flush dusting across his nose. “Yeah. I think you make a very pretty bartender.” 

You smirk. “Was that a compliment, Lieutenant?” 

He rolls his eyes and drops a crumpled ten onto the bar like it might save him from saying more. 

You shake your head. “Don’t worry, it’s on the house.” 

“You sure you’ve got that kind of authority?” he teases. 

“Penny said our drinks are free tonight,” you reply, smug. “Payment for being an excellent bartender.” 

“And for filling the tip jar faster than I’ve ever seen,” Penny chimes in as she reappears, arms full of empty glasses. 

Your cheeks heat as Bob’s gaze flicks toward the overflowing jar. 

“Wow,” he chuckles softly. 

You flick your hair dramatically and bat your lashes. “Perks of being a pretty bartender, I guess.” 

Then you turn around and bend over to grab something from the fridge—very aware of the effect—and sure enough, Bob promptly chokes on his soda. He coughs, his whole face turning red as he pounds a fist against his chest. 

“Jesus,” he mutters under his breath, “more like consequences of a skirt that short.” 

You snap upright, brows lifting and eyes gleaming with amusement. “Bob Floyd, did you just comment on the length of my skirt?” 

He blinks fast. “No.” 

You tilt your head, fighting a grin. “You sure? Because the colour in your cheeks looks a little guilty to me.” 

He straightens up, his usual walls clicking into place like armour. “Didn’t say anything.” 

You roll your eyes and plant both hands on the bar, leaning forward just enough to make him squirm. “Bob, I’m not a baby. And I’m not some virginal schoolgirl, either. You’re not going to hell just for flirting with me.” You pause, letting your gaze hold his. “Hell, if you did it more often, I might take you to heaven.” 

His throat bobs as he swallows hard, and you see the want flicker in his eyes—just before he reins it back in. 

“But if the age gap is that big of a deal to you—which, for the record, is barely anything—then maybe stop looking at me like you’re picturing me naked.” Your voice drops. “Mixed signals can really confuse a girl.” 

You hear the softest laugh from Penny, but your eyes stay locked on Bob’s—daring him to look down again, to do something other than walk away. 

He clears his throat. “Thanks for the drink.” 

Then he turns and walks away, heading straight back to the booth where all your friends are—acting like they haven’t been watching, but you know better. They’re all too nosy for their own good. 

You sigh heavily. “Men. Fucking impossible.” 

Penny laughs again, resting a hand on your shoulder. “Fighter pilots, actually. They’re a very special breed of difficult.” 

“Hey,” you giggle. “I am a fighter pilot.” 

She nods, smirking. “And there’s not a doubt in my mind how difficult you’re makin’ life for that boy right now.” 

You press your lips together and give her a flat look—because yeah… she’s not wrong. 

After all, why else bring a guy to the bar you knew your friends would be at—you 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 he’d walk over and interrupt your lousy date? 

- 

Graveyard shift. Bat hours. Vampire runs. Ghost hops. Night rides. 

Whatever you want to call it—the squad hates night ops. 

It’s dark, it’s 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 shot—so you’re flying blind, trusting your radar and your WSO to keep you alive. 

“You know what’s great about night ops?” Mickey says, head tipped back in his chair. “Nothing. 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.” 

You roll your eyes and take a sip of coffee. 

“It’s night one, Fanboy,” Natasha mutters beside you. “We still have four weeks of this. Are you going to complain the whole time?” 

Mickey shrugs. “Yeah. Probably.” 

“Did Mav piss Cyclone off or something?” Reuben asks. 

You shake your head. “Nah. He heard there might be a mission coming up with night flying. Figured we should get ahead of it.” 

“Or he just hates us,” Javy sighs, eyes half-shut. 

Natasha snorts. “Did you sleep at all today, Coyote?” 

“Nope,” he grumbles, shifting a glare toward Jake. “Someone had his whale noises up too loud and bit my head off when I told him to turn it down.” 

Jake shoots him a look. “They help me sleep. If you’ve got a problem, buy some earplugs.” 

“Damn,” you mutter. “Glad you’re not my wingman tonight, Coyote.” 

He shifts his glare your way and flips you off lazily before letting his eyes shut completely. 

“So, Vex,” Jake says, twisting in his seat toward you, “never did hear how that date went the other night.” 

You arch a brow. “Oh, so now I have to report back on all my dates?” 

Jake’s lips twitch, his gaze flicking toward Bob. “Dates? As in plural? Just how many are we talking here?” 

“That’s none of your business,” you reply, taking another sip of coffee. 

There’s a brief pause, and his eyes narrow—seeing through you a little too easily. “The date tanked?” 

Natasha snorts and you quickly elbow her in the side. 

“Yes,” you mutter. “It sucked. He was boring. And no, I didn’t get laid. So yes, I’m in a less-than-favourable mood.” 

Jake’s smirk turns wicked. “Sweetheart, if getting laid is what you need, you only have to ask.” 

Your brows shoot up. “That so?” 

He nods. 

You turn to Javy, who’s about one breath away from snoring. “Coyote.” 

His eyes snap open. “Huh?” 

“Want to fuck me?” 

He startles—eyes wide, mouth dropping open. “I—uh, what?” 

Laughter rumbles through the room—everyone giggling softly at poor, confused Javy. 

Well... almost everyone. 

Bob isn’t laughing. In fact, he’s not even smiling, or looking your way. His eyes are glued to his phone—even though you can see the screen is blank. 

Which means he’s definitely listening. 

You shift in your chair and give Natasha a sidelong smirk. Her brow furrows slightly—a silent question about what you’re up to—but she nods anyway, signalling that she’ll follow your lead no matter where it goes. 

“Does anyone know if Cyclone’s single?” you ask, voice light and dripping with faux innocence. 

Mickey’s eyes go wide. “Admiral Simpson?” 

You nod, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “Yeah. He’s hot.” 

“Agreed,” Natasha says—and from the way her mouth curves, she’s not just playing along. She definitely agrees. 

“Isn’t he married?” Reuben asks. 

Javy frowns, still half-asleep but clearly paying attention now. “Nah, I think they divorced.” 

“So,” you say slowly, “what I’m hearing is... he’s single?” 

Bradley’s gaze flicks to Bob—just for a second—before settling back on you, reading you like a damn open book. “Bit old for you, isn’t he, Vex?” 

You shrug with a smile. “Not at all. I like older men. More experience.” 

Out of the corner of your eye, you catch the way Bob shifts in his seat—just slightly, but it’s enough. He’s 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. 

“I swear he’s still married,” Mickey says, clearly trying to get this train back on the rails. 

“Yeah,” Reuben adds. “Didn’t they do couples counselling?” 

“They did,” Maverick says, breezing into the room like the punchline to your joke. “Didn’t stick. So yes, he’s single.” He pauses in front of you, green eyes sparkling with amusement. “But I’m not sure how he feels about dating subordinates. Want me to find out?” 

You match his smirk with one of your own, sitting up a little straighter as you meet his gaze. “How generous of you, Captain. That would be great.” 

He chuckles, shaking his head as he moves to the front of the room and sets a stack of papers down on the desk. “Alright, aviators,” he says. “Welcome to night ops.” 

After an hour-long briefing and way too many questions about why you’re all stuck on night training, Maverick orders everyone to get ready for the first hop. You’re on deck with Jake, Natasha, and, of course... Bob. 

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. There’s a low buzz of anticipation in the air, but no one says much. It’s late, and everyone is focusing on their own little preflight rituals. 

Once you reach the hangar, the ground crew directs you toward the night ops staging area where your NVGs and gear are laid out. You’ve 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. 

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 check—walking the length of the fuselage, scanning for anything off, running a practiced eye over control surfaces, landing gear, intakes. It’s second nature by now, but you don’t cut corners. Especially not in the dark. 

Once you’re satisfied, you turn to face the runway and pull your helmet on, checking the vision through your NVGs. It’s blurry—just enough to make you squint. The image is skewed, the edges fuzzy, crawling inward like shadows that shouldn’t be there. 

You mutter something sharp under your breath, reaching up to adjust the settings yourself when— 

“Don’t move.” The voice is low. Steady. Too close. 

You freeze instinctively as Bob steps in—right into your space, like you’re 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 clinical—routine—but it doesn’t. It burns. Even through the goddamn helmet. 

“I can fix it,” he murmurs, eyes on your goggles, not your face. “Tilt your chin up.” 

You obey—barely—and 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 you’re trying desperately not to show. 

“Didn't this happen last time?” he asks, the corner of his lips twitching. “You jam the strap too tight.” 

“I like it snug,” you mutter, not trusting your voice with anything flirtier. Not when he’s this close. 

Bob hums, low in his throat. “Of course you do.” 

Your heart stutters. 

He adjusts something with a flick of his thumb—the 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. 

“You always get this close when you’re adjusting gear?” you ask, pretending the heat in your voice is a joke and not a plea. 

