ℳ.

⤷ Character Focus: I currently write for cortis.

⤷ Request Guidelines: Feel free to send in prompts, headcanon ideas, drabble requests, or specific scenarios. NO SMUT

⤷ Turnaround Time: I write at my own pace, depending on inspiration, time, and emotional energy. Currently I’m very preoccupied by school.

LATER...

Y/N had spent the entire walk to the filming room pretending she was normal.

Which was hard when Wonhee kept whispering things like,

“Your man’s already in there.”

“He is NOT my man,” Y/N hissed back, tugging her sleeves over her hands.

Wonhee hummed like she didn’t believe a word.

Which was annoying because Y/N didn’t even like him like that.

Probably.

Maybe she just found him a little pretty. That didn’t mean anything.

The staff member opened the door before she could spiral further.

Inside, the members of Cortis were scattered around the practice room while staff adjusted cameras and lighting. Music echoed faintly from the speakers while someone tested volume levels.

Y/N around once— and immediately found him.

Juhoon stood near the mirror in an fitted black denim jacket, sleeves pushed up slightly past his wrists as he scrolled through something on his phone. The second the girls walked in, he looked up and bowed politely. “Hello.”

Y/N bowed back quickly, “Hi.”

Y/N tried not to stare. She failed immediately.

He looked even prettier up close, and he was so kind. Which was honestly annoying.

“Okay!” the staff member clapped. “Wonhee and Keonho first. Then Y/N and Juhoon.”

“Okay!” the cortis members responded enthusiasticly.

Y/N physically felt Wonhee’s stare hit the side of her head. She refused to look back. Absolutely refused.

Wonhee and Keonho filmed first while Y/N stood off to the side pretending to stretch. In reality she was spiraling. Wonhee kept making eye contact with her during filming just to smirk. Traitor.

Then suddenly, “Y/N?”

She blinked. Juhoon was standing in front of her now. Close. Not super close. But close enough that she could see the faint shine of sweat near his temples from practice.

He held his phone out slightly. “Should we rehearse once before filming?”

“Oh— yeah. Sure.”

They ran through the first few counts smoothly until Y/N accidentally looked at him instead of the mirror and missed the timing completely.

“Ah— sorry,” she laughed awkwardly.

Juhoon immediately shook his head. “No, I think I sped up too much.” His tone was so genuinely apologetic that Y/N almost laughed.

“ No it’s okay,” she said laughed shyly. “It was my fault.”

Juhoon looked uncertain for another second before nodding once.

“Okay.”

The silence afterward wasn’t uncomfortable.

Y/N tucked a piece of hair behind her ear before forcing herself to say something.

“So… your comeback’s doing really well.”

The second the sentence left her mouth, she wanted to evaporate.

Out of all the ways she attempted to make conversation, she made it so formal.

But Juhoon answered seriously anyway.

“Thank you. We practiced a lot.”

“I can tell.”

God.

Somewhere behind them, Wonhee was probably losing her mind.

The music restarted before Y/N could embarrass herself further.

This time they got through the choreography cleanly.

At the ending pose, Y/N glanced toward him instinctively.

Bad idea.

Because he was already looking over.

Not intensely. Not romantically. Just attentive.

Like he was checking if she finished the move comfortably. The staff called them over to film.

First take. The music cut off and everyone looked toward the monitor. “It looked good!” one of the staff said.

But beside Y/N, Juhoon frowned slightly at the playback. Not in a perfectionist way. More like he was genuinely thinking something through.

Then he glanced over at her. “Oh— sorry.”

“Hm?”

“I think I blocked you during the second move.”

Y/N blinked. Sure enough, on the tiny screen, his broad shoulders basically swallowed half of her during the transition.

Juhoon looked mildly alarmed at that lack of Y/N in her own TikTok while Y/N tried not to laugh.

“No, wait,” he said quickly, already stepping back into position. “I can move farther this way.” He shifted slightly to the side experimentally.

Still tall. Still unfairly tall.

“Okay, let’s try one more!” someone called. They reset positions.

This time Juhoon kept adjusting subtly between takes to make sure she stayed visible— angling his shoulders differently, stepping half a foot farther back, even checking the monitor afterward to make sure her face wasn’t covered.

“Here,” he said quietly, pointing. “Your ending pose shows better now.”

Y/N followed his finger before she could stop herself.

"Good work!" She gave a thumbs up to Juhoon.

A small, ridiculous flutter in her chest, like her body had decided to react before she gave it permission stirred when he gave her a thumbs back.

She was defintley gone.

Y/N sank into the stiff folding chair backstage, letting out a long, quiet sigh. M Countdown had been dragging on for hours. Interviews, staged photos, handshakes, smiles for the cameras that felt heavier than usual—it was exhausting. Her legs ached, her voice was hoarse from endless singing, and her brain was operating on autopilot. She rested her chin in her hand, staring blankly at the ceiling lights as if they held some secret code she could decipher.

Her and her group were waiting for all the other performers to be called together. Normally, Y/N didn’t get this bored—there was always some backstage drama, a joke to laugh at, or a Tiktok to film. But today, with a schedule tighter than usual and barely a moment to breathe between stages and photos, the exhaustion was settling into her bones.

“Okay, ILLIT! We’re ready for touch-ups!” a staff member called from down the hallway.

Y/N trailed behind the rest of the members, lazily fixing the sleeve of her stage outfit as they walked through the crowded hallway.

“I’m actually going to pass out after this,” Wonhee groaned dramatically, leaning against the wall like she was seconds from collapse.

“You say that every music show,” Moka teased. “Then suddenly you’re full of energy the second food gets mentioned.”

“That’s different,” Wonhee defended instantly.

A tired laugh slipped from Y/N as they stepped into the makeup room, instantly greeted by the familiar mix of hairspray, powder, and overheated curling irons. Stylists immediately moved around them in a blur, fixing flyaways, touching up eyeliner, and dusting powder across shiny skin while conversations overlapped from every direction.

“I still can’t believe they made us retake that group photo six times,” Y/N muttered as she dropped into the chair in front of the mirror. “My face actually started cramping.”

“Yours still looked normal,” Iroha replied. “Mine looked AI-generated by the end.”

Y/N snorted softly, finally feeling herself wake up a little. She was midway through complaining about how violently bright the camera flashes were when movement near the doorway caught her attention.

At first, she only glanced over absentmindedly.

Then she completely froze.

Y/N liked to think she was immune to attractive idols at this point. She was surrounded by beautiful people constantly—it honestly stopped feeling shocking after a while. Of course she and her members joked around about dating and celebrity crushes, but she’d never actually felt anything serious. Nobody had ever really made her nervous before.

But this—

God.

The boy standing near the doorway was unfairly gorgeous.

He was talking quietly with one of the makeup artists, head tilted slightly as he listened, dark hair falling perfectly over his forehead despite the chaos backstage. Even under the harsh fluorescent lighting, he looked unreal.

She didn’t recognize him.

That alone was surprising enough to pull her out of her exhaustion. Usually she could at least place a face—another idol from a survival show, someone she’d passed during rehearsals, a trainee she’d seen online once. But him? Nothing.

Which honestly made her stare even more.

Not that she meant to stare.

Her eyes would flick back to the mirror for half a second before immediately drifting toward the doorway again, almost against her will. He was still talking to the makeup artist, occasionally nodding along while adjusting the sleeve of his jacket. Every tiny movement somehow made him look cuter. It was ridiculous.

And apparently, Y/N had become terrible at acting normal.

Because without realizing it, she’d slowly twisted around in her chair at the weirdest angle imaginable, one foot still planted near the makeup station while the rest of her body subtly leaned toward the doorway like she was being physically drawn there. She looked completely out of place in her own makeup room.

Which did not go unnoticed.

Yunah paused mid-conversation and slowly turned to look at her teammate with visible concern.

“…What are you doing?”

Y/N blinked. “Hm?”

Yunah narrowed her eyes.

Y/N was sitting frozen with her makeup puff still hovering near her cheek, posture stiff like someone had paused her mid-animation. And every few seconds, like clockwork, her eyes darted toward the doorway again.

Yunah followed her line of sight casually, but by the time she looked toward the doorway, Y/N had already snapped her attention back to the mirror.

Y/N let out an awkward little laugh, reaching for the makeup puff beside her. “I’m just tired,” she said quickly. “Got stuck in my head for a second.”

Yunah raised an eyebrow immediately.

The excuse sounded suspicious at best.

Still, she was far too exhausted to interrogate her teammate properly right now. But judging by the knowing look she sent Y/N through the mirror, she was absolutely planning on bringing this up later.

“Right,” Yunah hummed slowly, clearly unconvinced.

Y/N avoided eye contact on purpose.

Unfortunately for her, that only made her look guiltier.

Before Yunah could continue teasing her, another staff member poked their head into the room.

“Okay! Everyone ready to enter the main stage in five!”

The room instantly burst into motion.

Stylists rushed to put finishing touches on outfits, makeup artists shoved products back into bags, and idols scrambled out into the hallway before getting yelled at for being late. Y/N stood quickly, smoothing out her skirt while the members of ILLIT hurried out together.

And then—

There he was again.

The mysterious boy stepped out into the hallway just ahead of them, adjusting the in-ear monitor around his neck as staff members walked around him in a frenzy.

Y/N’s stomach did the same embarrassing flip all over again.

It was actually insane.

She didn’t even know his name.

Yet somehow, walking a few feet behind him suddenly had her hyperaware of everything—the soft sound of his voice when he thanked a staff member, the way his dark hair brushed against the back of his neck when he moved, even the faint scent of cologne that lingered in the hallway for half a second too long.

“Y/N,” Minju whispered beside her cautiously, “are you okay?”

Y/N blinked out of her trance. “Huh?”

Minju looked genuinely concerned. “You look like you’re in pain.”

“I am literally just walking.”

“Sure,” Iroha said slowly, eyeing her from the side.

Y/N frowned. “Why is everyone acting weird?”

The members exchanged glances.

Y/N opened her mouth to defend herself again, only for the boy to glance back briefly after hearing noise behind him.

For one horrible second, their eyes met.

Y/N instantly looked away like she’d committed an actual crime.

Heat rushed straight to her face.

God.

He was way too cute.

LATER...

The beach was a goddamn war zone.

Fourth of July in San Diego brought out the full spectrum of humanity—Kids shrieking, volleyballs thudding, grills smoking, music blasting from half-buried speakers, and not a single soul seemed aware of personal space. All layered under the chaotic 4th of July celebrations.

Bob wasn’t miserable. Not really. But he was overstimulated. The past few days had been nothing but crowd control on base, everyone and their mother trying to squeeze onto Navy property for a better view of the firework shows the navy base provided building up to 4th of July. The break hadn’t come soon enough, and now even his downtime was noisy.

Bob Floyd sat quietly under the patchy shade of a half-bent umbrella, legs stretched out in the warm sand, doing his best to stay invisible.

His arms were already tinged pink despite the SPF 50 Phoenix had tossed at him that morning. A bottle of orange Gatorade rested against his collarbone, condensation dripping slowly down to the faded navy of his swim trunks. Every now and then, someone would kick sand too close or yell across his line of sight, and he’d fight the urge to flinch. It was all just a little too loud, a little too bright, and definitely not what he’d imagined when Fanboy had promised “a chill beach day.”

Behind him, Phoenix was lying flat on a towel with her sunglasses on and earbuds in, perfectly still like she’d entered a deep meditation or disassociation. Payback and Coyote were arguing over grill technique, Hangman was circling a pair of sunbathing tourists like a smug golden retriever, and the speaker someone brought was blaring an aggressively patriotic country song for the third time.

“You gonna touch the water at some point, or are you just watching today?”

Bob didn’t bother turning his head. Fanboy stood a few feet away with his shorts dripping seawater and seaweed tangled around one ankle. He was grinning like he already knew the answer.

Bob’s lips quirked. “Think I’ll stay dry a while longer.”

“Suit yourself,” Fanboy laughed before flopping back into the water like a seal.

Bob tried to focus on the horizon, on the break of the waves and the shimmer of salt spray catching in the sun—but his eyes kept drifting.

His eyes shifted just a few degrees to the left. Subtle. Like muscle memory.

There you were.

Perched on your lifeguard stand, maybe twelve yards away. High above the noise. A figure of calm authority in a sea of chaos. Bob had noticed you the moment they’d set up camp. Not because you were flashy—there were a dozen girls on this beach with louder bikinis and louder laughs—but because you were still.

Focused.

The red of your uniform popped against your sun-bronzed skin, the white cross on your chest clear and unmistakable. Your sunglasses masked your expression, but your head moved with quiet purpose, tracking the waves, the swimmers, the kids daring each other to wade too far out.

You didn’t slouch. Didn’t fidget. You radiated a kind of presence that didn’t need to shout to be heard.

Bob had seen a lot of people pretend to be in charge. You were.

He tried not to stare. Emphasis on tried.

“Keep starin’ like that and you might start droolin’, Floyd.”

Hangman’s voice landed beside him like a beach ball to the face. Rooster flopped down on the towel next to him, already too tanned, already too smug.

Bob didn’t respond at first. Just unscrewed his drink cap and took a slow sip.

“You should just talk to her,” Rooster said, watching him stare. “You’ve been eyein’ that poor lifeguard like she owes you money or somethin’ sweet.”

Bob didn’t even blink. “I don't even know what you're talking about.”

“Buddy. You’ve barely blinked since we got here, and it ain’t the sun making your eyes water.”

“She’s working,” Bob said simply.

“So?”

“So I’m not going to bother someone who’s doing their job.”

Hangman let out a slow, easy chuckle. “Technically, we’re workin’ too... Ain’t stoppin’ me from appreciatin’ the view.” He tipped his chin up and flashed a grin toward a group of girls walking past, tossing them a lazy cocky wave.

Rooster rolled his eyes at Bob's words, like it physically pained him to hear that. “You’re too noble for your own good, Floyd.”

“Thank you.”

“Not a compliment.”

They sat in silence for a beat. The kind of silence only Rooster could make feel aggressively loud.

Bob shifted again, brushing sand from his fingers, and glanced back toward the lifeguard stand. You hadn’t moved. But then, just as if the universe wanted to spite him, you stood.

It was nothing dramatic—just a smooth descent from the chair. But Bob’s gaze tracked the motion instinctively, noting how easily you landed in the sand, how you adjusted your sunglasses and made your way toward a pair of teenagers tossing a football too close to the edge of the water.

You walked like someone who didn’t need to raise their voice to get a point across. The boys straightened almost immediately when you reached them, nodding along to whatever you said. Then you smiled—brief, professional—and turned back toward the tower.

Bob felt the corner of his mouth twitch. Just barely.