Bob stills for a beat. Just one. 

Then—very softly—he whispers, “Only yours.” 

You swear your knees nearly give. 

But before you can breathe or speak or lean the half-inch forward that would start something you probably shouldn’t want this badly, Bob finishes the final adjustment and lets his hands fall. Slowly. Like it costs him something. 

“There,” he says, voice low but distant now. “Better?” 

You blink behind the goggles. “Yeah. Clear.” 

He lingers for half a second more—just enough to feel like maybe he wants to say something else—then turns and walks back toward the others without another word. 

You don’t move. You can’t. You’re just standing there in the dark, goggles perfectly focused, heart pounding like you’re about to hit Mach 1. 

It takes an embarrassingly long minute for you to remember how to function. To stop thinking about how close he’d just been—how you could smell him, feel his heat, and how, if you’d tipped your chin up and stretched just a little… you might’ve been able to kiss him. 

But then you hear Maverick shouting across the tarmac, calling for a final rundown before wheels-up. 

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. 

Then—after the green light from ground crew—you’re 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. 

“Remind me again why we’re stuck on the graveyard shift,” Jake says, voice dry. “Because as much as I love flying blind through pitch-black nothingness, I’d really rather be in bed right now.” 

“You’re not blind, Hangman,” Maverick replies. “We’ve got one of the best WSOs in the world with us.” 

“Oh, good,” Jake says sarcastically. “My life’s in the hands of Phoenix’s baby on board.” 

You roll your eyes. “I’d rather have my life in Bob’s hands than yours, Bagman.” 

His chuckle crackles through the radio. “Yeah, I know where you’d like to have Bob’s hands. And it’s not holding your life.” 

Heat rushes to your cheeks, making the cockpit suddenly feel way too hot—your flight suit practically suffocating. 

“Hangman,” Maverick warns. “Be professional.” 

Jake scoffs. “Oh, so those two can eye-fuck each other all night long, but I can’t say the obvious out loud?” 

There’s a pause—a beat where you wonder if he’s finally pushed it too far—but then Maverick’s laughter cuts through. 

“Yes. Because they do it quietly.” 

Your eyes go wide and you almost—almost—fumble a right bank. “Mav!” 

More laughter crackles through the radio, Natasha now joining in. You’re just about to tell them all to stick it when the mood shifts, and the laughter stops. 

“Vex, check your two,” Maverick says, voice sharp and low. “Something’s throwing heat.” 

“Negative,” Bob cuts in. “Let me scan it first.” 

You hesitate, holding formation, but frustration flares under your skin. Did Bob really just override a direct order? 

“Confirming IR spike,” Bob says after a beat. “Something’s cooking down there, but it doesn’t match any known signature.” 

You glance down at the blur on your MFD. “I’ll break off, check it out.” 

“Wait. Don’t.” Bob’s voice is low but tense, edged with something more than caution. 

“Why?” you snap, anger prickling your chest. 

“I... I don’t like it,” he says. “It’s not worth the risk.” 

You grit your teeth and break off anyway, flying low and steady toward the suspicious heat signature. 

“I’m going to check it out, Mav,” you say, voice tight. “Hangman, got my six?” 

“Copy,” Jake replies. 

You bank left, staying quiet as you approach the stretch of uninhabited grassland. Your HUD flickers with the steady IR pulse—a dull orange glow against the dark terrain. Too concentrated for a campfire. Too controlled for a random burn. It’s creeping north—methodical. 

You drop lower when you spot flashing lights—fire crews moving with purpose, reflective gear flickering like stars in the NVG haze. This isn’t an accident. It’s a controlled burn. 

“Mav, why is there a fire in a training zone?” you ask. “Shouldn’t that be logged?” 

“It’s just brush management?” Maverick asks, sounding almost relieved. 

“Affirmative,” Jake replies before you can. 

“Copy. I’ll flag it with air traffic—looks like someone forgot to tell the rest of us.” 

You and Jake return to formation without issue. 

“Lucky it wasn’t Bigfoot, huh Bob?” Jake says, his smug grin practically audible. “Might’ve leapt right onto Vex’s jet and dragged her into the woods.” 

There’s no response, just the soft static of the open channel. 

Then Natasha mutters, “Don’t be a dick, Hangman. He was being cautious.” 

“Well, I’m sure she appreciates the concern,” Jake says. “But she’s not made of glass.” He waits for a retort—gets none—and chuckles. “And if she’d died out there, I would’ve avenged her. Dramatically.” 

“Hangman,” Maverick sighs. “That’s enough. Bob’s got better eyes than the rest of us tonight. Maybe don’t piss him off.” 

Still, nothing from Bob. You even crane your neck, catching sight of his and Natasha's jet—nothing but a shadow at your five o’clock. Like you could somehow see him in the cockpit, tensing his jaw or rolling his eyes at Jake’s jabs. 

Frustration simmers in your chest. You know he was just being cautious—or protective—but this is your job. He doesn’t get to tell you what you can and can’t do, especially when it’s a direct order from your CO. Even if you were dating, you wouldn’t let him boss you around—well, not outside of the bedroom, anyway. He can care. He can worry. But making it sound like you’re incapable? That’s what he just did. And it makes your skin crawl. 

The rest of the flight passes without incident, but the comms stay unusually quiet—even Jake gives up his teasing—and you’re still pissed by the time you’re back on the ground. 

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. 

By the time you walk in, the others are already gone. You’re not sure if you were too caught up in your own grumpiness to notice them pass you on the way over, but you don’t bother asking. You’re still too busy being pissed. 

In fact, you’re so busy scowling at the coffee machine as it splutters out an espresso shot you know is going to taste like dirt that you don’t notice someone step up beside you. 

“I’m sorry,” Bob says, voice soft. “About what happened up there.” 

You jump—just slightly—then twist to face him, arms crossed tight over your chest. He's standing just a few feet away—helmet gone, flight suit half unzipped with the collar tugged open just enough to make your stomach flip. 

“I didn’t mean to undermine you.” 

“Sure felt like it,” you mutter. 

“I know.” His eyes finally lift to meet yours—midnight blue, heavy with regret and something else that makes your breath catch. “That’s why I’m apologising.” 

You turn back to the coffee machine, hoping the clatter and gurgle of the old machine will cover the sudden pounding of your heart. “Look, I get you were trying to be cautious, but Mav gave me a directive. You don’t get to override that just because your gut didn’t like it.” 

“I wasn’t thinking about you as a teammate back there,” he says quietly. “I was thinking—” 

“That I’m a little kid?” you snap, spinning to face him again. “Because 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 don’t need someone second-guessing me just because they’re a little older. Especially when I know what I’m capable of.” 

His frown deepens. “No, it—it’s not that at all. I just—I didn’t see what it was, it was dark, and when you went low...” He drags a hand through his hair. “I couldn’t breathe. I thought, what if something happens to her?” 

You blink, startled by the raw edge in his voice. 

“If anything had gone wrong, it would’ve been my fault,” he says, softer now. “I’m the WSO. I should’ve seen it first.” 

“Bob,” you whisper, stepping closer before you can stop yourself. You can feel the heat radiating off him now. “If I ever end up in a bad spot, that’s on me. I trust you to have my back, always—but it’s my responsibility when I make a call. And I broke off because I knew you’d be there. You and Phoenix, Mav, Hangman... I knew I had the best team in the sky behind me.” 

His jaw clenches as his gaze drifts over your face, like he’s trying to memorise every inch. 

Then he moves closer—close enough for one of the clips on his suit to catch yours—and reaches out. His fingers hook gently into the edge of your suit’s hip pocket, tugging you forward just enough to make your breath hitch. 

“You’re not just my teammate,” he murmurs. “Don’t you get that? I care about you. More than a teammate. More than a friend. I—” 

“I don’t believe it,” a familiar voice cuts through the room. “The famous Dagger Squad stuck on the graveyard shift? What’d you do, lose another bet?” 

Bob startles, stepping quickly away from you with bright red cheeks, unnecessarily adjusting his glasses. 

You turn toward the door, ready to rip into whoever just decided to interrupt the closest you’ve ever gotten to Bob... when you realize who it is. It’s Trevor—an old friend from flight school and one of the newer instructors on NAS. You’ve been meaning to catch up with him, but being in an elite squadron doesn’t leave you much time for a social life. 

“Damn,” you say with a playful smile, “who let you in the building?” 

He steps fully into the room, wearing his signature shit-eating grin. “Vex,” he says, voice full of mock disbelief. “You’re still here? I figured Maverick would’ve canned your reckless ass by now.” 

Jake swivels in his chair to look at you. “So you’re a renowned little chaos gremlin? Good to know.” 

You roll your eyes and step toward your friend. “Guys, this is Trevor—or Grinder—I’ve known him since flight school. He gave me my callsign, actually.” 

Trevor snorts. “Technically, Admiral Prescott gave you your callsign. What exactly was it he said again? That you’re a living, breathing vexation who’s going to be the sole reason for his retirement?” 

Jake and Natasha giggle from across the room, and Trevor grins proudly. 

You narrow your eyes at him. “Want to tell my squad how you got yours?” 

He tips his head, brows raised. “Maybe I should get to know them first.” 

Then his eyes flick toward Jake—grinning, handsome, utterly clueless Jake. Yep. That’s the real reason Trevor decided to drop by your squadron building tonight, because he knew Jake ‘Hangman’ Seresin would be here. The very pilot he’s had a crush on for more months than you care to remember. He’s been bugging you for ages to introduce them, even though you told him—repeatedly—that you’re not sure Jake swings that way. He wasn’t deterred though; he said he’s happy to figure it out and see if he can negotiate if not. You just rolled your eyes. 

“So, Grinder,” Natasha says, “what do you do?” 

Trevor’s 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. 

You turn back to Bob, clearing your throat. “Sorry about him. He’s... a lot. But you were saying...?” 

He shakes his head, keeping his eyes fixed on the floor. “Nothing. It’s fine.” 

You frown. “It didn’t sound like nothing.” You take a slow step forward. “Didn’t feel like... nothing.” 

“It’s okay,” he says quickly, his eyes snapping up as he forces a tight smile. “We can talk later. Really, it’s fine.” 

You hesitate, wanting to push but knowing it’s no use now—those walls are well and truly back in place. 

“Okay,” you say, nodding once. “Later.” 

- 

Unfortunately, later never comes. 

You want to talk to him toward the end of the shift, but you’re both so exhausted after the first night that you can’t find the energy to push him for answers. So you let it go and head home. 

The next night, you’re on opposite hops, which means you don’t see him until the debrief in the early morning—when, once again, everyone is too wiped out to talk and just wants to wrap up and get home. 

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 you’re both finally in the ready room and the moment couldn’t be more perfect—Trevor bursts in again, and Bob shuts down. 

When you finally leave base on Friday morning—glaring at the well-rested day-shifters on your way out like it’s their fault you’re dead inside—you make a promise to yourself. You’re going to talk to him this weekend. It doesn’t matter when or how or if you have to fake an emergency just to get five uninterrupted minutes. You’re 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 week—and honestly, it’s starting to redecorate. 

“You sure you don’t mind?” Trevor asks, even though he’s already at your door with a duffel bag and a pillow. 

You roll your eyes. “Why would I mind?” 

He shrugs as he steps into your apartment. “I don’t know. Maybe you were planning to invite that gorgeous little blue-eyed lieutenant over.” He throws a cheeky wink over his shoulder. “You know, the one with the glasses. I’ve seen the way you look at him and—oof—does the man know what he’s in for? I mean, he looks at you just the same but—actually, come to think of it… why haven’t you screwed his brains out yet?” 

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. 

“First of all, he’s not little—you’re just freakishly tall—and secondly…” You step slowly toward the lounge, shoulders sagging in defeat. “He’s too good.” 

Trevor frowns. “Too good? Like… too good for you or—?” 

“That. And he’s respectful,” you say, flopping onto the end of the couch. “He’s got this thing about our age gap. It’s not a big one, but it’s… there, I guess. Maybe it’s also because we’re in the same squad.” 

Trevor watches you, eyes narrowed slightly, expression unreadable. 

“Wow,” he mutters. 

You frown. “What’s that supposed to mean?” 

He shrugs. “Just never took you for a quitter.” 

You rear back, incredulous. “A quitter?” 

“Yeah,” he says, tone cool and baiting as he casually searches for the TV remote. “I mean, if I was in love with a guy—which, you’re clearly in love with him—I wouldn’t stop until he had a restraining order against me.” 

You snort. “Yeah? Well, I like my job and my squad, so—” 

He lets out an exasperated sigh. “My God, Vex. Don’t take everything so literally. The man’s in love with you too. Just fucking go for it before your whole squad murders both of you for being whiny dumbasses.” 

He finds the remote and flicks the TV on, giving you a very pointed look—brows raised—before settling in and scrolling through streaming apps. 

And God, you hate to admit it, but maybe he’s 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. 

“Fine,” you say, standing up with purpose. “I’m going out tonight, by the way.” 

“Good,” he replies, not even glancing your way. “Just keep it down if you bring him home. He might look like an uptight officer, but I can tell that man fucks.” 

“Trev!” 

He chuckles. “What? I’m just saying.” 

You roll your eyes, cheeks burning, and storm off toward your room. 

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. 

Even though you hate the gross bowling shoes that have been worn in by a hundred other people—and the sticky holes on the balls after grubby little kids have been shoving their nasty fingers in them. 

But when Bob mentioned that he’s actually pretty good at bowling… well, how could you protest? 

Plus, it’s still short skirt weather—Bob’s favourite, as you’ve come to notice—and bowling in a tiny skirt feels like a fun, flirty little risk you’re more than willing to take. 

All in the name of science, of course. And your hypothesis? Bob doesn’t stand a chance. 

At 7PM, Natasha picks you up, shooting a very pointed look at the flowy little sundress you’re wearing under your denim jacket. But she doesn’t say a word. 

The drive to the bowling alley isn’t far, and soon you’re walking inside with Mickey and Reuben—who arrived around the same time. Jake, Bradley, Javy, and Bob are already there. They’ve got a lane, swapped into their shoes, and Jake is busy squeezing creative versions of everyone’s callsigns into the limited-character name slot. 

“Can’t you just be ‘Roster’?” he asks Bradley. 

Bradley frowns. “Can’t I just be Brad?” 

“Ugh,” Natasha groans. “No way. You’re not a Brad. Just put Roo.” 

Jake’s face lights up like he just solved the mystery of why the sky is blue. “Good one, Phoenix. Thanks.” 

“What am I?” she asks. 

“Phone,” Javy replies, deadpan. 

Natasha blinks. “Phone? As in P-H-O-N-E?” 

“Yep,” Bradley chuckles. 

“What the fuck, Bagman?” She steps up to the little tablet where he’s typing the names. “Move. You’re an idiot.” 

You stifle a laugh and turn to Mickey and Reuben. “Want to get shoes?” 

They both nod, and you head toward the main counter—though not without catching the way Bob’s eyes drop to your legs, his throat working on a swallow as you walk away. 

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. 

When you’re done, you stand up and put one foot out. “These shoes are hot. Might have to steal them.” 

“You know what,” Jake says with a smirk, “I think you’re just gorgeous enough to make ‘em work. What do you think, Bobby?” 

You glance down at the man sitting beside you. The poor guy who’s basically eye-level—thanks to these ridiculously low seats—with 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 wide—and so blatantly glued to your short, short skirt—that you can barely keep from laughing. 

“Bob?” you ask, voice full of faux innocence. 

He clears his throat, blue eyes flicking up to your face. “Y-Yeah. It’s a nice dress.” 

There’s a beat—everyone turns to Bob—and then they all burst out laughing. Mickey curls over, Reuben tips his head back, Jake’s face twists up, and Natasha has to hold on to Bradley’s shoulder to keep from falling over. 

Bob blinks, brow furrowed, looking back at you as the red in his cheeks deepens. “He wasn’t—we weren’t talking about the dress… were we?” 

You shake your head, biting back a smile. And with the way he’s looking at you—wide-eyed, breathless, full of heat—you feel a spark of boldness rise up in your chest. 

You reach out, pinch his chin between your fingers, and tilt his face up toward you. Then you lean in, slow and teasing, until there’s barely an inch of air between you—your voice a soft whisper just for him. 

“Don’t worry, Bobby,” you murmur. “I wore this dress just for you.” 

Then you straighten up with a wicked smile, leaving him speechless, blushing, and absolutely wrecked. 

You resist the urge to look back—even with all the teasing going on behind you—as 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. 

“We ready?” Natasha asks, finally tapping ‘finish’ on the tablet. 

The names pop up on the screen above the lane: Roo, Hngmn, Pback, Fboy, Nix, Bob, and Vex. 

“Rooster,” she calls, “you’re up.” 

Bradley steps forward, grabs a ball, and promptly sends it flying into the gutter. That’s all it takes. One terrible bowl and the trash talk ignites—like gasoline on an open flame. 

“Jesus, Rooster,” Reuben says. “My nephew could bowl better than that blindfolded—and he’s six, man.” 

“Yeah, dude,” Mickey laughs, “you sure you should be flying jets with that kind of coordination?” 

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. 

“Alright, losers,” Jake says, swaggering up to the ball return. “Time to watch how a real man bowls.” 

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. 

“What can I say?” he grins as he drops back into his seat. “I’m just too good.” 

Next up is Mickey, who insists he has a ‘signature move that never fails’. 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. 