“Jesus,” Rooster muttered, following his gaze. “I bet she does CrossFit. Or krav maga. Or both.”

“Probably,” Bob said as he fixed his askew glasses.

“So you gonna say something to her today or what?”

Bob leaned back on his elbows, letting his head tip slightly toward the sky. He closed his eyes against the glare. “Eventually.”

Rooster huffed. “You’re killing me with this slow-motion stuff”

“She doesn’t even know I exist.”

“She looked over here a few times.”

“She’s scanning the whole beach. It’s her job.”

“She lingered.”

Bob opened one eye. “She lingers with everyone.”

“Sounds like you’ve been watching pretty closely,” Rooster shot back, grinning behind his aviator sunglasses.

Bob didn’t answer. He didn’t need to. His silence was enough to fuel Hangman’s satisfaction.

“Tell you what,” Rooster added, laying back on his towel. “When you finally make your move—if you make your move—I’ll personally buy you dinner wherever she agrees to go.”

“I’m not bribable.”

“You absolutely are.”

Phoenix’s voice cut through the conversation from a few feet away, dry as the sand under their feet. “If I have to listen to one more minute of you two dissecting this man’s love life, I’m swimming out and not coming back.”

“Can I have your aviation memorabilia if you don’t return?” Payback asked, somewhere nearby.

“No,” she deadpanned.

Bob exhaled a quiet breath through his nose, letting the sounds of the beach wash back over him. The wind picked up just enough to rustle the umbrella, bringing with it the scent of salt and sunscreen. In the distance, laughter echoed from a group of kids running through the shallows. The sky was bright, cloudless. A near-perfect summer day.

He looked toward the lifeguard stand one more time. You were back in your seat now, hands loosely on your knees, gaze back on the water.

Still. Calm. Commanding.

And entirely out of reach.

Rooster’s comment still hung in the air, but Bob didn’t bite.

He didn’t have to. The others could laugh and nudge all they wanted—he was used to it by now—but none of it changed the fact that he wouldn't do anything more than drifting his eyes to the lifegaurd on duty.

To you.

Bob looked back toward the lifeguard stand, but you weren’t sitting anymore.

You were standing beside it now, down on the sand, pacing a slow line near the base with your rescue buoy slung loosely in one hand. Every few steps, you paused to glance at the water, squinting slightly, mouth set in thought. Something had shifted in the tide—Bob could tell by the way your eyes lingered on the riptide flag, or how you looked out toward the swimmers with just a little more tension in your posture.

Even off the tower, you still moved like someone who carried responsibility in their shoulders. Like someone who took their job seriously enough to not just watch—but study.

Bob admired that.

He told himself it was admiration, anyway.

Until you bent down beside the cooler parked in the shade of your stand. You cracked it open, grabbed a water bottle, and unscrewed the cap in one smooth motion.

Bob didn’t mean to stare. Not really.

But you grabbed the bottle and tipped it without hesitation, sending a rush of water cascading over your chest. The cold hit sun-warmed skin and you arched into it slightly, a soft gasp left your mouth, barely audible from this distance, but Bob felt it anyway.

The red fabric of your suit darkened immediately, clinging tighter, shaping to the lines of you in a way that made Bob’s breath catch. The water kept falling, sliding between the swell of your breasts and down your stomach, glinting like melted glass before soaking into the waistband of your suit.

You ran a hand through your damp hair, shaking it out with a toss so smooth it looked rehearsed—slow, effortless, hypnotic.

Bob’s mouth went dry.

You drank the rest of the bottle like you hadn’t just set his whole nervous system off, wiped your mouth with the back of your hand, then casually climbed back up the tower like nothing had happened.

Which, of course, nothing had happened.

Except Bob’s brain had apparently short-circuited somewhere in the last twenty seconds.

He wasn’t some kid. He’d seen plenty. But there was something about the way you moved—casual, unbothered, entirely unaware—that had heat curling low in his stomach in a way that surprised him.

“You good, Bob?” Phoenix asked from behind her sunglasses, not even looking at him.

He cleared his throat softly. “Peachy.”

She snorted but didn’t push.

He forced himself to look away for a moment, staring instead at the shifting tide, the flecks of foam catching sunlight. He tried to ground himself. You’re just watching the beach. Like she is. Just paying attention. That’s all.

But when he glanced back—he couldn’t help it—you were climbing the steps of the lifeguard tower again, skin still glistening, posture straight, sunglasses back on.

And maybe it was the heat, or the salt, or the way Jake’s dumb voice echoed in his head like a devil on his shoulder—but suddenly, Bob felt like maybe the sun wasn’t the only thing getting to him.

He leaned back on his elbows again, gaze now fixed somewhere just to the right of your tower. Respectful. Responsible.

But still close enough to watch you, if you moved.

Still close enough to wonder what you sounded like when you weren’t giving orders or scanning for trouble. If you ever laughed. If your voice was soft when no one was drowning. If you looked that steady when it was just you and one other person and nothing else to focus on.

Yeah. He was in trouble.

By early afternoon, the heat was enough to make Bob feel like he was baking from the inside out. His skin stung in places sunscreen had missed, and the beach had only gotten louder—more kids, more smoke from the grills, more sand kicked in places sand should never be.

And still, he hadn’t moved.

Not from under the half-bent umbrella, not from the quiet stretch of towel he'd staked out with the vague hope of disappearing into it.

Well—he’d moved a little. Enough to tilt his head when you did. Just enough to watch the line of your shoulders when you paced, the flex of your thighs as you crouched to help a crying kid with a scraped knee, the practiced ease with which you handled chaos like it didn’t touch you.

Bob admired that. Respected it. Tried not to want anything else.

But apparently, subtlety wasn’t flying with his squad today.

“Okay, that’s it,” Rooster groaned, flopping down dramatically on the towel next to him. “I’ve watched you mentally fuck her. This is getting painful, man.”

Bob blinked at Rooster, completely in disbelief. “What? What the hell are you talking about?” he blurted, voice going a little high with how flustered he was.

“You know,” Coyote said from behind a pair of reflective sunglasses. “You definitely know.”

“Just ask her if she wants a soda or something,” Fanboy added helpfully. “Worst case scenario, she says no and continues to exist.”

“I’m not—” Bob started, but stopped. It wasn’t worth it. They weren’t wrong, just loud about it.

“That’s weak,” Payback chimed in, flipping a burger nearby. “What you need is an entry point. Something natural. Organic.”

“Like what?” Bob asked dryly. “Tripping over her lifeguard stand?”

And that’s when Hangman perked up.

He sat up straighter, a dangerous gleam in his eye, sun glinting off his dog tags as he grinned like he’d just cracked the code to the universe.

“I got it,” he said, with a finger raised for dramatic effect. “Fake. A. Drowning.”

Bob blinked. “What.”

Hangman was already fully committed. “Think about it. You go out, start flailing around a little, she sees you, Baywatches her way in to save your life. Boom. Lifesaving contact. Eye contact. Skin contact. Mouth-to-mouth might be required.” He wiggled his eyebrows and winked.

Rooster snorted. “It’s disturbingly on-brand that you thought of this.”

Phoenix sat up, her face a picture of horror. “You people are idiots.”

But the others were too far gone.

“I mean, it’s kind of genius,” Fanboy said, already on board. “The drama of it. The storytelling.”

“She’ll never forget you,” Payback added, flipping a burger with flair. “Could be romantic. Tragic. Bit of shirt clinging, maybe some wheezing… very damsel in distress.”

Bob just stared at them, slack-jawed.

“I’m not faking a drowning,” he said flatly.

“Why not?” Rooster asked, genuinely baffled.

“Because it’s insane,” Bob replied with wide eyes. “And it would probably scare her. And she’d definitely hate me after.”

“But what if it goes well?” Hangman grinned. “What if you’re her first real save of the summer?”

Phoenix scoffed. “Yeah. Because nothing says 'date me' like a full-blown safety violation.”

Bob ran a hand over his face. “This is so stupid.”

“It is,” Phoenix agreed. “Which is why you’re not doing it.”

And for a moment, that settled it.

Until Rooster raised a brow and said, “Unless… you’re chicken.”

Bob looked at him. Rooster made a soft bawk bawk sound. Fanboy joined in. Hangman outright cackled. Coyote laughed so hard he had to lay back down.

Bob glared, cheeks already warm from more than just the sun.

“I’m not chicken.”

“Then go prove it,” Rooster said.

Bob stared at the ocean. The tide looked calm enough. No red flags. Lifeguards were alert. You were in your tower again, arms crossed, face unreadable behind your sunglasses.

He sighed. “Fine. I’ll go for a swim.”

The hooting and hollering behind him made him immediately regret it.

“I didn’t say I was going to fake a drowning,” he clarified, already standing up and brushing the sand off his legs.

“Yeah, yeah,” Hangman smirked. “Sure you didn’t, sweetheart.”

Bob ignored him, stepped out of the umbrella’s shade, and padded toward the water. The sand was hot under his feet, the waves lapping in rhythmic, lazy curls.

The moment the cold water lapped at his calves, Bob exhaled slowly, letting the heat of the day roll off him in waves. Okay. Just a swim. That was all. Wade in, float around, get his blood moving. Maybe catch your attention for half a second—not that he’d do anything with it.

He pushed out past the frothy shallows, the ocean sucking at his ankles like a teasing hand. The water climbed to his thighs, his waist, then chest. The sun was still hot on the back of his neck, the sky painfully blue overhead. Somewhere behind him, his friends were probably still laughing. He didn’t look back.

He kept moving.

But three strokes in, something shifted beneath him.

The water wasn’t angry—not visibly—but there was a pull now. A low, insistent drag at his legs, like the tide had thickened, gotten teeth. It wasn’t obvious at first. Just a nudge. A suggestion.

Still, he felt it. A pulse of unease in his gut.

He adjusted his swim, cutting a diagonal toward the shore to stay safe, but the sea had other plans. The resistance grew with every kick. It was subtle—deceptive. Like the ocean was pretending to be calm just long enough to lure him further out.

His legs strained. His heart ticked up.

He stopped swimming and treaded water, blinking into the salt spray as he turned his head.

The beach was smaller now.

Farther than he remembered. The umbrella was a blur. The squad just blobs of movement and color, laughter carried faint and broken on the wind.

He tried again. Kicked harder. Pulled his arms through the water in tight, practiced strokes. Nothing fancy. Just focused. Efficient.

But the current was tireless.

It didn’t shove. It took. Gradually. Patiently. Dragging him sideways and back, each kick answered with resistance.

His breath hitched.

His thighs were starting to burn. His hands felt slippery. He swallowed and tasted salt—sharp, bitter, invasive.

Don’t panic. He knew better than that. Panicking wasted air. Wasted energy.

Still, his chest tightened—tight enough that he felt it in his ears. A warning pulse. His lungs were starting to fight him, breath coming faster now, less full.

He raised one arm. Casual. A wave. Just in case.

He could still fix this. He could absolutely fix this.

Right?

Then he saw your head turn. The tilt of your sunglasses. The way you rose like a snap of instinct, your figure suddenly moving down the stand like a red flash across the chaos of the beach.

Bob tried to call out—but a swell slapped his mouth, and he choked.

Salt water filled his nose, burned his throat. His eyes stung. He sputtered, coughed, went under for half a second, then kicked up again, gasping—arms scrambling for something to push against that wasn’t there.

He wasn’t panicking.

Not exactly.

But his muscles were starting to betray him. Coordination fraying at the edges. His heartbeat roared in his ears, faster now, not rhythmic. Scared.

And that pull—god, that pull—it wasn’t letting up.

It didn’t care who he was. Naval aviator. Strong swimmer. Good guy.

The ocean didn’t give a damn.

Bob tried to kick again but the fatigue hit all at once. A burn up the back of his calves, a tremble in his core. His limbs slowed. Too slow.

He waved again.

Not casual this time.

Desperate.

And you were moving.

Fast.

Your buoy was already in hand as you hit the sand, legs pumping, red suit flashing like a warning light. He saw the focus snap into your movements—the kind of controlled urgency that meant you’d seen this before. You were in the water in seconds, cutting through the waves like a knife.

Bob barely had time to be mortified before you reached him.

Your hand found his shoulder, firm and sure. “I’ve got you.”

His heart leapt up into his throat. “I’m okay,” he choked out, instantly embarrassed.

“You’re caught in a lateral pull,” you said calmly, already maneuvering him with practiced ease. “Don’t fight it. Just float. I’ve got you.”

And somehow—he did.

Somehow, despite the chaos, the noise, the burning shame of it all—he let go. Let himself float.

Your voice was cool steel—no judgment, no panic, just action. Somehow, he let go. Let you lead. Let his limbs go limp.

But then…

A memory flashed. Hangman’s voice. Fake a drowning, bro. She’ll have to give you mouth-to-mouth. Bam. Baywatch meet-cute.

Bob wanted to strangle him.

And yet.

Yet.

His pride was already in shambles, his friends were watching from shore, and he was currently being towed like a soggy piece of driftwood by the most stunning person he’d ever seen. His brain short-circuited. What’s one more bad decision?

So he let his head tilt back.

Eyelids fluttered closed.

And he went limp.

Deadweight.

You paused. Just barely. Just enough to shift your grip.

“Hey,” you said, voice sharp now, testing.

No answer.

You tapped his cheek once. “Hey—come on.”

He remained limp. Committed. His jaw slackened slightly. His breathing stayed shallow. He hoped you couldn’t feel the way his heart was jackhammering in his chest.

“Seriously?” you muttered.

Then your hand slipped behind his neck. He felt it—barely—a soft cradle, careful and sure. His body was mostly out of the water now, dragged efficiently toward shore like you’d done it a hundred times. His feet scraped sand. His heart thumped harder.

He could hear voices in the distance—Rooster shouting something, Phoenix groaning, someone definitely laughing.

“Okay,” you said under your breath, not to him, but to yourself. “Here we go.”

Your hand pressed gently against his jaw, turning his face. Then—

Then your mouth brushed his.

Not a kiss. Not really.

Just the faintest contact. Professional. Controlled. The start of a breath.

And that’s when Bob panicked.

His eyes snapped open. He gasped—too sharp, too sudden—choking slightly on his own dramatic timing.

You flinched back instantly.

“Oh my god,” you breathed, eyes narrowing behind your sunglasses. “Are you serious right now?”

Bob coughed. “I—no—wait—it’s not—”

You stared at him like he’d just confessed to a felony.

He flailed upright, coughing into his elbow, mortified down to the bone. “I didn’t—I wasn’t—”

“You faked passing out,” you said flatly. “You faked drowning.”