Natasha follows, and—with terrifying precision—manages to hit a spare, knocking down a seven-ten split like it’s nothing. 

“Alright, Baby,” Jake says, clapping a hand on Bob’s shoulder. “You ready to show us what you got?” 

Bob rolls his eyes and shrugs off Jake’s hand, the corner of his mouth twitching as he stands and heads for the ball return. You’re not sure if it’s 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. 

By the time you finally manage to drag your eyes down the lane, the pins are already gone—swept clean away as Bob turns around with just the faintest hint of a smug grin. 

“Fuck,” Reuben mutters. “Bob can bowl.” 

“Oh, damn,” Mickey giggles. “Going after that is gonna suck.” 

You shoot him a look as you push out of your seat. “Thanks, Mick.” 

Bob doesn’t sit down right away—he steps over to the ball return, picks up your ball, and hands it to you with a soft smile. 

You take it, intentionally placing half a hand over his. “Thanks.” 

He nods once, then retreats to where the rest of the squad are waiting. 

“Need a little guidance, Vex?” Jake drawls, voice low and smug. “I give excellent hands-on instruction.” 

You roll your eyes, sliding your fingers into the holes. “I think I’d rather roll a gutter ball than have you breathing down my neck, Bagman. But thanks for the offer.” 

There's a chorus of oohs behind you as you turn back toward the lane. You step forward, swing the ball back, and—thunk—release it way too late. You’re honestly surprised it doesn’t leave a dent in the floor. It wobbles down the lane before veering off and sinking into the gutter just before the pins. 

“Damn,” you sigh, turning around with a sheepish grin. “I’m going to score lower than Rooster.” 

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 he’s about to say something—offer to help maybe—but then he just... doesn’t. 

You watch him sink back in his seat as you pick up your ball and turn to the lane—this time with a bit more intention. 

Bending lower than strictly necessary, you wiggle your fingers into the ball’s 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 don’t have to look to know Bob’s watching. You can feel it—the weight of his stare, the sudden shift in the air like gravity is a pressing down just little harder. 

You swing the ball back and release with a cleaner motion this time. It rolls straight—miraculously—and clips five pins on the right. Not bad. Not great. But right now, you're more interested in the reaction behind you. 

When you turn, Bob’s gaze jerks up like he’s been caught red-handed. His lips are parted, cheeks flushed, and he looks absolutely wrecked—like someone just knocked the wind out of him with a feather. 

Jake whistles low. “Pretty sure what I just witnessed is actually a crime in several states.” 

Reuben leans forward, eyes on Bob. “Oh, no. I think Bob is broken.” 

Mickey snorts. “Somebody reboot him.” 

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 lieutenant—who is now very interested in the floor.  

You smile to yourself as you walk back, fighting the urge to smirk too hard as you drop into the seat beside him. 

“You know,” Bradley says as he steps up to the ball return, “if I’d known this game was about showing as much ass as possible, I would’ve worn my shortest skirt.” 

You roll your eyes and lean back, crossing your arms over your chest. “Please. You would've blinded everyone—and that’s probably the only way you'd have a shot at winning.” 

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. 

You stay quietly pressed to Bob’s side while the others take their turns. And honestly? You don’t care if the game ever continues. With his jean-clad thigh snug against your bare one, you could stay right here all night. 

And Bob doesn’t seem eager to move either. He stays close, legs aligned, knees brushing, arm grazing yours—his warmth wrapped around you like your favourite blanket. 

You’re seconds away from resting your head on his shoulder when Mickey pipes up, announcing that it’s Bob’s turn. He shifts slowly, giving you a soft smile as he stands and walks toward the ball return. 

This time, instead of watching his ass, your eyes track his hands. 

You’ve always had a thing for hands—especially Bob’s. They’re 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. You’ve imagined those hands everywhere—ghosting over your skin, gripping your thighs, digging bruises into your hips, clawing down your back. 

You’ve thought about them more than what could ever be considered healthy. You could write poetry about those hands. Recite sonnets. Start a religion. 

And when those fingers sink into the bowling ball holes? 

Well, fuck. There’s nothing PG about this game—not when your brain is spiralling into fantasies about all the downright filthy ways that Bob Floyd could ruin you. 

“Hey,” Javy nudges your shoulder, knocking you out of your Bob-induced daydream. “It’s your turn, dude.” 

You blink, shaking your head and hoping your blush isn’t as obvious as it feels as you push out of your chair and walk up toward where Bob is. 

“Do you—uh, do you want some help?” he asks, holding your bowling ball in his hands. 

You fight the grin threatening to break across your face, nodding. “Sure.” 

“Hey!” Jake calls from behind you. “I offered first.” 

Reuben snorts. “Yeah, but she doesn’t want to bone you, does she?” 

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. 

“Okay, coach,” you say with a small smirk. “Tell me what to do.” 

“Alright, here,” he says, voice barely above a whisper as he reaches out and gently takes your wrists. 

His touch is light, reverent, and it makes your breath catch. He adjusts your hands around the ball, slow and precise, like he’s memorising the shape of you. How warm you are. The way you respond so eagerly to his touch. 

“Fingers like this,” he murmurs. “You want a solid grip. Not too tight.” 

Your heart stutters. His hands are big—warm and rough in the best way—and 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. 

“Now,” he says, gently guiding your arm, “swing back like this—smooth, steady…” 

You try to follow, but it’s hard to focus when his hands slide down to your hips, positioning them with the lightest squeeze. You swear he groans under his breath—just barely audible, like he’s suffering. 

“That’s… yeah. Perfect.” 

He freezes. 

You don’t move. Neither does he. His hands are still on your hips, his breath coming faster now, his body just slightly more rigid. 

And then you feel it. 

Oh. 

Oh. 

You shift your hips—just a fraction—and he instantly jerks back like he’s been electrocuted. 

“Shit—uh, yeah, you—you got it. You’ll do great,” he stammers, voice suddenly strangled and two octaves higher. “I—uh—I’ve got to—bathroom. Real quick.” 

You turn just in time to see him rush off, pink in the ears, tripping slightly over a chair leg. 

“Was it something I said?” you call after him sweetly. 

Jake cackles from the bench. “Nah, I think you just short-circuited the poor guy.” 

Natasha leans forward, watching Bob disappear down the hallway. “Oh no,” she says with a grin. “I think Bob is completely falling apart at this point.” 

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 spare—despite your brain being completely stuck on Bob... and what exactly had made him bolt so fast. 

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. 

“God, you’re so gone,” Natasha says with a soft laugh. 

You roll your eyes, but the dopey smile refuses to budge. 

“It’s a shame he’s too stupid to do anything about it,” Jake mutters. 

Natasha shoots him a look. “He’s not stupid. He’s cautious.” 

Reuben chuckles. “Yeah, well, if tonight’s anything to go by, Bobby might be throwing caution to the wind pretty soon.” 

You sigh as you sink into one of the low seats. “Not tonight, unfortunately.” 

They all look at you, confused. 

“Trevor’s staying at my place,” you explain simply. 

The group gasps—everyone but Natasha staring at you in disbelief. 

You frown. “What?” 

“I thought—” Mickey glances around like someone else might back him up. “I thought you only liked Bob.” 

You and Natasha—the only two in this group with any emotional intelligence, apparently—exchange a look. 

“She’s not into Trevor,” Nat says dryly. “And he’s definitely not into her.” 

“Yeah,” you add. “He’s gay.” 

“Like, very gay,” Natasha says. “Like, into Hangman gay.” 

Jake’s head snaps toward her. “Excuse me?” 

“Ohhh,” Mickey sighs. “That makes so much sense.” 

Reuben laughs. “Is that why he’s been stopping by every couple nights?” 

You laugh too, nodding. “Yeah. He’s been stuck on nights since getting stationed here, and he’s been bugging me to introduce him to Hangman. Thought it was fate when he found out our squad got moved to nights too.” 

“Excuse me,” Jake repeats. “What exactly makes a man extra gay for being into me?” 

The whole group breaks out laughing—Bradley included as he returns from taking his turn. 

“You’re just... pretty,” Javy says with a shrug. 

“So?” Jake throws up his hands. “What’s that supposed to mean?” 

“It’s a compliment, dude,” Reuben says. “Just take it.” 

Jake huffs, but the rest of the group turns back to you. 

“So, why is he staying at your place?” Mickey asks. 

“Yeah,” Bradley adds, “and why can’t you bring someone home? It’s your place.” 

“His plumbing at the barracks is all messed up, so I offered him my couch,” you explain, before looking at Bradley. “And I could bring someone home, but I’m pretty sure he’d make it weird. Plus, I’m not exactly a fan of… being quiet.” 

Jake tips his head back with a dramatic groan. “God, why is it always the quiet nerds who get the hot freaky girls?” 

You giggle and pat his knee. “Oh, Hangman. You’re delusional if you think Floyd isn’t a freak too.” 

“Ugh,” Natasha groans. “Why does this feel like you’re talking about my brother?” 

“She’s right, though,” Mickey says, thoughtful. “Bob’s got something about him.” 

The rest of the squad nods, unspoken agreement passing between them while Jake’s eyes flick around in horrified disbelief. 

“What’d I miss?” Bob asks, suddenly reappearing at the edge of the group. 

Everyone falls silent. 

“Hangman’s stalling,” Natasha says coolly, “because he realised he’s going to lose.” 

Jake narrows his eyes at her as he stands. “You’re going down, Trace. This next one’s a strike.” 

He stalks off toward the ball return, and the game resumes. 

Thankfully, Bob doesn’t question the odd look Mickey gives him as he sits down beside you. Only this time, he keeps his distance—at least an inch between your bodies, careful not to let even the fabric of his shirt brush your arm. He doesn’t look at you, either. His gaze stays locked on the lane, watching each turn with intense focus. And he definitely doesn’t offer any more hands-on guidance for the rest of the night— though the blush on his cheeks stays stubbornly in place. 

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 isn’t even that late, but with your wrecked sleep schedules, you’re all starting to feel a little loopy. 

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, he’s still inside—waiting by the claw machine with his nose buried in his phone. 

“Hey, superstar,” you say as you approach. “How’s it feel to be the best bowler in the squad?” 

He glances up with a soft smile. “One of the best,” he corrects. “I only won the first game.” 

You smirk, confidence flooding your gut. “Was it first-game luck or my skirt that threw you off during the second?” 

His face flushes bright red, eyes going wide like he’s just been caught in a lie. “I—uh, no, I just—” 

You roll your eyes playfully. “I was joking, Bob. Calm down.” 

He presses his lips together and nods, eyes flicking down to your bare legs for the briefest second before returning to your face. 

You nod toward the doors. “Come on. Let’s get out of here before the others get suspicious.” 

He nods and gestures for you to lead the way—so you do, swinging your hips just a little extra. 

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. 

“I was wondering,” you say quickly, forcing the words out before you lose your nerve. “Did you—um,” you clear your throat, “want to hang out tomorrow night?” 

He glances at you, blue eyes swimming with something you can’t quite place. 

“Just us,” you clarify, voice dropping. “Kind of like… a date?” 

There’s a pause. An awkward pause. 

The hairs on the back of your neck rise and your stomach twists. 

“Um,” he drops his gaze to the ground, brows knitting. “I—I can’t tomorrow. I’ve got—I mean, I haven’t done laundry like… all week with the shift change, and I really need to catch up before Monday.” 

Heat floods your face, embarrassment settling heavy and sour in your gut. 

“I’m sorry,” he mutters, still staring at the floor. 

You dip your chin and blink hard, swallowing the burn rising behind your eyes. “No problem,” you say, keeping your voice even. “Hope you have fun doing laundry.” 

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 Natasha’s car without so much as a glance toward the others. You yank the passenger door open, slide in, and slam it shut. 

- Bob - 

“What’d you do?” Natasha asks, arms crossed and eyes narrowed. 

Bob takes a slow breath as he drags his eyes up to meet her glare. “Nothing,” he mutters. 

“Yeah?” She arches a brow. “So, Vex will say the same thing when I ask her?” 

He pinches the bridge of his nose, rubbing the spot where his glasses sit. “Probably not, Phoenix. But you know what? I don’t really feel like explaining myself to you right now, so please—just drop it.” 

She rolls her eyes and lets her arms fall to her sides, keys jingling in one hand. “I really thought you were one of the good ones, Floyd. I’m a little disappointed.” 

Then she turns and mumbles goodbye to the rest of the squad—who are all watching with wide eyes—before walking to her car and climbing into the driver’s seat. 

Bob can still feel your glare through the windshield, even if the dark night doesn’t let him see you clearly inside the car. 

As soon as Natasha peels out of the lot, Bob feels the shift—the boys’ eyes snap toward him. 

“So,” Jake says, brows raised, “what did you do?” 

Bob exhales and leans back against his car, arms crossing over his chest. “She asked me out,” he says quietly, “and I told her no… because I have laundry to do.” 

There’s a collective intake of breath. The atmosphere sharpens with something unspoken but easily understood: Bob fucked up—bad. 

“You what?” Reuben asks, leaning in. 

Bradley lets out a low chuckle. “Holy shit, Floyd. That was dumb.” 

“I know,” Bob huffs. 

He’s not sure why he couldn’t 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 anyway—so why bother? Or maybe it’s because he’s a little afraid of Nat. And he knows, deep down, that he messed up. He just didn’t feel like getting chewed out by his sharp-tongued pilot tonight. 

“Why the hell wouldn’t you say yes?” Jake frowns. “She’s so into you—it’s almost a joke. And she’s gorgeous. Who cares about the age gap?” 

Bob’s eyes snap toward him, brow furrowed. “You’re the one who always has something to say about it. You literally call me a cradle-snatcher, like… once a week.” 

Jake rolls his eyes. “Because it’s fun to get a rise out of you. I don’t actually mean it.” 

“Yeah, dude,” Javy adds. “If we thought it was wrong, we’d say something. We make fun of you both because it’s obvious you’re obsessed with each other.” 

“Honestly,” Mickey pipes up, “I thought you two were already dating and just keeping it from us.” 

Bob buries his face in his hands, the heat in his cheeks burning against his palms. “For fuck’s sake.” 

“Oh, wow,” Reuben mutters. “Bob just swore.” 

Bradley drops a hand on Bob’s shoulder. “Maybe you should call her. Or—I don’t know—go see her tomorrow. Apologise. You don’t have to date her, but if that’s how you feel, you need to be clear. Don’t lead her on. And you definitely owe her an apology for that shitty laundry excuse.” 

Bob nods slowly, letting his hands drop. “Yeah. I know.” 

Mickey chuckles, pulling his keys from his pocket. “Good luck, dude.” 

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. 

He barely sleeps that night. 

Every time he closes his eyes, he sees the profile of your face after he said no—the 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. 

He hates the thought of hurting you. But more than that, he hates himself—because 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 same—he made you cry. And that thought alone makes him feel sick. 

Before the sun even rises, he’s out of bed. Sleep abandoned, guilt gnawing at his insides, he laces up his shoes and goes for a run—trying to outrun the tight knot in his chest. He knows he’ll have to sleep later and stay up again tonight, thanks to another stretch of night shifts. But that doesn’t matter. What matters is talking to you. This morning. If you’ll even let him. 

After his run, sweat still cooling on his skin, he finally works up the nerve to text you: ‘Hey, sorry about last night. Are you free this morning?’ 

An hour passes. Nothing. 

And he knows you’re ignoring him—because you’ve reacted to a couple of messages in the group chat. You’re awake. You’re just not answering him. And honestly, he doesn’t blame you. 

By ten o’clock, he can’t stand it anymore. 

The ache in his chest is unbearable. His head is pounding. The guilt in his stomach is curling tighter with every passing second. But it’s not just guilt. It’s not just the regret of hurting a friend’s feelings. 

It’s worse—because it’s you. 

You’re 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 he’s tried not to need you… he does. Desperately. 

The age gap isn’t the real problem—it never was. Maybe it’s just an excuse, something to hide behind because deep down, he doesn’t think he deserves you. But that’s not good enough anymore. He has to fix this. Even if you never forgive him, even if things can’t go back to how they were—he has to try. 

Because Robert Floyd knows now, without a doubt, that he’s in love with you. 

And God, he hopes he can say it out loud—because it might be the only thing that can save him now. 

Before Bob even knows exactly how he’s going to say everything that’s been spinning through his head, he’s 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. 

He still thinks about that day, too. About the exercise tights you wore—how 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. 

Bob felt like a total creep that day, but that hasn’t stopped him from—repeatedly—getting off to the memory of you on that balcony. Cheeks pink, lips wet with beer, eyes so wide and innocent, even though he’s pretty sure you knew exactly what you were doing to him… 

He shakes his head and forces his feet to move—into 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. 

His heart is caught in his throat, hammering like it’s trying to escape. He’s felt pressure in the cockpit, but nothing like this. This is worse than pulling 8 Gs. 

The door swings open, and he opens his mouth to immediately beg you to hear him out—but… it’s not you. 

“Bob,” Trevor says with a sleepy grin and a wicked glint in his eye. “What a surprise to see you here.” 

His hair’s 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 he’s shirtless, wearing nothing but a crooked pair of boxers that—at least in Bob’s opinion—aren’t leaving much to the imagination. 

“I—uh, Trevor?” 

Trevor nods, brow furrowing slightly. “The one and only. You good, man? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.” 

Bob wishes it were a ghost. Because what he’s seeing right now is ten times more horrifying than anything spooky or undead. 