“I didn’t mean for—" He sputtered, looked away, salt water still dripping from his eyelashes. “It was... a bad idea.” Bob reached up to fix his wet glasses awkwardly.

A beat passed.

You stood over him, soaked and furious and stunning, hands planted on your hips. Then—slowly—you sighed.

“You’re lucky I didn’t break your ribs doing compressions,” you muttered. “Next time you want to flirt, just wave or something.”

He blinked.

You turned on your heel, muttering something about men and stupidity as you stomped back toward your tower.

Bob sat there in the wet sand, lungs burning, face on fire, still breathless.

From the shore, Hangman was howling with laughter.

And Bob?

Bob knew he deserved it.

But he also knew your mouth had just touched his.

And maybe that was worth drowning in a little shame for.

“Oh my god.” Rooster was doubled over, clutching his stomach, red-faced with laughter. “You actually did it!”

“He Sandlot-ed himself!” Fanboy gasped between wheezes. “Dude! That was textbook! She went in for the save and everything—mouth to mouth and all!”

“Not mouth to mouth,” Bob muttered, dragging a hand down his soaked face. His hair was plastered to his forehead, salt water dripping from his chin. “It wasn’t—”

“Did her lips touch yours?” Coyote grinned.

Bob paused. “…Kinda.” He blushed.

“Then it counts,” Hangman declared, slapping him hard on the back, nearly sending him face-first into the sand again. “That’s a goddamn win, Floyd. She touched you. Voluntarily. I’m gonna have that engraved on a plaque,” He continued. "Guess you've been promoted from Baby On Board."

“You’re a menace,” Phoenix said, glaring at all of them. “You encouraged this. You enabled this.”

“And I regret nothing,” Hangman said smugly, laying back down on his towel like a man who’d just orchestrated a tactical strike. “That was the most romantic near-death experience I’ve ever seen.”

Bob sank down onto his towel with a groan, burying his burning face in his hands. “She’s gonna think I’m a freak.”

“Please,” Rooster scoffed. “If anything, you just made her day more interesting. Lifeguards live for that kind of drama.”

“She looked mad,” Bob mumbled.

“She looked hot,” Payback countered. “And you—dumb as it was—you got her attention. Respectfully.”

“She was so calm about it, too,” Fanboy added.

Bob sighed and flopped backward into the sand, arms sprawled out at his sides. His shirt clung to his chest like plastic wrap. “I want to melt into the earth.”

“You won’t have to,” Hangman said cheerfully. “You’ll float next time. She’ll save you again.”

Phoenix lobbed a handful of sand at him. “Don’t give him ideas.”

Later That Afternoon.

Hours passed.

The sun drifted lower in the sky, stretching golden light over the water. The crowd had thinned a little, the music quieter now, but Bob hadn’t relaxed. Not really. He hadn’t moved much since the incident, still lying half in the shade with his heart doing weird little kicks every time he looked toward the tower.

You hadn’t approached him. No scolding. No smug remark. Just… returned to your post like nothing had happened. Like it was all just part of the job.

But he kept looking.

Couldn’t help it.

The image of you—soaked, sharp-eyed, furious in your red suit—was burned into the back of his mind. So was the weight of your hand on his shoulder. The way your fingers curled around his neck. The briefest touch of your lips.

He peeked again.

And this time—you were looking back.

Straight at him.

For a split second, Bob froze.

Then you reached up slowly, one hand on the edge of your sunglasses… and slid them off.

Your eyes met his. Clear. Unamused. But not unkind.

And Bob—poor, sweet, emotionally sunburned Bob—panicked.

He lifted one hand and gave the tiniest, most awkward little wave. Like he’d forgotten how fingers worked. His ears were pink. His eyes wide. The gesture was more apology than greeting.

You stared for a beat.

Then—God bless you—you huffed a small laugh.

And you waved back.

Small. Subtle. Just two fingers.

Then you shook your head once, bemused, and slipped your sunglasses back on.

Bob dropped his hand like he’d been shot and turned bright red all over again.

Behind him, Rooster muttered, “She waved.”

And Fanboy whispered, awed, “He’s in.”

The sun dipped low over the Pacific, brushing the water in streaks of peach and molten gold. Shadows stretched long across the beach as grills were packed away and towels shaken off. The air cooled, tinged with smoke and sea breeze and the distant scent of coconut sunscreen.

Bob still hadn’t moved.

The squad had mellowed out, scattered in loose clumps across the sand, laughter fading into drowsy conversation as the sky dimmed. A few had already claimed spots to watch the fireworks, beer in hand, sand between their toes.

Bob sat quietly, fingers curled around a lukewarm bottle of Gatorade, watching the lifeguard tower like it was a cathedral.

And then—you moved.

Down the steps.

This time not in a rush, not scanning for swimmers or trouble. Just… descending. Like any normal person at the end of a long shift.

Your rescue buoy hung loosely in one hand. Your hair was a little damp still, pulled up into a lazy knot. The red uniform had been swapped for a soft, sun-faded hoodie and shorts that showed off the arcs of your tan lines.

You walked straight toward him.

Bob’s chest tightened.

You slowed just a few feet away. The sand shifted under your feet as you came to a stop, one hand resting on your hip.

“You could’ve just said hi, you know,” you said.

He blinked. “Hi,” he said automatically. Then grimaced. “I'm so sorry ma'am.”

You stared at him for a long beat. Then you smiled—slow and crooked, the kind that wasn’t fully confident either.

“I mean it,” you said, voice softer now. “You really didn’t have to fake a near-death experience to get my attention.”

Bob laughed. Kind of. Mostly choked on it. “That wasn’t the plan. I just... got caught. Then remembered something really stupid Hangman said.” He mumbled out quickly, compeletely flustered with the situation he found himself in.

You raised a brow. “Let me guess... Mouth-to-mouth?”

“Yeah.” He groaned, raising up a hand to fix his already perfectly sat glasses. “God. I swear I’m not usually that dumb.”

“I figured,” you said, taking a step closer, kicking gently at the sand between you. Then tucking your hands into the front pocket of your hoodie and looking out toward the water.

The tide had slowed now, lazy and glittering under the last light of day. The sky was darker by the second.

And then—

BOOM.

A firework cracked overhead, sudden and golden.

Bob flinched instinctively, then tilted his head up just in time to catch the slow bloom of light cascading down in trails.

You both turned toward the horizon, shoulders just inches apart.

Another one followed. Then another. Reds, blues, silvers—loud and shimmering, reflected in your eyes.

The world lit up around you. Your face glowed in flashes of color. You didn’t speak, just watched. Quiet. Present.

Bob’s heart thudded.

You turned slightly toward him, your arm brushing his for the briefest second. Not by accident.

“Hey,” you said, glancing at him sideways, voice barely above the boom of the sky. “You okay?”

He nodded, but it came slow. “Yeah.”

“You don’t look it.”

He let out a soft breath and shrugged, mouth curving up shyly. “Think I’m still recovering from the humiliation.”

Your smile softened. “Well... I’ve seen worse. At least you didn’t cry or puke.”

“I’ve got dignity,” he muttered, aiming for a joke—but the heat in his face killed the delivery.

“I noticed.” You looked at him then—really looked. “Even before the stunt.”

Bob’s throat felt too tight. His voice was quieter now, unsure. “You… noticed me?” He was glad it was dark out now, or else you would've seen his flushed face.

You smiled again, this time with a touch of something warmer behind it. “It’s kind of hard to miss the guy who’s been staring at me for six hours straight.”

His ears went pink. “I wasn’t—I mean—”

“Relax,” you said with a laugh. “It was… kind of sweet.”

Kind of sweet. Kind of adorable. Kind of disarming.

“It also helps that you’re cute,” you said, smiling shyly. Bob’s lips curled, slow and soft, like the words had settled somewhere warm in his chest.

Another firework exploded above, painting your face in flickers of gold and blush-pink. You turned back toward the horizon, your hair stirring slightly in the breeze.

Bob looked at you—really looked.

And this time, he didn’t look away.

He shifted slightly closer, just enough that his knee brushed yours in the sand. You didn’t move away.

“I, uh… I’m Bob, by the way,” he said, voice soft but steady.

You turned to him with a smile that tugged the corners of your mouth like you’d been waiting for that.

“I know,” you said, nodding once. “I asked around.”

Bob’s eyes widened. “You… did?”

“Mm-hmm.” You looked at the sky again. “I figured if you ever got brave enough to talk to me, I should be ready.”

Bob couldn’t help it—he laughed, breathless, bright, all tension breaking.

The sky burst with light.

And beside him, under the gold-and-silver glow of the Fourth of July sky, you leaned just a little closer.

Neither of you said anything after that.

You didn’t have to.

The last of the fireworks crackled above, a shimmering white bloom that flickered, lingered, then faded into the smoke-hazed sky. Only the soft crash of waves remained now, washing over the shore like a slow exhale.

The world felt quieter in the afterglow.

You were still sitting next to him, close enough that your legs brushed every so often, casually but deliberately. Neither of you had moved since the final blast. There was something in the air—thick and golden, a weight behind the silence that made Bob's heart race louder than the fireworks ever had.

He glanced at you.

You were watching the sky, face tilted up, jawline glowing faintly in the moonlight. You looked peaceful. And tired. And somehow more real now—less untouchable.

Bob swallowed, then looked away quickly, suddenly too aware of how close you were.

And then—you looked at him.

Slow. Intentionally.

“Still with me, Bob?”

He blinked, startled by the gentleness in your voice. “Y-yeah,” he said, barely above a whisper.

You looked at him, steady and unhurried. “So… are you gonna kiss me?” The words came quiet, almost teasing, but something earnest shimmered underneath. “Or do I need to pretend I’m drowning next time, just to even the score?”

For one terrifying, golden, perfect second, everything stopped.

Then he leaned in.

Slow. Hesitant. His heart galloping, unsure if he was misreading it all—but something about the way you watched him made it impossible to retreat.

You met him halfway.

The kiss wasn’t practiced. It wasn’t planned. It was a little off-center and a little too soft, like both of you were afraid of scaring the other away.

But it was real.

Warm lips. Salt on skin. The faint trace of sunscreen and heat and Gatorade and want.

He pulled back first—barely—just enough to hover, eyes still closed.

You smiled against his mouth.

And then, just to make sure it wasn’t all in his head, you pressed one more kiss—shorter this time, sweet and certain—right at the corner of his mouth, before murmuring.

You’ve known Bob Floyd for as long as you can remember.

He lived in the little gray house next door — the one with the creaky swing set and the patch of lawn his mom could never keep alive. ou met the way kids often do—tugged along behind your moms because they were the kind of women who believed in neighborly cookouts and holiday potlucks, the kind who'd swap recipes and stories over sizzling grills while you two chased each other barefoot through sprinklers and smoky air.

He was the quiet boy with glasses that kept slipping down his nose, a buzz cut that made his head look perpetually surprised, and scraped-up knees from racing his bike down the cul-de-sac like it was an Olympic event. You weren’t much louder—soft-spoken, wide-eyed, often half-hiding behind your mom’s leg or the hem of your favorite overalls—but somehow, the two of you always found each other in the noise. You’d sit cross-legged on the porch sharing popsicles or wander through sprinkler mist like tiny explorers, not saying much, but never quite apart.

You didn’t declare him your best friend. You just were. The kind of kids who ended up in all the same photos, shoulder to shoulder, blinking into the sun. And he never minded—not the quiet, not the way you always hovered nearby, not even the way you both grew up without ever really growing apart.

You were inseparable—two halves of a quiet, unspoken language. Your parents joked you were practically siblings. But even then, something about the way Bob looked at you—careful, soft, like you were something rare he didn’t want to startle—was different.

You carved your initials into the same tree at the end of sixth grade. You made a dumb joke about it being your “friendship monument,” and Bob had smiled so wide you swore the sun got caught in his glasses. It wasn’t love. Not then. But it felt like something that mattered. Like someday, it might be.

By the time high school rolled around, things started to shift.

You still walked to school together. Still shared secrets and late-night phone calls and summer movies where he let you rest your head on his shoulder without saying a word. But Bob had grown into his body, grown to be 6'0, and developed a very unfair jawline. You noticed.

Worse, he started acting weird.

There were moments — tiny, fleeting — where everything felt different.

The time you caught him staring just a little too long when you laughed. The way his hand hovered near yours for a second too long during study sessions. The time you cried after your first heartbreak, and he held you like it physically hurt him not to fix it.

He never said anything. He was never that bold. But you felt it.

And slowly, your feelings started to mirror his.

You realized you were in love with him one night in your junior year, sitting on his roof after a school dance you hadn’t gone to. He was in sweats and a hoodie, leaning back on his elbows, talking softly about how the stars were already dead by the time we see their light. And your heart just… knew.

You turned to look at him and thought, Oh. It’s always been you.

You kissed him the next week.

It was late—past ten, a school night—and you were in your room, both pretending to study but mostly just laying across your bed with textbooks open and music playing low from your speaker. He was flipping through your notes, teasing you for your doodles in the margins, and you were trying not to stare at the way his mouth curled when he smiled.

At some point, you both got quiet. Not in a heavy, serious way—just the kind of quiet that settles in when two people are entirely at ease.

You looked up from your notebook to say something, and he was already looking at you.

And it just… happened.

Not dramatic, not planned. Just a kiss that felt like exhaling. Like opening a door you hadn’t realized was always unlocked.

He looked at you like he wasn’t sure he was allowed to want this, and you leaned in like you’d always known it would end this way.

It was soft. A little clumsy. But real. And warm. And safe. He froze. Then kissed you back like he was afraid he’d wake up from it. Like he didn’t know what to do with his hands (he didn’t — they kind of just hovered like he was buffering). And when you pulled back, breathless, he whispered shyly, “I’ve been waiting for that since the third grade.”

You were his first everything after that. His first real kiss. First hand held beneath bleachers, hearts pounding against linked palms. First person he ever trusted with the quieter, more fragile parts of himself—the ones he kept hidden even from his parents. You learned him slowly, like a language, and he let you. Word by word, moment by moment. He never made it easy, but he never made you guess, either. Not when it really mattered.

So when Bob told you, senior year, that he wanted to join the Navy, he said it like a secret he didn’t want to keep. Like he was handing it to you gently, scared it might crack open everything you’d built together.

You didn’t flinch.

“You’re gonna fly, huh?” you asked, nudging his arm with your shoulder. The two of you were stretched out across the hood of his truck, parked at the edge of that old service road no one else ever bothered with. The sky was clear. Stars above like a map you didn’t know how to read.

“If they let me,” he said, barely louder than the crickets. “I just… I feel like I’d be good at it. I want to do something that matters.”