He clears his throat. “Y-Yeah, I’m good. I just—um, I was going to ask Vex if—” 

“Who is it?” you call groggily from deeper inside the apartment, your voice thick with sleep. 

Trevor smirks over his shoulder. “Floyd!” 

“What?” 

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 narrowed—definitely not surprised. Just… pissed. 

“What are you doing here?” you ask, arms crossed tight against your chest. 

Bob stares, wide-eyed. You’re not shocked. You’re not flustered. You're still mad. How could you still be mad at him now? 

“I—uh, well—” He shakes his head and steps back, his stomach swirling nauseously. “Nothing. It’s fine. Just—forget it. You two have fun.” 

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, Trevor’s too, but he doesn’t care. He doesn’t 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. 

Does he have any right to be this angry? Probably not. But still—why couldn’t you see it from his point of view? Why couldn’t you understand he was just… hesitant? That he needed some time to wrap his head around it? 

But no. You couldn’t be patient. You couldn’t wait. 

Because maybe you’re not as into him as everyone keeps saying. Maybe you never were. 

God, he should’ve 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 waiting—when you could have just about any man you wanted? 

- You - 

“What was that about?” Trevor asks, his head still half-stuck out the door like Bob might suddenly come back. 

You drop onto the couch, shoving aside the blanket Trevor had been using. “Don’t know,” you mutter. “Maybe he was thinking about apologising for being a jerk, but then decided to just keep being one.” 

Trevor turns to you with a puzzled frown. “What?” 

“You heard me.” 

He shuts the door and walks slowly toward to the lounge. “Yeah, but I didn’t understand you. What’s with the attitude?” 

You sigh, rolling your eyes. “I asked him out last night.” 

Trevor gasps—loudly. 

“But he said no.” 

He rears back, brows drawn. “What? Why?” 

“Because he has laundry to do.” 

Trevor’s eyes go wide, his mouth falling open. “No.” 

“Yup,” you mutter, sinking deeper into the cushions. “That’s what the attitude is for.” 

He nods slowly, still staring. “Right… but then why did he show up here?” 

You shrug. “Maybe to apologise. Or maybe he was going to let me down for good. Tell me to stop flirting with him, or whatever.” 

Trevor frowns again, his eyes glazing over like he's lost in thought. 

You nudge his knee with your foot. “What’s that look for?” 

“Nothing,” he says quickly, though the curiosity stays fixed on his face. 

“Trevor…” 

He exhales a short breath. “I mean—do you think he thought… you and I…? You know?” He gestures vaguely between the two of you. “He knows I’m gay, right?” 

You snort. “Yes, Grinder. Bob Floyd, along with all of North Island, is very aware that you’re gay. I was literally talking about it with the squad last night.” 

He nods. “Good. ‘Cause if he didn’t, me opening the door shirtless and you in that ridiculously oversized tee might’ve looked real bad.” 

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. 

You let yourself feel it—let your chest ache with it—and hope it’s enough to kill off this stupid crush once and for all. 

But deep down, you know the truth. 

Whatever this is, it stopped being just a crush a while ago. 

And you’re starting to fear that maybe—just maybe—you’ve accidentally fallen in love with Bob Floyd. 

You spend the rest of the day sulking on the couch like it’s your full-time job, while Trevor obliterates your kitchen trying to make homemade macarons to ‘cheer you up.’ Normally, you’d be in there with him, correcting his technique and keeping the apartment from burning down, but not today. Today, you’re tired and heartbroken. 

The two of you stay up late trying to adjust to the coming week of night shifts, but by two a.m. you’re passed out on the lounge… and promptly woken at four by Trevor’s snoring. That’s when you give up, throw on your shoes, and go for a run—hoping to burn through enough energy to sleep through the day before shift. 

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. It’s nice not having to share bathrooms or constantly wonder whether you’re going to get all your socks back from the laundry room. But you’d be lying if you said you didn’t miss running into your friends all the time—running into Bob. 

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 they’d all know by now—that you asked Bob out and he shut you down. 

Honestly, you wouldn’t even be surprised if Maverick knew. 

“Hey,” Natasha says, meeting you by the stairs before you enter the briefing room. 

You give her a tight smile. 

“Feeling any better?” 

You shake your head, lips still pulled into a watery smile as you push the door open. 

Bob is already in his usual seat—because of course he is—but he doesn’t look up when you walk in. He doesn’t give you that soft smile he usually does whenever he sees you. 

Instead, he keeps his eyes locked on the lid of his travel mug, jaw tight as he flicks the little tab open and closed. 

Natasha gives you a sidelong glance, her brows drawn curiously. She knows what happened—you told her—but you haven’t yet filled her in on the part where he showed up at your apartment and then left in a hurry. 

You shake your head, giving her a silent look that says you’ll 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. 

It isn’t 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. 

You’re 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 week’s reprieve. 

“Alright,” Maverick says, shutting his notebook. “Phoenix, Bob, Hangman, Vex—you’re on deck. The rest of you, head to the ready room.” 

Everyone shuffles out, the group splitting down the corridor as half of you head outside and the other half veer toward the ready room. 

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. 

Then the cart ride is silent—tension so thick that even Maverick doesn’t bother breaking it. 

Once at the hangar, you start gearing up and going through the motions—chatting with ground crew, checking your jet, adjusting your equipment, running internals. You wait until it’s your turn to be taxied out, then climb into the cockpit and try to settle your nerves. 

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. 

Tonight, the sky is clear but moonless—the darkness heavier than usual. You check your instruments twice—three times—and remind yourself it’s just another hop. You’ve done this a thousand times before. 

But still, your hands stay tight on the controls. 

You fly in relative radio silence for the first twenty minutes, squinting through slightly misaligned NVGs. You’d fiddled with them on the ground until you gave up and told yourself your vision was good enough. It’s quieter than usual, and you’re not sure if that’s because no one has anything to say—or because the night feels eerily still. 

Natasha and Bob are flying point, with you and Jake in the second element. Maverick is out here too, but only observing—watching closely as you run a low-level, terrain-following route meant to simulate a high-risk strike. 

You’ve done this kind of thing a hundred times, even at night. But something about this hop feels off. Or maybe it’s just you, flying like you’ve got something to prove—to yourself, or to someone else. You haven’t decided yet. 

Then Bob’s voice crackles through the comms, steady and low. “Vex, you’re a little wide on your spacing.” 

You don’t answer, but you adjust—barely. 

“Maintain visual, Vex,” Natasha adds, voice firm. “Don’t ride solo tonight.” 

You bite the inside of your cheek and flick your radio toggle. “Copy.” 

You fall back into formation as the terrain-following manoeuvres begin—tight 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. 

It’s not an easy run, but you’ve done it before. You know the tricky spots, and you’re watching out for your team, flying just a little closer than what’s usually comfortable. You’d be flying almost perfectly—if it weren’t for Bob’s corrections crackling through the radio. His voice in your ear every few minutes, low and steady. Commanding. It’s making your skin crawl and your pulse race. 

You know you’re better than this. You’ve trained to handle the worst. To stay sharp pulling 10 Gs, to keep cool weaving through canyons at Mach 2. And yet somehow, Bob Floyd’s maddeningly smooth voice telling you and Jake how not to crash is what’s making you consider pulling the damn ejection handle. 

“Vex, you’ve got a ridge coming up,” Bob says, his tone sharper now, more urgent. “Drop throttle. Adjust heading five degrees right.” 

You hesitate. Your altimeter says you’re good, and your gut says you’re fine. You think—no, you know—you can hold it. 

“Vex—” he tries again. 

“I’ve got it,” you snap, breathless as you press on, trying to hold your line. 

Jake cuts in with something sharp, but you don’t catch it—because suddenly the warning tone in your headset screams. 

Your heart lurches. 

Terrain. Too close. Too fast. 

“Pull up! Pull up!” Bob’s voice slices through the comms. “Vex, you’re too low!” 

You grit your teeth, trying to correct, trying to climb—but it’s too dark, too fast. Everything is a blur. 

“Vex, listen to me—pull up!” His voice cracks. “You’re going to hit—” 

“Eject!” Maverick shouts, raw panic in his tone. “Vex, eject now!” 

“I can save it,” you mutter, voice strained. “I can—" 

Then you see it. A flash of jagged terrain through the cockpit glass—a dark silhouette where there should be sky. And in that split second, the truth hits you like a punch to the chest. 

You’re not going to make it. 

Your hand flies to the ejection handle, pulling it hard. 

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. 

Then—freefall. 

The sky spins. The world tilts. The parachute deploys with a brutal yank that rattles your spine. 

But you’re too low. Far too low. 

You don’t even have time to brace. 

You hit the ground hard—a bone-snapping impact that knocks every breath from your lungs. The force slams through your leg with a sickening pop. 

White-hot pain detonates through you. 

Your vision flashes. Your stomach turns. You can’t even scream. 

And then… everything goes still. 

Muted. 

Quiet. 

Like the world took a breath—and left you behind. 

- 

You wake to the steady beep of a monitor. Your eyelids are heavy, your mouth is dry, and there’s pain everywhere. It’s not as excruciating as it had been right before you blacked out, but it’s there—dull and throbbing, a bitter reminder of what had happened when you ejected from your jet. 

It feels like it was only seconds ago, but you know better than that. You’re not that out of it. 

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 know—you’re in a hospital. 

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. 

You try—and fail—to 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. 

“Ow,” you mutter, voice hoarse and barely audible. 

There’s a sudden gasp beside you, then a quick shuffle of movement. 

A warm hand wraps around yours as dark blue eyes swim into focus above you, wide and full of concern—rimmed red, with deep purple shadows underneath. 

“You’re awake,” he says, voice rough before he clears his throat, like he's trying to swallow down something heavier. 

“Bob,” you whisper, lips cracking as they stretch into a soft smile. 

He doesn’t say anything. He just looks at you. His face is pale, exhaustion carved into every line, his eyes scanning your face like he’s trying to memorise it. Or maybe—trying 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. 

He stands straight, jaw clenched, and turns to the wall to press the nurse call button. 

You frown, but before you can speak—if you even could with how dry your mouth is—a nurse rushes in. 

“Oh, you’re awake!” she says brightly, green eyes lighting up as she stops beside the bed. “How are you feeling?” 

You clear your throat. “Thirsty.” 

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. 

“Thanks,” you rasp after a few sips, your voice clearer now. 

The nurse smiles softly, her eyes flicking between you and Bob. “He didn’t leave your side. Not for a second.” 

You turn to look at him, but all traces of warmth are gone. He looks almost angry, his gaze fixed straight ahead—not 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. 

He’s still in his flight suit, which means he’s been with you since the second search and rescue found you. 

“I’ll give you two a minute,” the nurse says. “I’m just going to grab the doctor, alright?” 

You nod, not even looking at her, and she shuffles out of the room, swinging the door half shut on her way. 

Bob’s eyes flick to you. “Are you in pain?” 

You shift slightly, the dull throb in your leg pulsing back to life. “Yeah,” you wince. “A little. But it’s bearable.” 

He doesn’t move. His whole body is tense, only his eyes locked on you—sharp and unrelenting. 

“You have a hairline fracture in your femur,” he says. 

You glance down at the brace wrapped around your leg. 

“You’re lucky it wasn’t a full break,” he adds. “You’d have been grounded for at least six months—or longer. Probably would’ve had to requalify, if you even got cleared again.” 

You swallow hard. He’s angry—really angry. The way he’s looking at you, it’s like he’s torn between wrapping you in his arms or walking out the door and never looking back. 

“You didn’t listen,” he says, voice cracking as he takes a step forward. “You were supposed to listen to me, and you didn’t. I—I told you just last week that if something happened, it would be my fault.” 

Tears sting your eyes, blurring your vision. “This isn’t your—” 

“No,” he snaps. “It’s 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.” 

You blink, warm tears slipping down your cheek. “Bob, I—” 

“Don’t,” he says, voice low and raw. “Don’t say my name like that. Don’t look at me like I’m the only person you want to see right now.” He lets out a shaky breath, dragging a hand through his hair. “I’ve been here for two days. I haven’t slept. I haven’t eaten. You scared the shit out of me. I thought you were dead. You went down so fast, you—you—” 

The door swings open and a middle-aged woman with white-blonde hair pulled into a tight bun steps in. “Lieutenants,” she greets briskly. “Sorry to interrupt, but there are a few things we need to go over.” 

Bob straightens immediately. “Thank you, Doctor. I’ll be leaving now.” 

Her brows knit together, but she doesn’t stop him as he turns and walks out. 

His footsteps are heavy. Forced. Like it’s taking everything he’s got to walk away and not look back. 

After a whirlwind of doctors, nurses, and a long debrief with the flight surgeon, you're finally discharged. You can’t drive—of course—so 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. 

Once you’re home, you collapse into bed and immediately pass out. But it’s not exactly restful. Your brain won’t shut off—won’t 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 hasn’t responded to your text thanking him for staying. Or the one where you apologised for not listening to him in the air. 

You want to talk to him. Need to talk to him. Because you're not planning on staying grounded forever, and when you’re back on your feet, you’re not transferring out. The Dagger Squad isn’t just a group of friends—they’re your family. Bob included. In a completely non-incestuous way, obviously. Even though there are definitely some things you’d like to do to him that would make a family dinner wildly uncomfortable. 

But first, he has to reply. He has to acknowledge that you exist. 

When you wake again, it’s 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. 

The next few hours are spent on the couch, anxiously watching the clock until Natasha finally texts you to say they’ve been dismissed. Which means Bob is off. Which means he has no excuse. 

But still—nothing. You call. He doesn’t answer. Then Natasha texts again to let you know she watched him decline it. 

Great. Another win. 

Two whole days pass, and still no word. 

You’re supposed to be on bed rest for two weeks before the flight surgeon clears you for light duties, but you’re going stir-crazy. With the squad on night shifts and your circadian rhythm completely fucked, you haven’t spoken to anyone but Trevor—once, over the phone—in forty-eight hours. Unless you count text messages, which you don’t. 

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 it’s okay to spend two full days sitting beside your hospital bed and then just vanish like none of it happened. 

At this point, you don’t even care if he professes his undying love for you—though you’d strongly prefer it—you 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 you’re allowed to have... then you’ll take it. 

Even if it kills you. 

By the third day… or night—you’re not even sure anymore—you decide to take matters into your own hands. 

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. 

You know where Bob lives—in the least creepy way possible—because 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. 

It’s barely a ten-minute drive, which gives you about half an hour to crutch your way up the fire stairs—because of course the elevator requires a swipe card—to his apartment. 

You know it’s ridiculous. You could’ve just waited in the lobby. But you don’t want to give him the chance to run away—again, 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, he’d have to escort you back down to the lobby with his swipe card… and maybe you could ‘accidentally’ sabotage the lift so it broke down. Then he’d be stuck with you. 

Jesus. Thirty-six hours alone and you’re already in full-blown serial killer mode. 

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. 

Not even a minute later, Natasha texts you to say they’ve been dismissed—because of course you filled her in on your plan. 

And then you wait. With a racing pulse, a throbbing leg, and about a thousand thoughts spiralling through your brain. You wait. 

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. 

Your breathing picks up as the minutes pass—faster and faster until it feels impossible to catch. You feel dizzy, like you might pass out just waiting for him. But then—ding. 

The elevator doors slide open, and Bob steps out. 

Seeing him for the first time in three days shouldn’t feel like a religious experience—but it fucking does. God, he looks good. Even sleep-deprived, rumpled, and sporting messy helmet hair, he’s a walking wet dream in a flight suit deliberately designed for your destruction. 

“Hey,” you say quietly, not wanting to startle him. 

He jumps anyway—just a little. His feet still, eyes widening behind his glasses, brows pulling together. 

“What are you doing here?” 

You push off the door, steadying yourself on your crutches. “Good to see you too,” you say dryly. “I’ve been alright. A little lonely, borderline insane. My leg’s killing me after a thousand stairs. But hey—you look... tired. How’s the squad?” 

He studies you for a moment. His frown softens, and you swear the corner of his mouth twitches. 

“I am tired,” he says. “The squad’s fine. Also tired.” 

You nod. “Cool. So... everyone’s tired.” 

He pulls his keys from his pocket and starts walking toward you, closing the distance. 

“That all you came to talk about?” he asks. 

You roll your eyes and shuffle aside. “What do you think?” 

He sighs. “I think I’m not going straight to bed anymore.” 

The door swings inward and he steps through, holding it open for you—wide as possible. 

“That would be correct,” you say, flashing a grin as you hobble inside. 

He shuts the door behind you and slides the chain lock into place. 

You try not to appear as awkward as you feel, but crutches aren’t exactly graceful—and you haven’t 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. You’re just about to drop onto it when a warm hand catches your elbow. 

“Here,” he says softly, his other hand reaching to take the crutches from you. 

He’s so close you can feel his warmth. You catch his scent—clean linen, a hint of jet fuel, and something subtle and spicy that’s so unmistakably him. 

“Thanks,” you murmur, eyes locked on his lips. 

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. 

“Let me just get changed,” he says, already turning toward his bedroom without a second glance. 

He’s gone less than a minute. When he returns, he’s wearing dark blue joggers and a white sleep shirt worn so thin it’s almost translucent. 

“Water?” he asks, detouring into the kitchen. 

You shake your head. “I’m good—but thanks.” 

He’s stalling. You know it. But you can be patient. 

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 lounge—about as far from you as possible. 

“Okay,” he says. “You want to talk?” 

You nod, adjusting your posture even though you're already stiff with nerves. 