“You already do,” you said, like it was the simplest truth. And it was. “But if that’s where you’re meant to go, then go. Just…” Your voice caught. You turned your head so he wouldn’t see. “Write me, okay? A lot.”

He was quiet for a second. Then he leaned in, warm and steady, and kissed your cheek. His lips lingered like he didn’t want to pull away.

“Every chance I get,” he whispered.

And he meant it. Every letter, every email, every slow Sunday phone call—he kept that promise like it was sacred.

Boot camp was hard. So was flight school. The distance wore on you in places you didn’t know could ache—quiet places, like the space between heartbeats, or the seconds between texts that didn’t come fast enough. Some nights, the silence felt louder than any goodbye ever had.

But Bob never made you doubt him.

Even when he was thousands of miles away, when his world became early mornings and aching muscles and orders barked through static—he made time for you. He sent hand-written letters whenever he could, the envelopes soft at the edges from travel, always filled with little sketches in the margins—birds he saw on base, clouds shaped like hearts, doodles of you in your overalls with hearts around your head. He told you everything. How tired he was. How badly the food sucked. How homesick he was for your laugh, your cooking, the way your fingers combed through his hair when he couldn’t sleep.

You FaceTimed at odd hours, each call a small lifeline. Sometimes the connection cut in and out, freezing his face mid-smile or distorting your voice until you both started laughing. Sometimes you just sat in silence, watching each other exist, breathing in sync. You whispered I love yous across time zones and bad Wi-Fi, clinging to the sound of his voice like oxygen.

And every time he came home on leave, he held you like the world had stopped spinning without you in it.

There were reunions on front porches, airport gates, parking lots—messy and breathless, tears caught in your lashes before he even made it all the way into your arms. He’d bury his face in your neck, whisper something like, “God, I missed you,” and you’d feel the truth of it in your bones.

Time moved. Seasons changed. You wrote letters and made playlists and sent care packages with little notes tucked between socks and granola bars. He flew. He grew. And through it all, you remained—each other’s constant.

He proposed on your fifth anniversary, in your old backyard, standing beneath the tree where your initials were still carved into the bark—faded, but there. You didn’t know he had a ring. You didn’t even know he’d planned anything. But he reached for your hands with a look you’d known since childhood, the one that said you’re home, and dropped to one knee like he’d been waiting his whole life for this one moment.

“I can’t picture my life without you in it, Y/N,” he said, voice shaking just enough to make your heart stutter. “You’ve been my best friend, my reason, my everything. Will you marry me?”

You were crying before he finished. Laughing, too, because of course. Of course it was always going to be him.

You said yes with your whole heart—before he could even finish the question.

And he smiled like he had that day you carved your names into the tree, like the sun was caught in his glasses again. Like everything had finally come full circle.

Marriage with Bob wasn’t flashy or loud — it was steady. The kind of love that didn’t need an audience, because it had roots too deep to be shaken.

It was built on years of shared glances and slow-burn devotion. On a friendship that grew into something sacred, something safe. A thousand little rituals became your language: the way he’d tuck handwritten love notes into your coat pocket before every deployment — folded three times, always sealed with your initials and a tiny heart. The way you’d greet him on the front porch after months away with his favorite meal already warming on the stove, lights low, arms open like a home he’d never left.

It was forehead kisses before sunrise and tangled limbs long past midnight. The soft rhythm of his hand rubbing slow circles on your back when you were sick or sore or simply worn thin. The way you cradled his face in your palms when the weight of the world — of the cockpit, of the distance, of the danger — grew too heavy on his shoulders.

With Bob, love was in the quiet.

It was in the way he memorized your coffee order by heart and always made it just right — even groggy, even rushed. The way he looked at you like you were still the girl next door in grass-stained jeans, even when you were pregnant and barefoot in the kitchen, hair a mess and eyes tired.

There were no grand declarations. No over-the-top gestures.

Just a million tiny choices, every day.

And the unshakable truth that he was yours — and you were his — in every way that mattered.

When Arvin came along — your sleepy-eyed boy. Another airplane-obsessed little one, a perfect miniature of his father right down to the dark blue eyes and thoughtful silences — Bob stepped into fatherhood with the same quiet reverence he brought to everything he loved.

He was gentle from the very first breath, holding your newborn son like he might break if he exhaled too hard. He whispered lullabies into soft baby curls at 3 a.m., slow and low, even when his voice cracked from sleep. He changed diapers without complaint, one hand always resting lightly on Arvin's tiny chest, like he couldn’t quite believe he was real.

He read bedtime stories in silly voices — sometimes dramatically bad British accents, sometimes with the gravitas of a Shakespearean actor reading The Very Hungry Caterpillar. Arvin would giggle and clap and demand “again,” and Bob would oblige every time, without fail, even when his eyes were rimmed with exhaustion from a long day on base.

He taught Arvin how to fold paper planes with surgical precision, adjusting wings and creases like it was an art form. He'd cheer when they soared, groan dramatically when they crash-landed, and patiently help him try again. You once caught them both lying on the floor for an hour, surrounded by a fleet of multicolored paper aircraft, Bob explaining lift and drag in a voice just above a whisper.

And when he thought you weren’t listening — when the house was quiet, the baby limp with sleep in his arms — you’d hear him murmur into the soft crook of Arvin's neck, “I love you so much, buddy. So, so much.” As if he was pouring every ounce of feeling into those five words, like they were sacred.

And now?

Now you're sitting alone in your house in Lemoore, the glow of the tablet screen casting pale light over your tired face. Your hand rests instinctively over the small swell of your belly — life growing again, a quiet miracle you wish he could feel beneath his own palm.

And on the screen, there’s Bob.

He looks tired. So do you.

But when your eyes meet, everything else stills — like the world exhales around you.

The video calls never feel long enough though.

No matter how much you try to pretend they do.

You were overjoyed for Bob when he first told you he’d been recruited for a special mission at TOPGUN. His voice had held that rare spark — the kind of excitement that only came when he talked about flying. It was supposed to be a temporary assignment, just a few weeks of intense training and high-stakes simulations.

But those weeks stretched into months.

Then the higher-ups asked him to stay longer — first through the summer, then into the fall. Every extension came with the same promise: just a little while more. And each time, you swallowed your disappointment and smiled, because you were proud. Because this was Bob's dream — and you had always known that loving him meant loving the sky that called him away.

Eventually, those few weeks turned into more than a year. From the start of your pregnancy to now.

You try to fill the space between your words, the ones you don’t know how to say, by smiling extra bright, by asking him about the weather or how his new flight simulator is working. You talk about anything, anything to make the minutes stretch a little longer — but they never do.

Bob’s face glows softly on your tablet screen, the dim light from his room casting shadows across his features, making him look younger, more vulnerable than he does when he’s in uniform. His hair is still mussed from the helmet, the lines around his eyes deepened from exhaustion, but there’s a softness there too, something just for you.

You watch as his gaze drifts to Arvin in the background. The boy is jabbering about airplanes and apples, or maybe it’s just a string of nonsense words he’s gotten attached to, you’re not sure. Bob watches him like he’s a miracle — like the sound of his son’s voice is enough to keep him tethered to this world.

You’re only half-listening, your gaze on Bob’s face, on his smile as he watches Arvin, but your hand rests lightly over the small curve of your stomach, the weight of it both grounding and quieting you in a way you can’t explain.

And then Bob notices.

He always does.

“Is he sleeping okay now?” His voice is quiet, tentative, like the question itself is a thread he’s afraid will snap if he pulls too hard. He leans in slightly, like he can close the distance with just the weight of his eyes. His gaze flickers to the side — to Arvin, to the room, anywhere but you, and then back to you, searching.

You nod, though it feels like a lie. “Mostly. Still wakes up crying for you sometimes.”

You watch as his expression shifts, as the words hang between you, thick with the distance neither of you wants to acknowledge.

Bob swallows hard, the movement of his throat so subtle, but you catch it. You always catch it. His jaw tightens just enough that you can see it, the silent, invisible tension that coils within him. It’s like he’s holding his breath, waiting for something he can’t put into words.

“And you?” he asks, his voice barely above a whisper. His eyes hold yours, steady and searching, and there’s a tenderness there — a rawness that almost makes you want to look away.

You hesitate, your chest aching, the weight of his question heavy in the space between you. You know what he wants to hear. You know it. You want to say, I’m good. I’m fine. We’re managing. You want to, but the words feel hollow.

Instead, you stay quiet. And somehow, that speaks louder than anything else.

Bob leans forward, his face coming into focus on the screen as his eyes soften — a small, fleeting thing, like a crack in a dam that might let the flood rush through. You see the way his brow furrows, the flicker of frustration that crosses his face, like he wants to reach through the screen and pull you into his arms.

“I hate this,” he says, his voice barely audible, as though saying it aloud would make the ache too real. “I hate not being there. Not… with you.”

Your heart aches at the softness of his words, the vulnerability in them. The quiet way he admits it, like it’s a secret he’s been carrying too long. You force a smile, but it’s thin, worn, fragile.

“I hate it too, Bobby.” Your voice trembles just enough for him to hear it, but you don’t let yourself say anything more.

The call flickers. The feed stutters once, twice, like the connection itself is reluctant to let go. And then, just like that, the screen goes black, and all you’re left with is the empty space around you. The silence stretches, suffocating in its weight.

You sit there on the edge of your bed, the cold light of the screen still lingering in your peripheral vision, the hum of the air conditioner too loud in the stillness of the room.

But there’s only the ache.

A quiet, persistent ache that pulses behind your ribs, that lingers even after the call has ended, and the miles between you stretch too far to bridge.

And you wonder, for the thousandth time, if this will always be the way of it — these small, stolen moments that never feel long enough.

A few days later — North Island, San Diego

You didn’t argue when Bob told you he was flying you out. You should’ve — you had your own command to report to, your own stack of overdue emails and unfinished reports — but the exhaustion had sunk too deep into your bones. It was the kind of tired that sleep couldn’t fix. So when he said, “Please, just come out here. I need you here,” in that low, quiet voice that always made something in your chest loosen, you didn’t even try to fight it.

Because the truth was, you needed him too.

Now, standing just inside the hangar, the scent of oil and sunbaked concrete mixing with the faint salt of the sea air, you shift Arvin higher on your hip. He’s dozing against your shoulder, warm and heavy and clutching your collar in one sticky little fist, the remnants of a cherry lollipop smudged near his mouth. His soft breaths tickle your neck, and you press your cheek gently to his hair, breathing him in.

Your flight jacket is unzipped halfway, the soft curve of your belly peeking beneath the edge of your shirt. The baby stirs — a slow, fluttering kick — and your hand moves instinctively to rest there. Protective. Quiet. A silent hello.

You feel exposed, somehow. Not from the eyes of others, but from the sheer openness of being here, in his world again — the place where he comes alive in ways he tries not to show you over a screen. There’s no buffer now. No distance to soften the weight of how much you’ve missed him.

And then, like the thought conjures him — you see him.

Bob steps out from between two aircraft, still half in his flight suit, sleeves tied around his waist, sweat-damp curls falling messily over his forehead. His helmet dangles from one hand, the other runs through his hair in a gesture you’ve seen a thousand times. Nervous. Hopeful. Tired.

He spots you instantly.

His whole face softens.

You don’t wave. He doesn’t smile. It’s quieter than that.

He crosses the hangar in long, purposeful strides — not rushing, but close. His gaze never leaves yours. And when he reaches you, he sets his helmet down without looking, cupping your face with one warm, calloused hand.

You let your eyes close. Just for a second.

“You came,” he murmurs, like he doesn’t quite believe it.

You nod, the lump in your throat making words impossible for a moment. “Of course I did.”

Bob leans in and presses a kiss to your forehead, slow and deliberate, lingering there like he’s trying to breathe you in. When he pulls back, his eyes flicker down — to your belly, to Arvin still asleep on your shoulder — and something flickers across his face.

Wonder. Gratitude. Love.

“Hi, baby,” he says softly, reaching out to run a thumb across the swell of your stomach, his touch reverent. Then his hand moves gently to Arvin's back, rubbing slow circles as he leans in. “Hey, little man. Miss me?”

Arvin's head lolls as he turns, blinking up at him. “Daddy,” he mumbles, drowsy but smiling.

Bob cradles him to his chest with practiced ease, like no time has passed at all. You watch as his fingers press gently against Arvin's back — counting, you think. Checking. Making sure he’s real.

And then he looks at you.

Really looks.

At your face, your tired eyes, your jacket stretched a little tighter over your middle than last time. His gaze lingers there, gentle and awed, and when it lifts again, there’s something raw in it.

“God, I missed you,” he says, his voice thick.

You reach up to fix his glasses from sliding down his nose, your fingers lingering. “I missed you more.”

He kisses you then — soft, sweet, a little breathless. The kind of kiss that feels like a beginning and a homecoming all at once.

And for the first time in weeks, maybe months, your world feels whole again.

Later That Night – Bob’s Quarters

The quarters are dimly lit, save for the warm glow of the overhead light above the small kitchen nook. The base housing isn’t big — just one long room split by a thin curtain and a kitchenette that hums faintly with the old fridge. But it’s clean. Lived-in now.

You’re curled up on Bob’s neatly made bunk, legs tucked to the side, with Arvin asleep on your chest — his little fingers curled in the collar of your shirt. Bob is across from you on the floor, back against the side of the bed, legs stretched out. His glasses have slid halfway down his nose as he finishes washing and drying a single baby bottle like it’s mission critical.

“I didn’t realize how much I missed this,” he says, voice soft enough not to wake Arvin. “You. Him. The burp cloths.”

You grin, brushing a hand through Arvin’s soft hair. “You say that now. Wait until he starts screaming at 2 a.m. because he can’t find his stuffy.”

Bob looks up at you, warm amusement in his eyes. “Then I’ll be glad I’ve still got my hearing protection from the cockpit.”

He stands and walks over, kneeling beside the bed so he’s eye-level with the two of you. He kisses Arvin’s temple, then your forehead. “Thank you for coming. I know this wasn’t easy.”

Before you can answer—

The door bursts open.

“Hey Floyd, you le— what the fuck.”

It’s Hangman. Behind him, Rooster, Coyote, Payback, Fanboy and two fresh faced recruits stand frozen in the doorway like they just walked into the wrong house. Phoenix lingers in the back with her arms crossed, clearly not surprised — but enjoying the boys reaction.

She was the only member of the dagger squad who knew of her WSO’s little family.

Everyone stares.

You stare.

Arvin stirs and lets out a soft grunt, then burrows deeper into your chest.

Bob doesn’t move. His hand stays on your knee, protective but not ashamed. “Hey, uh… guys.”

Hangman points, blinking. “What the hell is going on here?”

Rooster looks like his brain just blue-screened. “Are we in the right place?”

Phoenix smirks. “Yep.”

Bob clears his throat. “This is my wife. And that’s our son, Arvin.”

Fanboy mouths the word son and glances at Payback, who just raises his eyebrows and gives a low whistle.

One of the recruits awkwardly raises a hand like he’s in school. “Sir… you have a baby?”

Bob straightens a little. “Yes. And he’s sleeping. So... maybe keep it down?”

The room falls comically silent.

You press your lips together to keep from laughing. Bob's shoulders are tense, but he’s trying not to show it.

Then, Hangman recovers. He steps inside, looks around the room, and crosses his arms. “You mean to tell me quiet little Baby On Board has a whole-ass family he didn’t tell us about?”

Phoenix pipes up from the back. “Told you he had game.”

“I didn’t think you meant married with a baby game,” Rooster mutters, walking in more cautiously.

Fanboy edges over to the sleeping Arvin and crouches. “Man. Look at this little guy. He’s got Bob’s nose.”

Payback leans against the wall. “You been hiding this because you didn’t want us to babysit or what?”

Bob relaxes — just a little. “Didn’t think it was relevant to the mission.”

Hangman raises both hands. “Oh, no. No, no, Bob. This is the mission now. We are absolutely going to teach this kid how to dogfight.”

Rooster rolls his eyes. “He looks barely two.”

“Plenty of time to train,” Hangman says seriously.

You glance at Bob. His ears are red, but he’s smiling now — the slow, warm kind he only gives you when he’s too full of love to say anything else.

And somehow, in this tiny room filled with too many people and not enough space, it feels like home.

The fresh faced recruits are the first to bail.

The shorter one, nervous as a rabbit, nudges his partner. “Uh, Sir… we’ll, uh, just come back… later?” His eyes dart from Arvin’s chubby cheeks to Bob’s unreadable face and back again.

The taller recruit nods too fast. “Congrats, Lieutenant Floyd. Ma’am. Your baby is, uh… looks a lot like Lieutenant Floyd.”

They both retreat like they stumbled into sacred ground. The door shuts softly behind them.

Now it’s just the squad.

And they are settled in.

Rooster is sitting on the floor beside the bed with his back against the wall, chin in his hand as he stares at Arvin like the baby’s a new aircraft schematic. Fanboy has claimed a random pillow and is lying flat on the floor in front of the bunk like he’s cloud-watching. Payback’s perched on the tiny kitchen stool. Phoenix leans against the counter with a small smile, and Hangman…

Hangman is holding up one of Arvin’s tiny onesies like it’s a national treasure.

“Do you see how small this is?” he says dramatically, voice hushed like they’re in a museum. “This could fit on my forearm. I could wear it as a sock.”

You’re trying not to laugh too loud — Arvin sleeping peacefully, cheek smushed against your chest.

“Where’d you get this one?” Fanboy asks, pointing to the onesie in question. “The blue with the little jets?”

“Oh, that was from my sister,” you say. “She said if Bob’s gonna fly jets, Arvin should wear them.”

“Damn right,” says Coyote.

“How old is he?” Rooster asks.

“Fifteen months,” you reply.

Rooster smiles, amused. “And how long did Bob keep this from us?”

Bob, still standing at the foot of the bed, crosses his arms — but not in annoyance. In quiet defense. He’s close, just within reach, like his body’s trying to shield the three of you from the attention.

“It wasn’t on purpose,” he says, voice low. “We’ve just been… figuring things out. He was born not long before I got deployed. Didn’t want to make it complicated.”

Fanboy whistles. “Man. You were flying with us every day, then going home to FaceTime with this little dude?”

Bob nods.

“That’s baller,” Rooster mutters.

Hangman squints at you, suddenly serious. “So wait, how long have you two been together?”

You shift Arvin slightly to cradle him better. “Since high school." You smiled sheepishly, "Married three years."

“She helped me study during training,” Bob adds, quieter now, almost shy.

Phoenix perks up. “You helped Bob Floyd study?”

“I did,” you say, grinning.

“Did you know,” Phoenix says, turning to the group, “this man cried when he saw Arvin’s ultrasound photo?”

Bob glares at her. “That was classified.” He coughs awkwardly.

The room erupts into gentle laughter. Even Arvin stirs and lets out a sleepy little sigh, like he approves.

“Alright, alright,” you say, holding up a hand. “Any more questions before we pass around a sign-up sheet for bedtime stories?”

Rooster raises a finger. “Does Arvin like planes?”

Bob answers this time, stepping closer and crouching beside the bed. “He calls them ‘brrr-brrrs.’”

You nod, smiling. “He has a toy F/A-18 that he crashes into everything. Including our dog.”

“Wait,” Fanboy says, eyes wide. “You have a dog too?”

Hangman sits down on the other side of the bed now, hands behind his head, grinning. “Okay. New rule. We all hang out here every Friday. You bring the baby. I’ll bring drinks.”

Bob finally chuckles. “And what if we say no?”

“You won’t,” Phoenix says.

Bob raises an eyebrow.

“I mean,” she adds, “you tolerate us with remarkable patience.”

He doesn’t answer — just reaches over to brush a curl off Arvin’s forehead, his eyes soft and so full of quiet pride it nearly chokes you.

You meet his gaze and smile, mouthing, thank you.

He nods, mouthing back, Always.

Outside, the base is silent. Inside, it’s warm. Loud. Full.

And for the first time in months, Bob lets himself sink into the chaos, just a little — because this is the kind of noise that means you’re home.

After an hour the daggers finally leave you two alone.

The room is finally quiet again.

The door clicked shut ten minutes ago, leaving only the soft hum of the fridge and the rhythm of Arvin’s little breaths against your chest. You can still hear Hangman’s laugh echoing faintly in the hallway, followed by a muffled, “I’m just saying, if the kid’s already saying ‘brrr-brrr,’ he’s halfway to a call sign.”

You smile to yourself.

Bob locks the door behind them, then turns off the kitchen light, leaving the room in the low amber glow of a bedside lamp. He exhales as he leans back against the counter, watching you with a soft kind of awe — like he still can’t quite believe you’re really here.

“Sorry about the ambush,” he says quietly.

You shake your head. “Don’t be. They were sweet.”

He nods, walking over slowly, careful not to wake Arvin. “I think they were more excited about his onesies than I was when I got my flight suit.”

You laugh under your breath. “That tracks.”

He crouches beside the bed again, resting a hand lightly on your leg. “You okay?”

“Yeah.” You meet his eyes, and your voice softens. “I’m just… really glad we came.”

You shift, carefully sliding Arvin off your chest and onto the middle of the bed. He fusses for a second, then settles again, thumb in his mouth. Bob moves instinctively, pulling the small blanket up over him, tucking it just right.

Then he stands and, without a word, unzips his hoodie and slips into bed beside you, careful not to jostle either of you too much. He lies on his side, one arm under his head, the other resting lightly across your hip.

You shift to face him, your noses close, the space between you quiet and full.

For a long moment, neither of you says anything. You just breathe. The kind of silence that doesn’t need to be filled.

Then Bob speaks — his voice a soft thread in the dark.

“How long can you stay?”

You trace a line along the collar of his shirt with one finger. “A few days. I told my boss I needed personal leave.” You glance up. “They didn’t ask questions.”

Bob’s mouth lifts slightly. “Remind me to send them a thank-you card.”

You smile, but your voice is quieter now. “We’ve missed you. A lot.”

“I know.” His fingers brush your side gently. “I’ve missed you more than I can say.”

You reach for his hand and lace your fingers through his. “I don’t want this to feel like a visit. I want it to feel like a pause, you know? Like we’re not counting down already.”

Bob’s eyes search yours — slow, full of something fragile. “Then let’s not count,” he says. “Let’s just… be here.”

You nod.

He shifts a little closer, his forehead resting lightly against yours. “I was thinking,” he says, “we could take Arvin down to the beach in the morning. Just us. Before it gets crowded.”

You smile. “He’ll eat half the sand, you know that, right?”

“I’ll pack extra wipes,” he murmurs, and you both laugh quietly.

“And maybe,” he adds, hesitating, “we could find time for just us. Even if it’s just an hour. You and me. No schedules. Just… catching up.”

You reach up and trace the edge of his jaw, your thumb brushing the stubble there. “I’d like that.”

His eyes flicker — tired, but glowing. “We’ve been so many places apart,” he says softly. “I want to start building the places we’ve been… together.”

You blink once, hard, then lean forward to press your lips gently to his.

It’s not a kiss full of heat or hunger — it’s full of knowing. Of being known. A kiss that says: I’m here. I still choose you. Every time.

When you pull back, your voice is barely a whisper.

“So what’s the plan tomorrow?”

Bob exhales slowly. “Beach in the morning. Maybe breakfast after that. Arvin’s nap around noon.” He pauses, then smiles. “And if he’s down long enough, I thought maybe I could read to you for a while. The baby books, I mean. I’ve been practicing.”

You laugh softly. “I’d love that.”

He kisses your temple, then your cheek. “And I’ll make dinner. Nothing fancy, but—”

“You’re cooking?” you tease, eyebrows raised.

“I’ve improved since the incident with the instant rice,” he says solemnly.

“Have you?”

“Well… slightly supervised cooking.”

You laugh again, and then settle closer, your head resting beneath his chin, one arm across his chest. His fingers trace gentle circles against your back.

Bob exhales, his voice the last thing you hear before sleep starts to pull you under.

“I wish I could freeze this,” he whispers. “Just… hold it all still.”

You press your lips to his collarbone. “You don’t have to. We’re here now.”

Bob's gaze drifts to your belly.

“She been kicking a lot today?” he asks looking down at you , voice soft. God, you loved when he looked at you with his dark blue eyes through his glasses.

You nod, bitting your lip. “Like she’s doing laps in there.”

A small, crooked smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. He reaches out, hesitates, then places his palm gently over the curve of your belly.

“I keep picturing her,” he says, almost like he’s afraid to say it out loud. “Not just what she’ll look like — though I think she’ll have your face — but like… the little things. Her laugh. The sound of her feet on the floor. Her asking questions I don’t know how to answer.”

You watch him quietly, your heart aching in that full, overwhelming way only he can make it ache.

“She’s gonna be loud,” you say with a smile. “Louder than Arvin, maybe.”

Bob huffs a soft laugh.

A beat passes. Then, in a quieter voice: “Still want to name her Aubrey?”

You nod. “Do you?”

He swallows. “Yeah. I, uh… I was listening to the song the night you told me. And I just… I don’t know. It stuck.”

You can hear the song in your head now — Aubrey by Bread— soft and sad and full of things left unspoken. A strange choice for a baby’s name, maybe. But also perfect. Gentle. Old-fashioned. Honest.

“I love it,” you whisper.

He glances up at you, relieved. “Good. 'Cause I already made a playlist.”

You laugh softly, resting your forehead against his. “Of course you did.”

“She’s gonna have good music taste,” he mumbles. “I’ll start her early. Bread, Simon & Garfunkel, Fleetwood Mac…”

“You’re making a dad playlist.”

His ears turn red. “Is that bad?”

“No,” you whisper. “It’s perfect.”

He brushes his thumb lightly over the swell of your stomach, then looks down at Arvin, still nestled against you. “I just want them to feel safe. Always. Like… like no matter what, I’ll be here.”

“You will be,” you say.

Bob doesn’t say anything for a long moment. Just breathes. Then finally, voice barely audible:

“I still don’t feel like I’m enough for this. For you. For them.”

You tilt your head, resting a hand on his cheek. “You’re already more than enough. Every single day.”

He closes his eyes at that. Nods.

And then, so quietly you almost miss it: “I hope she has your laugh.”

You smile, feeling the baby shift inside you, almost like she heard him. Like she’s saying I’m here, too.

Sleep comes for you slowly, like the tide—gentle, inevitable, pulling you under in waves.

Your eyes flutter, heavy-lidded, and the warmth of Bob beside you lulls you deeper into it. His fingers are still tracing quiet circles on your back, and his breathing has settled into that soft, steady rhythm you’ve always found comfort in. Arvin is tucked between you, his tiny body curled toward yours, mouth slack around his thumb, breaths even and small.

Bob shifts, just slightly, and you feel his hand slide from your back to the swell of your belly, his palm resting there with the kind of reverence that says: I know you're in there, and I love you already.

The weight of his arm wraps around you protectively. Not tight. Just there. Grounding. Like a tether you didn’t know you needed until now.

And then—his hand stretches further, carefully, reaching across you until his fingertips find Arvin’s small shoulder, barely brushing. It's the lightest touch, but it holds all the weight in the world. A father holding his whole world in the span of two palms.

You’re somewhere between awake and dreaming when you feel his breath against your temple.

“I love you,” he whispers.

You don’t respond—can’t, really—but your body shifts instinctively, curling toward him just a little more. He presses a soft kiss to your forehead, then one to the top of Arvin’s head. His hand never leaves your belly.

Outside, the night is still. The fridge hums. Somewhere in the distance, a car passes, but it doesn’t reach you here.

Bob stays awake for a little while longer, just watching you sleep. He lets his gaze linger on the rise and fall of your chest, the gentle rhythm of the baby’s kicks beneath his palm, and the tiny hand of his son curled near your collarbone.

His chest tightens in that familiar way—love too big for his ribcage, like it might break him open. But it's the good kind of ache. The kind he’d carry gladly for the rest of his life.

Eventually, his eyes grow heavy. He shifts just a little closer, curls his body around yours and Arvin’s like a shield, and lets his forehead rest against your shoulder.

The San Diego base was quieter than usual for a Thursday morning. A rare hush settled over the hangars and halls, broken only by the distant echo of boots or the low hum of morning briefings. Most of the squad was buried in mission prep or sleeping off last night’s long debriefs, but you needed something else—something slower, quieter.

The last mission hadn’t just drained your fuel tank—it had wrung your entire body out. High-G turns, endless adrenaline, and the constant demand for perfection had sunk deep into your muscles, coiling tension through your spine and shoulders like wire. Tight muscles, restless nights. The relentless pressure isn’t just in your mind — it’s etched into your bones and tendons. You can’t ignore it anymore. You promised yourself to carve out time for something gentle, something that would help untangle the knots beneath your skin.

So here you were, early in the base gym.

The gym was cool and still, the scent of rubber matting, old sweat, and faint lemon cleaner clinging to the air. You wore a fitted tank and black compression shorts that moved with you, clinging to every shift of muscle as you flowed from one stretch to the next. Your music buzzed softly in your ears— Juno by Sabrina Carpenter.