“Look,” you begin, eyes dropping to your lap. “I know why you’re mad about the accident—I get it. It was stupid. I was reckless. I deserve to be in this stupid brace. I shouldn’t have ignored you, and I shouldn’t have let personal shit bleed into work. I’m sorry.” 

You glance up, but he doesn’t react—doesn’t move. He just blinks. 

Still, you press on. “If I could go back, I would. If there was anything I could do to make it up to you—or the squad—I’d do it. But we’re here now, I feel like shit, and the accident is on my record. I’m just glad none of you, or Mav, are in trouble because of me.” 

He’s still silent, but you can see it now—his eyes keep flicking down to your shirt, his frown darkening each time. 

“What I don’t get,” you say, your voice tightening, “is why you were already mad that night. Why you came to my apartment that morning but ran off without—” 

“That’s irrelevant,” he cuts in, voice low—lethal. 

You frown. “What 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.” 

His eyes widen. “Oh, so it’s my fault now? That what you’re saying?” 

“No,” you snap. “Of course not. God, Bob, none of this is your fault. It’s mine. It’s 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. I’m not blaming you. I just want to understand.” 

He takes an infuriatingly calm sip of water, gaze still fixed on your torso. 

“You want to know why I said no when you asked me out?” 

You shake your head. “I know why you said no.” 

His brow creases. “You do?” 

You sigh, eyes falling to your fingers as they toy with the hem of your shirt. “Because you don’t like me. That’s it. And I need to accept that. I shouldn’t have pushed it, or forced myself on you, and—” 

He scoffs—sharp and dry—cutting you off. “You’re joking, right?” 

You look up, blinking slowly. “Um… no. Not really.” 

His laugh is sharp—bitter and cracked—so not Bob. 

“You think I don’t like you?” he says, voice rising—unsteady now. “Are you insane?” 

He stands suddenly, running a hand through his hair as if trying to keep himself from flying apart. 

“I have never cared about anyone the way I care about you. You are the only damn thing I think about. I can’t sleep, I’m not hungry, I can’t focus—I just want you. All the time. Do you know how maddening that is?” His eyes are wild when they meet yours. “And yeah, I said no when you asked me out, but that wasn’t because I didn’t want to. God, I wanted to. I wanted to say yes so badly it hurt. But I was scared.” 

He paces now, voice building like the pressure in a cockpit. 

“It wasn’t about your age—that was just a dumb excuse. It was you. You’re gorgeous, you’re smart, you’re funny, and you’re 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?” 

His voice cracks, and he stops pacing, facing you full on. “So yeah. I panicked. I said no. And the second you walked away, I regretted it. I hated myself for it. And that morning—I came to tell you. I was ready to throw it all on the table.” He swallows hard, jaw flexing. “But then he answered the door. Like he lived there. Like he belonged. And you—” 

He gestures at you, helpless. His eyes—dark blue and burning—shine with the storm he’s been holding back. 

“You just stood there. In his shirt. Like you hadn’t just ripped my heart out and stepped over it. Like I was nothing. Like I’d missed my shot and you’d already moved on.” His voice dips—raw now. “And now? You’re here. In the same goddamn shirt.” 

He laughs again, broken this time. 

“And 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 you’re the one who ruined it? Who let her go?” 

He’s panting now, standing between the couch and the coffee table with wild eyes and flushed cheeks. Just looking at you. Waiting. 

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 can’t breathe. You can barely think. There’s only one word echoing in your head. 

“Love?” you whisper. 

He rubs his hands down his face, letting out a shaky breath. 

“Yes. Love.” His arms drop to his sides as he meets your eyes again. “I love you.” 

Your heart lurches into your throat. 

“But that doesn’t change anything,” he adds quickly, dropping onto the couch—closer this time, close enough that his knee brushes yours. “I don’t 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 it—and for that, I’m sorry. Just…” He sighs again. “Just give me some time, okay? Just let me—” 

“Trevor’s gay,” you blurt, louder than you mean to. 

He blinks. “What?” 

“Gay,” you repeat. “He’s gay. Like, so incredibly gay he’s into Hangman.” 

Bob’s lips part, a soft breath slipping out. 

You lean forward, brows drawn tight. “His callsign is Grinder. I mean, yes—partly because he’s a hard worker—but mostly because he got caught on Grindr before a briefing once and... it just stuck. But—Bob, I thought you knew—” You cut yourself off, eyes going wide. “Oh my God. You were in the bathroom when I told the squad.” 

The room falls into a heavy, eerie silence. 

The air between you crackles—so thick, so charged, the smallest spark could burn the whole damn building down. 

“Hangman?” he whispers, nose scrunching just slightly. 

You nod. “Hangman.” 

He blinks slowly, wide eyes swimming with emotion. “So, you didn’t—” 

“No,” you snap, frustration flaring hot beneath your skin. “Is that what you thought? That I asked you out, and when you said no I just ran off to find the nearest guy who’d fuck me?” 

He cringes—actually cringes. “That’s just how it looked, I—” 

“So you assumed?” you cut in, voice sharp. “You didn’t even ask. You just decided to get all broody and jealous and pissed off, even though you’re the one who rejected me?” 

You want to pace like he did, storm out, slam a door, something—but you can't. Not with your stupid leg. 

“I know I had no right,” he mutters. 

“Damn straight you didn’t,” you bite out. “You think I’d do that? You think I’d throw myself at someone else just because you said no? Jesus, Bob, I’m looking at a decade-long mourning period after you. I’m in love with you. Do you really think I could move on? Ever? Let alone the next fucking—” 

His mouth is on yours before the word leaves your lips. 

It’s not a kiss—it’s a collision. A detonation. A goddamn freefall. 

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. It’s hot and desperate and unrestrained, all teeth and tongue and pent-up ache, every ounce of frustration and longing he’s carried igniting in a single breathless second. 

You gasp, shocked by the force of it—your lips parting, letting him in. 

And then it’s chaos. Raw, searing, beautiful chaos. 

His touch is everywhere, frantic and reverent, as if he’s 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 you’re both trying to breathe each other in. 

You feel like you’re on fire. Like this kiss could split you in half. 

There’s a sharp pain in your leg from how hard you’re leaning in, but you don’t care. You’d burn your whole body just to keep this going. 

Because he kisses you like it’s the last thing he’ll ever do. Like stopping would kill him. And you kiss him back with the same reckless hunger—because you’ve wanted this forever. Because he’s yours. And you’re his. And nothing else exists anymore but the way he’s holding you like he’s afraid you’ll disappear. 

“I love you,” he breathes against your lips. “I love you. I love you. Please don’t go. Don’t ever leave.” 

You press your forehead to his, a breathy laugh slipping out. “I’m not leaving.” 

“Good,” he murmurs, then kisses you again—soft, lingering. 

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. 

Your stomach flips like you’ve 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. 

“Bob,” you whisper, broken and breathless, as his tongue traces the hollow where your shoulder meets your neck. “Bob, m—my leg.” 

He jolts back like he’s touched a live wire, eyes wide. The sudden loss of him leaves you cold, shivering in the space he’s no longer filling. 

“I’m so sorry,” he gasps. 

You shake your head quickly. “It’s fine. I’m okay.” 

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. 

Then he frowns, glancing down at your shirt. “So... whose shirt is that?” 

You blink, then glance down. “Oh. No idea. Barracks laundry mix-up, I think. Makes a good sleep shirt, though.” 

He chuckles softly, the pink in his cheeks creeping all the way to the tips of his ears as his eyes lock on yours. “It looks good on you,” he murmurs, voice low and rough, “but I think I prefer the short skirts.” 

Your heart trips, racing straight into your throat. “Bob Floyd,” you gasp, eyes wide with faux scandal, “did you just admit how much you love short skirt weather?” 

He rolls his eyes, all sheepish charm. “Only when the skirts are on you.” 

“That so?” Your lips curl into a slow smirk. “Well, unfortunately, I think this—” you tap the brace on your leg “—means short skirts are officially out. For now, at least.” 

He exhales hard, gaze dropping for just a second before snapping back to yours—burning now. There’s a hunger there, dark and open and unfiltered, something you’ve maybe only glimpsed before. It sparks heat low in your belly, your thighs aching to clench—if it weren’t for your stupid goddamn injury. 

Then, low and shameless and deadly serious, he asks, “What about sex?” 

The question punches the breath right from your lungs. Your cheeks flush hot as you bite your lip to hide the grin already threatening. 

“Can you be gentle?” you ask, voice barely above a whisper. 

“I can try,” he mutters, so deep and rough it settles right between your legs and spreads like wildfire. 

Your head is spinning. Logic fading fast. You don’t care how sore your leg might be—you want him. All of him. Finally. 

So you lean in, brushing your lips to his in a soft, teasing kiss as you murmur against his mouth, “Then what the fuck are you waiting for, Floyd?”