You settled into the mat, palms pressing flat into the textured surface, hips lifting into a deliberate downward dog. Your calves stretched tight, hamstrings tingling in protest. You exhaled through your nose, long and slow. Letting the tension go.

The mission still lingers in your mind like static, but here in this quiet space, you find a moment of peace.

And that’s when you felt it—that flicker. Like eyes on your skin.

You didn’t look at first. You just smirked, staying in the pose a beat too long, letting the subtle arch of your body speak for you. Then you rose, fluid and deliberate, rolling up from your hips and catching him in your periphery.

Bob Floyd.

He stood in the doorway, leaning casually against the frame with a puzzled look on his face. His lips parted, like he’d meant to say something but forgot what. The overhead lights cast a soft glow across his face, and even from here, you could see the way his jaw worked, the tick of restraint in his posture.

His eyes trailed your movements, but not crudely. More like reverence. Like watching you move made something inside him ache.

He hadn’t meant to find you here—he’d been wandering the base looking for a spare charger, radio dead and unreadable. But now that he’d found you like this, stretching and flushed and glowing with exertion, something inside him locked into place. He couldn’t look away.

You lift your head just enough to meet his gaze. A slow, mischievous smirk curls your lips. You held the next pose, extended puppy, a fraction longer than necessary, the muscles in your arms flexing as you do. Then, smoothly, you straighten your legs and rise, stretching out.

Bob’s heart hammered hard against his ribs as he stood there. He’d watched you stretch before—on the flight line, at briefings—but never like this. Never with such vulnerability.

To be honest, Bob had thought you were cute for weeks. More than cute, really. There was something about the way you carried yourself that held his attention, quickened his pulse, and sent his thoughts wandering down roads he’d never dared travel. But he’d kept it professional, kept his distance.

This is a mission. We're teammates.

That mantra kept him grounded. Yet here, watching you, all that resolve wavered. The tension inside him wasn’t just from the mission or the charger hunt — it was something deeper, tangled up in the way you made his heart ache with every glance, every small smile.

Bob had been trying—really trying—to keep things professional. You were his teammate. Skilled, sharp-tongued, dangerously charming. But for weeks now, he’d been hyper-aware of you in every room. How you laughed with the others. How you’d brush past him with a nod and a smile that lingered too long in his chest.

He told himself it was just admiration. Respect. Camaraderie.

But watching you now, flexed and breathing through the last remnants of the mission, the thoughts in his head weren’t particularly professional.

His gaze flicked to your lips, then back to your eyes where that teasing smirk curled just enough to promise trouble. He wanted to reach out, to tell you how long he’d been holding this in—how every quiet moment without you felt like a dull ache. But the words stuck, caught in the tight knot of nerves and something else—something electric.

“Didn’t know you were into yoga, Floyd,” you teased, voice low and smooth like warm honey, headphones still resting lightly in your ears.

Bob swallowed hard, the heat rising in his cheeks. He raised a hand to fix his already perfectly say glasses. Trying to look casual but failing. “Sorry,” he mumbled, voice rougher than intended. “I didn’t mean to… I was just—uh—looking for a charger and, well..”

He trailed off, eyes darting everywhere but on you.

You turned, pulling out one headphone and raising a brow. “You didn’t mean to stare?”

His neck flushed pink. “That too,” he admitted, scratching the back of his neck.

You raised an eyebrow, smirk softening into something almost gentle. “It’s fine. Honestly, you caught me at a good time.”

He blinked, surprise flickering in his eyes. “Really?”

You gave a lazy shrug, stretching your arms overhead again, and Bob’s eyes—well, he tried not to, but they dragged down the exposed line of your waist and back again. “Yeah,” you said. “The mission’s been rough. My shoulders are wrecked. I was gonna ask Phoenix to help me stretch, but she’s buried in logs.”

Bob nodded, already halfway to understanding where this was going.

“So…” you said, letting the word hang between you.

His eyes darkened just a little, a flicker of something bolder lurking beneath the shy veneer. “Me?” he repeated, like a question and a challenge wrapped into one.

You shrugged with a innocent smile, “You’re more gentleman-like than the others...I figured maybe you could show me some stretches or, I don’t know, help me loosen up.”

Bob felt a heat rise to his cheeks, a shy grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Yeah, I could do that,” he said quietly. “Whenever you want.” Bob sent you a shy nod.

The awkwardness between you softened, replaced by something hopeful — a fragile connection built on trust, tension, and the promise of something more.

You slide back onto the mat, your voice low, casual. “Alright, Floyd. Show me what you’ve got.”

Bob kneels beside you, careful at first — always careful — but his hands don’t tremble like they used to around you.

He sat beside you, close enough that you could feel the shift in the air around him. He smelled like jet fuel and clean laundry, with a faint trace of aftershave that made your stomach flutter.

He places one palm gently against your thigh, just above the knee, guiding your leg into a stretch. The contact is firm, respectful, but his fingers linger just a moment too long.

His other hand hovers near your ankle, unsure if it’s okay to touch. You glance at him, one brow raised, the corner of your mouth twitching in amusement.

“It’s fine,” you murmur, watching him through half-lidded eyes. “You can touch. I won’t break.”

His breath catches audibly, but he nods. Swallows. Then adjusts your leg with slow precision, eyes never leaving the way your body bends under his touch. He’s doing his best to stay focused, to pretend this is clinical, just functional.

It’s not.

You shift slightly, arching into the stretch, and his hand brushes higher on your thigh. You feel the heat between you like a live wire — the proximity, the quiet tension wrapped up in every shallow breath he takes.

“You good?” he asks, voice a little too soft, a little too close to your ear.

You nod, slow. “Yeah. You're doing fine, Lieutenant.”

The way you say it — low and just a little sultry — sends a flush up his neck. He clears his throat but doesn’t move away.

His hand is still on your thigh. Yours brushes his wrist, intentionally or not, and the contact makes both of you pause.

It’s nothing.

It’s everything.

Your eyes meet — his are wide, unsure, but dark now, holding something restrained. Yours are steadier. Curious. Testing.

The moment stretches just a little too long. You could say something. So could he. But neither of you do.

Bob shifted his grip higher, slowly — the heel of his palm now cupping the inside of your thigh. Not indecent. Not overt. But close. Closer than it should’ve been.

You caught his eyes again. They were darker now. His lips parted like he wanted to say something, but he didn’t. Instead, he looked back down, refocusing on the stretch, like that would keep his thoughts in check. It didn’t.

“You’re more flexible than I expected,” he said softly.

You laughed, a low, husky sound that wrapped around him like smoke. “You’ve been paying attention?”

“Maybe,” he admitted, voice quieter now.

Your hand brushed his wrist again as you shifted slightly — a small movement, intentional only in the way it broke his rhythm. You felt the way he froze for half a second. The way his fingers flexed against your leg.

The air between you thickened. Not from words. From the silence. From the way his gaze dropped to your mouth and didn’t move for just a moment too long.

You sat up slowly, the motion dragging your body across his field of view. You didn’t rush. You knew what you were doing. Your shoulder brushed his chest as you rose, close enough to catch the scent of him — clean soap, fabric softener, and something faintly metallic from the flight deck.

“Thanks,” you said, casually wiping sweat from your collarbone with a towel. “That helped more than I expected.”

Bob’s voice caught in his throat. His eyes followed the line of your neck before he blinked hard and looked away. “Yeah… sure. Anytime.”

You stood over him now, and he was still on his knees, looking up — flushed, a little stunned, like you’d taken the wind out of him without laying a finger on his chest.

You leaned in just enough to let your voice land right at the shell of his ear. “I might hold you to that.”

He didn’t answer, didn’t move. Just swallowed hard, eyes darting everywhere but yours as you headed toward the exit. Bob stares at you like he’s still trying to recover from what just happened — or almost did. He opens his mouth, but nothing comes out. You grab your towel, sling it over your shoulder.

“I’ll see you later, Floyd.”

And just like that, you’re gone — leaving him kneeling there, flustered, heart racing, wondering if he imagined how long you’d looked at him, or how soft your touch had been.

He sat there for a beat too long, eyes fixed on the space you’d just occupied, heart pounding like he’d just pulled 9 Gs.

He ran a hand down his face, exhaling slow.

It all began on the set of Thunderbolts—a charged and chaotic place, alive with the hum of lights, the grind of long hours, and the quiet thrill of creating something bigger than yourselves. The kind of place where reality blurred just enough to let something unexpected sneak in.

You and Lewis had both been cast in major roles, names slotted neatly into call sheets and schedules, costumes and scripts handed over like destiny on paper. But from the very beginning, there was something more. Something unspoken. An undercurrent. The kind of chemistry that didn’t need rehearsal. It was there in the first shared glance across the set, the way your scenes together always felt just a little more electric—like the world paused to watch.

At first, it was easy to pretend it was just the job. Just friendly banter between takes—trading war stories from past shoots, laughing over the ridiculousness of tight superhero suits and late-night rewrites, finding comfort in the shared absurdity of your upcoming press tours.

But slowly, quietly, that banter began to soften into something sweeter. The kind of moments that didn’t call attention to themselves but lingered all the same. You started seeking each other out in the in-between spaces: in the hush between scenes, in the quiet hum of early mornings on set, in the golden lull of twilight when the crew was packing up.

Lewis was quiet, in that way that made you want to lean in just a little closer to catch every word. Thoughtful. Steady. He didn’t waste words—but when he spoke, you listened. And when he looked at you, really looked, it was like being seen for the first time in a way that made your heart forget how to beat normally.

There were stolen coffees, fingers brushing accidentally over sugar packets, shared headphones playing old songs on low volume. There were private jokes whispered with eyes instead of words, small touches that lingered just a second too long. Neither of you said it out loud, not at first, but something had shifted. Grown. Bloomed in the shadow of bright lights and booming action scenes.

The rest of the cast noticed, of course. Teasing smirks. Nudges in the ribs. The kind of glances people give when they see a secret blooming in plain sight. But still, you and Lewis kept it quiet, choosing the quiet over the loud, the sacred over the spectacle. Letting it unfold slowly, naturally, like the story you hadn’t known you were telling.

By the time filming wrapped, everything felt different. Not just because the work was done, but because somewhere in the midst of explosions and call times, you had found something rare. Someone real. The press tour was a blur of flashing cameras, endless flights, rehearsed anecdotes—but through it all, he was your constant. A hand at your back. A look across a crowded room that said, I’ve got you.

Even though you never confirmed anything publicly, fans noticed. They always do. The way you glanced at him when you laughed, how he waited for you to finish your sentences, the soft way your hands would find each other’s just off camera. Social media lit up with speculation. “Pullman/Y/N” trended more times than you could count. Edits, fanfiction, endless gifs of you leaning into each other mid-interview like gravity couldn’t help itself.

That’s why you were brought in—because your managers knew exactly what the fans were dying for: more of you and Lewis, more of that chemistry the fans can’t stop talking about.

The bright studio lights cast a warm glow over the BuzzFeed Celeb set, illuminating the colorful backdrop and making the director’s chairs you sat in look more inviting than nerve-wracking. The energy was light, playful, and buzzing with anticipation. You both settled into the chairs, the kind made for casual interviews but perfectly suited for the kind of banter about to unfold.

Lewis cleared his throat, fingers brushing nervously over his collar again. You’d learned to read these little ticks, the signs that told you he was more shy than confident, more thoughtful than outspoken.

He glanced at the camera, then at you, flashing a small, genuine smile. “Hey, everyone. I’m Lewis Pullman, and I’m here with…” He looked your way, his smile widening just a little. “…Y/N.”

Your heart skipped at the sound of your name from his lips in front of the camera, and you returned the grin easily. “And today, we’re doing something a little different—we’re reading thirst tweets about ourselves with buzzfeed.” You gave Lewis a playful, worried look. “Brace yourselves.”

Lewis chuckled softly, the nervous edge still there. “I’ve heard these can get wild. Like… real wild.”

“I’m worried for you,” you teased, nudging him gently. “You’re like—the white boy of the month or whatever that even means.” You shrugged, letting your voice trail uncertainly as you tried to understand the phrase yourself.

Lewis caught your eyes, lips twitching into that shy, almost imperceptible smile only you had seen before.

The host handed you a small bucket filled with folded tweets. You pulled one out and scanned it aloud, a teasing grin spreading across your face.

“If you ever do a reading thirst tweets video with Lewis Pullman I just want him to know that he can run me over with a bull and spit on my face while I cowgirl him and I’d still thank him for coming to my TED talk.”

Lewis blinked, surprise flashing in his eyes. “That’s… intense.” His voice dropped low, amused and incredulous. “That’s so incredibly specific.” Then he raised his eyebrows, looking straight into the camera. “I mean, if we can make that happen?”

You shrugged and crumpled the tiny piece of paper with a laugh. “Hey— the fans know what they want.”

Lewis nodded playfully before picking up the next tweet.

“Y/N is so hot I’d let her choke me, no joke.”

Lewis blinked at the tweet, then read it aloud in the most deadpan, mildly horrified tone imaginable—like the words themselves had personally offended him.

“Legally, I don’t think I can do that,” you teased, flashing him a small smile. “But if you pay me enough?...Anything's possible.” You trailed off, laughing.

Lewis gave you a sidelong glance, lips twitching despite himself. “Noted,” he muttered, “Guess I’ll check my savings account.” He said low enough for only you to hear.

The air between you shifted—no longer light, exactly, but heavier in the best kind of way. Charged.

You tilted your head at him. “Big spender, huh?”

Lewis didn’t back down. “Wouldn’t waste it.”

The moment stretched—just long enough to make the production assistant behind the camera clear their throat a little too pointedly.

"I'd jump on the chance to fuck Lewis Pullman and Danny Ramirez #threesome #atdifferenttimes #eitheror #idc"

You could barely keep it together, giggling your way through the hashtags as you read the tweet aloud. “Okay—wow,” you laughed, eyes wide. “That was... thorough.”

Lewis raised his eyebrows, rubbing at the stubble along his chin like he was buying time. “Shout out to Danny,” he said with a tight smile.

Lewis leaned forward just a little, elbows on his knees as he tapped the last tweet paper against his palm. “I’m texting this to Dan later,” he added, eyes still on you. Lewis reached for the next tweet. “Okay, moving on.”

"i never thought i'd find a evangelical youth pastor hot, but I do."

Lewis gave a tight-lipped smile as he folded the paper carefully. "Short and simple," He tipped his head to the camera with a shy smile. "Aww Lew," You teased.

"That one was quite nice when you forgot Owen is the devil incarnate," You added before grabbing another tweet, keeping the momentum.

"Y/N L/N I just wanna let you know that I'm free this Sunday to go on a date just let me know if you're free this Sunday, cause I'm free and would like to take you out on a date."

You couldn’t help the amused hum that slipped past your lips. The tweet was bold, sure—but the real irony? You already had a date that Sunday. A very intentional, very planned-out one. With Lewis.

He'd been going on about it for days—something about an early breakfast at that cozy spot in West L.A. he’d driven past last week, followed by a low-key picnic in Brentwood. Thoughtful. Quiet. Just the two of you.

You leaned back slightly, letting your shoulder brush his. “Well,” you murmured, eyes skimming the tweet again. “I actually do have plans this Sunday… but, you know,” you added, dragging the words just enough to leave room for mischief, “plans can change.”

From your peripheral vision, you caught the shift in Lewis’s posture. A small tilt of his head. His smile didn’t waver, but there was something different behind it now—tight around the edges. “Not these plans,” he said quietly, almost more to himself than to the camera.

You turned to look at him fully, lifting a brow. “Oh really?” you teased, voice low.

Lewis didn’t answer right away. Instead, his hand found the small of your back—steady, warm, and just out of frame. Barely there, but unmistakable to you.

“Really,” he murmured, not quite smiling now.

There was a pause—charged and fleeting—before you looked back at the screen, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear to hide the smirk pulling at your lips. “Guess I’m booked then.”

"I want Lewis Pullman to explore my hole until he finds another dimension and sends me to it."

You barely made it through the tweet without bursting into laughter. You pressed a hand to your chest, breath hitching in between giggles. “Oh my God. Who—who writes this?”

Lewis let out a low whistle, already laughing beside you. “That’s not even thirst. That’s an entire spiritual journey.”

Still laughing, you instinctively reached out to steady yourself, resting your hand on his knee. “I mean, at least they’re imaginative?”

He looked down at your hand on his leg—his lips curled into a slow, knowing smile. “Yea. Very... Marvel,” he said, eyes still on you. “Quantum theory. Multiverse. I’m just trying to do my part for science.”

You giggled again, this time leaning slightly closer. “Yeah, you’re a real humanitarian.”

Lewis gestured with his hands, miming a portal opening. “You don’t accidentally fall into another dimension. You gotta go deep.”

Your laugh broke into a snort, and you felt his hand casually settle on top of yours, still resting on his knee. Not tight, not forceful—just resting. Warm. Comfortable. A beat too long to be innocent.

You raised your eyebrows at him, a tiny smirk tugging at your lips. "You know deep right?" You asked, leaning toward him.

He just blinked at you, mock-innocent before leaning back in his chair. “I mean. The fans demand exploration.”

You gave his hand a quick squeeze, your thumb brushing against the inside of his wrist before you slowly slid your hand back to your lap—fingertips grazing his thigh just a little too deliberately.

Lewis cleared his throat and adjusted slightly in his seat.

You smiled, grabbing another tweet with exaggerated casualness. “These are so creative.”

“I think I’m learning a lot about physics today,” he muttered, eyes not quite meeting yours.

You bit back a grin. This interview was going downhill fast—in the best possible way.

You pick up the next card, eyebrows already raised at the way Lewis is watching you—arms crossed, eyes low-lidded with that quietly amused look he’s worn all interview.

"I watch films Y/N L/N is in because she reminds me where my ovaries are when she smirks."

Your mouth drops open slightly as you read it, then curls into a slow grin.

“Wow,” you say, blinking at the camera. “I mean, I always thought my work spoke to the soul, but—ovaries?” You glance over at Lewis, who still hasn’t said a word. He’s just watching you, expression unreadable… but there’s a flicker of something in his eyes.

You smirk—just a little—and cross your legs. “I’m happy to be of service,” you continue, “I’m all about that mind and body connection.”

Still no comment from Lewis. But then—you catch it.

A slight twitch at the corner of his mouth. The most subtle smirk. Just for you.

You stare at him, one brow arching like you’re challenging him to say something. Anything.

He doesn’t.

But he doesn’t need to.

That look? Says plenty.

You turn back to the camera, smoothing the card against your thigh. “That one’s going on my wall,” you deadpan, lips twitching.

"Religion? Lewis Pullman with a nipple piercing"

You felt a jolt of heat coil low in your stomach, instinctively pressing your thighs together as your mind ran wild with the image the tweet conjured. God. That visual alone could start a cult.

Without missing a beat, you tilted your head toward the camera with a wicked little grin. “Me too, girl. Me too,” you said, your voice laced with desire.

You didn’t need to look at Lewis to know he was glancing at you—his shy chuckle was telling enough. But you kept your gaze forward, pretending to stay composed, even as the temperature between you seemed to shift.

The next tweet was already waiting, but neither of you reached for it right away. The moment lingered—not loud, not overt, just there. Quiet and unspoken. The kind of moment you’d learned to let live between you.

Finally, you leaned forward, fingers brushing the rim of the bucket. “Ready for another?” you asked, not quite looking at him.

Lewis’s voice was soft when he answered. “Yeah,” he said. “I’m ready.”

"Lewis Pullman defintely exudes big dick energy and to make it even better im 99% sure he's actually big, I'm weak just thinking about it."

Lewis laughed at the tweet, that soft, genuine laugh that always seemed to catch you off guard. You watched him as he reacted—his hands moving just as much as his mouth. They flailed a little at first, then found rhythm: palms up like he was weighing the words, then a quick motion to his chest as if to say me? really?

“Why the 1%?” he asked, eyes wide with mock disbelief before chuckling again. “Flattery is the way to my heart, so I’m really trying to just—” he gestured, swooping one hand over his head, “—take these and bow so the compliments just fly right over me.”

He looked at you then, still mid-gesture, his expression somewhere between amused and adorably flustered—like he’d just realized how ridiculous he sounded and hoped you didn’t mind.

"I can't confirm nor deny but.." You smiled at the camera, "You're on the right track."

You pulled the next paper from the bowl and glanced at it—then instantly pressed it to your chest, biting back a laugh.

Lewis raised an eyebrow, already smiling. “What? That bad?”

You peeked over the edge of the card at him, eyes wide and mischievous. “It’s not bad. It’s… bold.”

He leaned in a little, intrigued. “Now you have to read it.”

You cleared your throat with theatrical flair, trying not to blush. “‘Y/N L/N is a living, breathing, wet dream.’”

Lewis froze mid-smile, blinking as a flush crept up his neck. “Wow,” he said slowly, then gave a snicker.

You turned toward him, grinning. “You okay over there?”

“I mean,” he said, recovering with a soft chuckle, “should I be worried?” He shifted slightly, his hand settling gently but firmly on the small of your back—a casual move, but grounding. Protective. Like he wanted whoever wrote that tweet to know exactly where you stood.

You felt the warmth of his touch through the fabric of your shirt and nearly forgot how to breathe.

“I think I’ve been objectified,” you said, mock-offended.

He leaned in closer, voice lower now, just for you. “You think you’ve been objectified?”

Your laugh came out in a flustered burst. “Touché.”

Lewis glanced toward the camera, shaking his head with a shy smile, then muttered, “It's better in person.”

Lewis quickly picked up the next card, a mischievous glint in his eye. “Alright, let’s see what we’ve got here.” He cleared his throat and read, trying to keep a straight face:

“I’m ashamed that I want Lewis Pullman 7 inches in these guts, but it is what it is.”

Lewis turned bright red in an instant, his hand flying to his mouth like that might somehow undo what he’d just heard. “Oh my God,” he muttered, voice cracking with laughter.

You bit your lip, adding slyly under your breath. “How’d they know?” you teased, leaning a little closer, voice dropping just enough to suggest you weren’t entirely innocent.

Lewis’s laugh caught in his throat, and before you could react, he reached out and rested his hand lightly on your lower back. “Okay, okay—”

You grinned and fanned yourself dramatically. “It’s getting hot in here?”

Lewis shook his head, still smiling, then looked back at the camera and said with mock seriousness, “Alright, I think that’s our cue to wrap this up.”

You looked into the camera, eyes wide and innocent. “Thank you so much for having us buzzed. This has been a very professional, very wholesome experience.”

"This was really fun... and slightly disturbing... and... uh... occasionally arousing" Lewis added with a faint smile.

As the cameras cut, Lewis kept his hand on your back for a beat longer, a quiet reminder that, no matter what was said out loud, you were his.

INT. HOTEL SUITE – LATE NIGHT

The door closed behind you with a soft snick, muffling the outside world until all that remained was the hush of the hotel suite and the quiet press of presence between you. The air was still laced with leftover laughter—those buzzy, breathless remnants of the BuzzFeed shoot—but now, in the silence, it felt different. Heavier. Like something just beneath the surface was waiting to surface.

You tossed your jacket over the chair by the small dining table, pacing toward the window. The city shimmered beneath you, all glass and gold reflections. You didn’t even pretend to busy yourself—you just stood there for a moment, arms loosely crossed, feeling his gaze settle on your back like a second skin.

Lewis was behind you, slower to move, still standing by the door. Watching. He always watched you like that—not performative, never possessive. Just aware. Like he was memorizing. Like he didn’t want to blink.

“The whole world is after my boyfriend,” you said softly, half-laughing as you looked out at the skyline. “The seven inches one?”

You heard him exhale, that huff of breath that was more bashful than amused.

“That tweet’s going to haunt me,” he muttered, a smile in his voice.

You turned toward him just enough to meet his eyes over your shoulder. “You were very red.”

He shrugged a little, stepping deeper into the room. “You didn’t help.”

You grinned. “I was just doing my part.”

That made him laugh again—a quiet, warm sound that rolled out of him like it had weight. He walked past you, settling into the corner of the bed like it was muscle memory. He leaned back on his palms, eyes still locked on yours.

You followed, slow and careful, and sat beside him. Close enough to feel the body heat radiating off his side, but not touching. Not yet.

For a moment, neither of you spoke.

The silence wasn’t awkward—it was expectant. Filled to the brim with the unsaid.

You glanced at him, your voice quieter now. “I think the ‘wet dream’ one broke you a little.”

Lewis tilted his head toward you, his smile soft but shadowed. “No,” he said honestly. “That one was just… accurate.”

You laughed at first—until you realized he wasn’t joking.

He was looking at you differently now.

His posture hadn’t changed, but something had. His eyes had gone darker, more focused, more present. He wasn’t teasing anymore.

The laughter caught in your throat.

He reached out, slow as dusk, and gently took a loose strand of your hair between two fingers. Brushed it back behind your ear with a softness that nearly unraveled you.

“You don’t even know,” he murmured, almost to himself.

Your voice was barely there. “Don’t know what?”

His fingers lingered for a breath too long at your jaw. “How hard it was not to touch you every time you leaned in today,” he said, his voice hushed and cracked open at the edges. “I kept thinking—just one second longer. Just… a little closer.”

Your throat went dry. “And now?”

He swallowed, his thumb brushing along the edge of your cheek, reverent. “Now you’re right here. And I still feel like if I touch you, you’ll vanish.”

You turned fully toward him then—slowly, deliberately. Meeting him in the thick silence.

“I’m not going anywhere,” you whispered.

He looked at you for a long moment—his eyes searching, serious, full of restraint—but you could see it unraveling at the seams. That need he always tucked away so neatly was starting to spill out. It was in the tremble of his breath, the press of his knuckles against the mattress to keep himself grounded.

His eyes dropped to your mouth.

The air shifted again.

Slower this time. Charged. Heavy with intention.

He reached for your hand—quietly, carefully—and laced his fingers through yours like he was asking permission to keep you. His palm was warm. Rough at the edges. Familiar.

And then, finally, he leaned in.

Not with force.

But with care.

His lips met yours like a question. Like a promise wrapped in silence.

The kiss was slow. Not tentative, but unhurried—like he wanted to savor every part of it, every second that had led here. His hand cupped your jaw, thumb brushing against your cheek as if memorizing the texture of your skin.

You sighed into him, melting forward until your chest brushed his. One of your hands slid along his neck, into the soft hair at his nape, tugging gently—just enough to make him exhale into your mouth.

The kiss deepened. Grew more sure. Not rushed—never rushed—but hungrier now. More grounded. Like he was finally letting himself feel.

You broke the kiss only when you absolutely had to breathe. And even then, you didn’t pull away. Your forehead rested against his, both of you breathless, eyes still closed.

His voice was a rasp. “That okay?”

You nodded. “More than okay.”

You kissed again.

Slower this time. Messier. Hands exploring in the safest, softest ways. Touches that weren’t about lust, but familiarity. Knowing. Want wrapped in tenderness.

You shifted onto his lap, your knees straddling his thighs as you sank into him. His arms curled around your waist, holding you there, grounding you like he never wanted to let go.

You shifted your weight—slowly grinding your hips forward, just once—and felt it: the heavy curve of his buckle pressed perfectly between your thighs. The cool metal kissed through your skirt and into the warmth building at your center, and the friction dragged a quiet gasp from your lips before you could help it.

Lewis’s hand clamped down on your waist.

His voice dropped. “Jesus.”

You did it again—slow, deliberate, hips rocking just enough to drag across the leather and brass. The contrast of rough denim, warm skin, cold metal—it hit all at once, and your head dropped against his shoulder with a breathy sound that made his grip on you tighten.

“Is that okay?” you asked, feigning innocence, your breath ghosting over his neck.

He groaned softly. “You’re gonna be the death of me.”

You smiled, mouth curving against his skin. “You keep saying that.”

His hands slid down to your thighs, grounding you as you moved again—rocking gently, finding a rhythm that had nothing to do with teasing anymore. You weren’t trying to provoke. You were trying to feel. Him. This.

Every shift dragged that damn belt buckle against you again, that sharp, sinful press of sensation that made you shudder against his chest.

Lewis’s breath hitched, his hand threading up into your hair as you kissed along his jaw. Not rushed. Just heat. Building. Slow and quiet and steady.

When your hips rolled again—just a little harder this time—he muttered your name like a confession.

His grip tightened, his breath shaky.

“Don’t,” he said, almost instantly. “Don’t stop.”

And so you didn’t.

You let yourself move like the moment asked you to—slow and aching, your body aligned perfectly with the heat and weight of his. His hands never roamed far. They stayed at your waist, your back, your thighs—like he was trying to memorize the shape of restraint.

You kissed him again, and again, and again—until your lips were swollen and your breath was shaky and the edge between playful and serious had completely vanished..

The sun burned high in a cloudless sky, the kind of early summer afternoon that demanded salt-stained towels, coolers packed with beer, and the roar of jet engines swapped for the low crash of Pacific waves. The sand was hot enough to sting soles, the air thick with salt and laughter, and the squad had claimed their usual patch of beach like pirates staking territory.

They’d gone full feral hours ago. Shirtless and sun-drunk, they played an unholy mix of football and wrestling in the shallows, water flying with every dive and tackle. Laughter mingled with curses. Someone had wedged a speaker into the sand, crackling out classic rock that the ocean nearly drowned.

Bob Floyd kept to the edge.

He was part of it—laughing, throwing the occasional well-aimed spiral—but always just outside the center of gravity. That was where he felt most comfortable. The quiet observer. The guy who noticed things.

Like how Phoenix always put lime in her beer.

Or how Rooster looked toward the dunes every time before he served the ball.

Or how you were late.

He’d noticed your absence right away, and he noticed the way time stretched in its wake.

He’d just thrown the ball—clean spiral, textbook form—when it happened. Not a noise so much as a shift in pressure, like the beach collectively held its breath.

Then a wolf whistle cut through the air. Bob turned toward the dunes.

And physics just… stopped.

You were walking across the sand like something the sun had conjured—shoulders bare, hips swaying just a little, all confidence without trying. You wore a buttercream-yellow bikini that had no business looking that good. The top was small, triangle-cut, tied at the neck and back in soft, delicate bows. The fabric shimmered just slightly, catching hints of gold when you moved. The bottoms sat high on your hips, all legs and sun-warmed skin and just enough curve to short-circuit his entire nervous system. Your hair was up in a messy knot, a few strands slipping down to kiss your collarbone.

It wasn’t flashy.

It wasn’t loud.

But it was lethal.

Bob’s throat went dry.

He barely registered the football still in flight until a solid thwack broke the trance.

“Damn it, Bob!” Hangman barked, holding the ball where it had smacked into his chest. “You just tried to take me out!”

Bob blinked, startled. Heat climbed up his neck. “S-sorry. I didn’t see.”

“You didn’t see a 6’1” target five feet away?” Hangman narrowed his eyes. “What the hell were you looking at?”

Bob didn’t answer. Couldn’t.

You were laughing with Phoenix now, dropping your bag on the sand. You pulled off your sunglasses, squinting at the sea like it had personally invited you.

Bob adjusted his glasses, only to realize they were already perfectly straight. His palms were damp.

“Floyd,” Rooster muttered as he passed, following Bob’s gaze. “You’re in so much trouble.”

The game went on without him.

Bob tried to keep up—he really did—but his rhythm was off. Every time you walked by, that yellow bikini might as well have been an emergency beacon. You ran toward the water at one point, and he looked away so fast he nearly gave himself whiplash. When he caught you laughing with Coyote, hand on his arm, he had to remind himself to breathe.

It wasn’t just attraction.

It was the impact of it. The unfairness.

You didn’t try to be the center of attention.

You just were.

Bob stayed near the edge of the towels, arms crossed loosely over his chest, pretending to watch Payback and Fanboy argue over the rules. But his eyes kept drifting toward the shoreline.

To you.

You and Phoenix splashed thigh-deep in the surf, holding hands like kids, laughing like you didn’t have a care in the world. Your bikini was damp now, clinging to you in ways that should’ve been illegal. Bob looked away. Then looked again. Then hated himself for it.

His pulse thudded low in his chest.

This wasn’t new. Not really.

What was new was how hard it was getting to hide it.

He wasn’t like Rooster or Hangman. He didn’t know how to throw charm like a punchline. He didn’t know how to match your fire with banter and smirks and knowing looks.

Bob didn’t flirt.

He noticed.

He noticed how you leaned a little closer when you teased Rooster. How you rolled your eyes at Hangman but still smiled when you did it. You were always brushing someone’s arm, always laughing with your whole body. Effortless. Bright. Magnetic.

But with him, it was different.

You weren’t flirty. You were… kind.

You asked if he was sleeping okay after flight rotations. You remembered which granola bars he liked. You’d once waited outside the hangar just to ask if his headset gave him a headache like yours did.

You were thoughtful. Sweet.

Safe.

And most of the time, that was fine.

But today? With you in that bikini, all sun-kissed and golden and you, it suddenly wasn’t fine anymore.

Because being the one you didn’t flirt with? That kind of stung more than being ignored.

He remembered the first time he started falling for you. It wasn’t dramatic. Just a quiet night at a diner near base. You sat across from him, hair in a loose braid, sleeves pushed up, picking fries off his plate while scrolling through the jukebox menu.

You picked Fleetwood Mac. He hadn’t even known you liked Fleetwood Mac.

Then you’d looked up, half-smiling. You’ve got this way about you? You know that?”

He didn’t remember what he said back.

But he remembered the way it made him feel. Like he mattered. Like you saw him.

He’d been falling ever since. Slow. Steady. Quiet.

Now, as you walked up from the water, skin glowing and towel draped over your shoulders, you caught his gaze from across the beach.

And you smiled.

Not the teasing, flirty kind you gave the others.

This one was small. A little shy. Maybe… unsure.

And that? That killed him.

Because deep down, he wanted something real. Messy. Honest. Loud.

Not this.

Not this quiet, hopeful thing he wasn’t even sure he was allowed to feel.

He dragged his eyes away, heart pounding. You were laughing again, the bow of your top tied just below your neck, skin glowing in the afternoon light. It was all too much.

He ran a hand through his hair and stared at the cooler, willing his heart to slow down.

It didn’t matter how far back he stood.

You still pulled him in.

The rest of the afternoon passed in a blur of sunlight and noise. Bob stayed quiet. Distracted. He helped Fanboy re-line the goal markers with driftwood, joined a half-hearted game of paddleball with Payback and Phoenix, even offered to refill the speaker battery when it started cutting out. Anything to stay busy.

Because if he let himself stop, he knew he’d look at you again.

And he didn’t trust what his face would give away.

You didn’t chase him. You didn’t even seem fazed. You talked with Rooster, lay out on a towel with your sunglasses on, dipped back into the ocean once or twice. You looked like you belonged here. Like you were made for these days. And Bob couldn’t help but feel like an outlier again—just close enough to almost be part of it.

He caught glimpses of you, though. Of course he did.

The towel tugged low on your hips as you reached for sunscreen.

The way you arched your back slightly, fixing your hair after a swim.

The soft crease between your brows when you listened to someone speak.

All of it added up. All of it pressed down on him.

Because he didn’t want to just look anymore.

He wanted to know what it felt like to be looked at back.

It wasn’t until the sun started its descent—low and lazy in the sky, casting long shadows across the sand—that it happened.

You approached him quietly.

He was sitting on a folded beach chair near the coolers, watching a group of seabirds chase each other down the shoreline. Everyone else was packing up, gathering towels, shaking out sand. The music had finally stopped.

He heard you before he saw you. Just the soft pad of your bare feet in the sand.

Then your voice, gentle. “Hey, Bob?”

He looked up, cautious. “Yeah?”

You stood in front of him, wrapped in your towel but not fully covered. One shoulder was bare, and you shifted your weight nervously between your feet.

You hesitated, then gave a small, almost embarrassed laugh. “Sorry, I know this is awkward, but… the tie on my top came loose and I can’t reach it. Could you…?”

Bob froze.

For a second, he honestly thought he’d misheard you. Or that this was a dream. Or a prank.

But then you turned, slowly, carefully, towel slipping down your back to reveal the small, delicate bow at the center of your shoulder blades. One of the strings dangled loose, fluttering slightly in the breeze.

“I don’t want it to fall,” you added, voice quiet now. “And I trust you.”

His heart stuttered hard enough to make his fingers twitch.

You trusted him.

He stood slowly, brushing sand off his palms, and stepped up behind you. You tilted your head forward just slightly, hands holding the towel over your chest. Bob’s fingers hovered in the air for a second before touching the strings.

Your skin was warm. Salt-slick. Soft.

He worked slowly, trying not to breathe too hard. The strings were damp and thin, hard to grip with trembling fingers. He looped them once, then again, pulling carefully—not too tight, not too loose.

His knuckles brushed the curve of your back.

You shivered.

He wasn’t sure if it was from the breeze, or him.

“There,” he said, voice lower than usual. “Got it.”

But he didn’t step back.

His hands dropped, but only barely—still hovering near the small of your back, as if he wasn’t quite ready to let go. You didn’t move either. You stayed with your back to him, the towel still clutched against your front, shoulders rising and falling with the slow pull of your breath.

For a second, neither of you said anything.

The beach behind you had gone soft with dusk. The others were further down now, someone laughing loud enough to carry over the tide, but none of it felt close. It was like a bubble had formed around the two of you—quiet, warm, private.

You finally turned.

Not all the way—just enough to see him over your shoulder.

Bob’s hands dropped fully now, but he didn’t step away.

Your eyes met his, and the look on your face stopped his heart cold. It wasn’t teasing, or playful, or casual like all the other ones you'd given the guys all afternoon. This was different.

This one was curious.

Searching.

Your mouth parted slightly, like you were about to say something, but didn’t. You just looked at him. Not past him. At him.

Bob swallowed hard. His brain was screaming at him to say something, anything—but his body was stuck. He could smell the sunscreen on your skin, feel the last warmth of sun radiating off you. The space between your bodies was minimal, almost nonexistent. Close enough he could count the tiny freckles across your collarbone. Close enough he could see that your lips were just slightly sun-chapped.

Close enough that if he leaned in, just a few inches, he could kiss you.

He didn’t.

But he didn’t move away either.

You tilted your head just slightly, eyes narrowing—not suspicious, just thoughtful. Like you were trying to figure something out.

“Bob,” you said softly. Just his name.

It wasn’t a question. It wasn’t even a statement. It was something in between—like a touch.

He blinked. “Yeah?”

Your voice was quieter this time. "Wanna walk around for a second? Everyone's getting ready to head out but... I think the beach looks especially pretty right now." You smiled.

Bob swallowed hard, but nodded. “Yeah. Sure.”

You smiled again—this time, a little wider. Like you’d just won something. Then you turned and started walking slowly toward the waterline, your towel still tucked under one arm, the sand soft under your feet.

Bob followed, keeping a careful pace beside you.

The beach had quieted in that early-evening way that always felt just a little like a secret. The sun had dropped low, throwing warm gold across the water, the waves calmer now, more rhythm than crash. Most of the squad was up near the cars, voices fading, laughter softer. But here? It was just you and him.

“Bob,” you called out, breaking the silence between you and Bob.

He blinked. “Yeah?”

Your voice was quieter this time. “Why were you avoiding me today?”

His heart dropped.

You weren’t smiling now. Not even a little. Just looking at him with this open, unsure expression that made his chest ache.

“I thought maybe,” you said, “I’d done something.”

Bob shook his head too fast. “No. No, you didn’t.”

“Then what was it?”

Bob opened his mouth, but nothing came out at first. Because what was he supposed to say? That he couldn’t breathe when you walked across the sand like that? That he’d spent the whole afternoon convincing himself not to fall harder than he already had?

That he wanted you to look at him the way you looked at the others—and then hated himself for wanting it?

“I just needed some space,” he said finally, voice rough. Honest. “I was trying to… keep my head on straight.”

You blinked slowly. Your gaze dropped to his mouth, then lifted again. “And did it work?”

Bob’s throat went dry. “Not even a little.”

You didn’t say anything right away.

Just walked.

Your shoulders brushed once. Neither of you apologized.

“I didn’t mean to ignore you,” Bob said after a minute, voice quiet, like he wasn’t sure if he should say it at all.

You looked over at him, smiling softly. “You didn’t ignore me. You just… didn’t look at me.”

He gave a small, guilty laugh. “That obvious, huh?”

You nudged him gently with your elbow. “You looked at everyone else. Except me. Which kinda sucks, by the way.”

Bob glanced over, brows raised. “Why?”

You slowed slightly, then stopped walking. Turned to face him. The ocean curved behind you, golden and soft.

“Because,” you said, voice teasing now but still low, “I wore the good bikini.”

Bob blinked. “Trust me. I noticed.”

You grinned at that, the kind of grin that pulled at the corners of your mouth and said I knew it. Then you looked at him a little longer, less playful now. “You looked everywhere but at me. That’s usually not a great sign.”

He shook his head. “It wasn’t about you. It was... about me. Trying not to make things weird.”

You tilted your head, brows raised. “Weird how?”

Bob hesitated. “Like… I didn’t want you to think I was just staring. Or, I don’t know. Thinking things I shouldn’t.”

A pause. Then your voice went softer. “And were you?”

His heart slammed against his ribs. “Thinking things I shouldn’t?”

You nodded.

He breathed out, almost a laugh. “Yeah. All day.”

You bit your lip, smiling like you were trying not to. Then you stepped a little closer. Just enough that your shoulder brushed his again, your fingers grazing his knuckles for a second longer than necessary.

“Next time,” you said, “just look at me.”

Bob halted, breath caught somewhere between his chest and his throat.

You turned again, starting to walk slowly back up the shore, toward the others, the sun casting a halo of gold behind you. After a few steps, you glanced over your shoulder.

“You coming, Floyd?”

Bob stopped mid-step, his heart hammering so loud he was sure you could hear it. The sun hung low, a molten orb dipping toward the horizon, painting everything gold and amber and fire. The world narrowed until it was just you and him, the rest of the squad melting away like a distant dream.

Without thinking, without a single word, Bob reached out gently and caught your wrist. You turned to him, surprise flickering in your eyes, soft and vulnerable.

And then he leaned in.

His lips brushed yours — slow, tentative, like he was memorizing the feel of you, the taste of salt and sunscreen and something dangerously sweet.

It was brief. Gentle. A promise, not a demand.

Then Bob pulled back just a little, eyes searching yours, breath catching in his throat. He was a gentleman. He wanted to see your reaction before going any further.

You didn’t hesitate.

You closed the gap instantly, pressing your lips to his with a heat that melted away his nerves. Your hands slid up to his shoulders, fingers threading through the damp strands of his hair.

The world tilted.

The sun blazed behind you both, casting long shadows in the sand, but all Bob could see was you. Your lips moving against his, soft and fierce, the kind of kiss that made everything else stop.

Bob groaned low in his throat, fingers tightening on your waist, pulling you flush against him.

The sand was hot beneath your feet, but neither of you noticed—only the heat building between you. Bob’s glasses now sat askew, one lens catching the dying light, but neither of you cared. You tilted your head, lips parting, breath mingling.

You caught the frame with a grin, fingers brushing over the lens and then lingering, fixing them with a delicate touch—right before your lips meet his again.

You broke the kiss just enough to murmur against his lips, voice low and playful: “You’re gonna owe me for avoiding me all day.”

Bob smiled sheepishly, his blue eyes darkening with mischief. “That’s the plan.”

Your fingers traced the line of his jaw, teasing the stubble there. “Good. Because I’m thinking of making you pay... in more ways than one.”

He laughed softly, breath warm against your mouth. “I’m counting on it.”