you know who i am

Your heartbeat kicks as you wind up the hill— An ornate, tall, ivory building slipping into view between strips of bare branches and amber-glowing antique street lamps.

There’d been a speech, a pep-talk, an inner monologue, all running wild through your head the closer you came to this moment. 

And yet, somehow, nothing could’ve prepared you for the rush of adrenaline and symphony of deafening, conflicting reminders clashing behind your skull when it finally arrives. 

The nerves sit like a lump in your throat— An unshakable, persistent reminder this wasn’t nothing like you tried to tell yourself it was. 

No, of course this wasn’t nothing. This was your best friend’s wedding, for God’s sake. 

But that wasn't the reason your hands were sweaty and restless, twisting around the little trinkets on your keyring incessantly, glittering under the glow of an occasional passing streetlight. 

It wasn’t the reason your pulse was concerningly erratic, your lip caught between your teeth, your stomach in knots so long it forgot any other form. 

Not at all. 

Truthfully, you couldn’t be happier about this: an extended weekend of nothing but ebullience and bliss for the most deserving person you know. A perfect night, perfect weather, perfect venue— Already busting at the seams with warm joy and soft smiles like a heartbeat in the cold. 

But if you were being honest, it didn’t help that her past was tied to yours. It didn’t help that celebrating joining her new life and memories with old was bound to dig up yours. 

And it certainly didn’t help that she was related to the very person you loathe. 

Actually, loathe was putting it nicely. You’d be more than happy to go the rest of your life never seeing Bob Floyd again. 

Or at least you had yourself convinced of that.  

Your Uber pulls to a jerky stop along the covered turnaround at the main doors of the Inn, tires scraping ceremoniously against the cool cobblestone. 

The sleek black of the car is bathed in faint, warm, twinkling lights strung tastefully around every pillar, every perfectly-preened bush, and every window wreath. They mimic the stars glistening above a canvas of pitch black night, moon a subtle sliver slipping through the forest in the distance.

A mantra races through your mind as you force your albeit shaky legs to unfold and slide along the leather, pointed heels coming in handy to push the last notch of the door open. 

It echoes, screams over every other thought as you exhale sharply in the freezing December air, smoothing over your cocktail dress and untucking your hair to shield your ears from the bitter bite. 

Don’t pay him any attention. This weekend isn’t about him, it’s about Abby. Be the bigger person, just avoid him. Don’t even—

Your body careening backward into the solid weight of another pauses your internal rambling. 

Unwavering, warm hands gently find purchase along your elbows to steady you as you stumble, dropping one of your bags from the trunk upon impact. 

You’re gearing up to apologize profusely—laugh at yourself in the arms of this steady stranger for being so caught up in your own shit that you’re not paying much attention—when you turn in their grasp and are met with a familiar face. 

The very person you wanted to avoid was the first you see, standing broader and taller over you compared to the last time you saw him. 

His familiar sandy-brown hair is perfectly combed and gelled into place, glasses gleaming under the moon glow, thin lips stitched into a knowing smile bordering on a smirk as he peers down at you. 

His hands—his presence, his heat—don’t move. He stays, anchoring you until you break free, smoothing down your hair and breaking eye contact to hide the way you were flushed from your misfortune. 

Your plan wasn’t off to a great start. 

Your face shifts into something blatantly unamused and disinterested like second nature, defenses snapping back into place. 

“Still clumsy,” he lilts, head cocked. “Some things never change, I guess.”

You step back, letting a breath of cold air slice between the heat of your bodies getting reacquainted against your will. 

“You ever watch where you’re going, Floyd?”

A deflection. 

You’re being defensive—admittedly wrong—and you know it, but it’s like it’s out of your control. It’s muscle memory around him, a reflex too ingrained in you to shake. 

His eyes flick between yours, smirk widening a fraction like it brought him joy to see you perturbed. You know it did. 

“Wow, did a cold front move through or is that just you?” 

You shoot him a look, turning with a huff to busy yourself with the bags left untouched in the trunk. 

Listen to yourself, you think. Don’t pay him any attention. 

“In my defense,” he adds, moving alongside you, trying to gauge your reaction. “You were the one who backed into me.”

“Well, this is kinda heavy,” you mutter, strained voice evidence of your point as you tug your suitcase free and drop it between you with a hollow thud. “Besides,” you exhale sharply, eyeing him. “You shouldn’t be walking that close to an open trunk.” 

“You’re not the only one carrying heavy things, you know,” he counters, stepping behind you and picking up a stack of cardboard boxes, all overflowing with different decorations and wedding trinkets. 

You blink, quietly trying to shake the feeling he dropped everything just to keep you from falling. 

Of course he would do something like that.

You’d rather take the scrape on your knee or twist of an ankle. 

He doesn’t second guess— Just shifts the stack of boxes to one hand, steady against his side, and pops the handle free on your suitcase with the other. 

“I don’t need you to do that,” you say, trying and failing to grab your bag back as you sling the other across your arm. 

He sends you a smile over his shoulder, already dragging your bag along with him. 

It was a look that bordered on warmth… Or maybe it was condescending— Prideful to a point like this proved you needed him. He thrived on that.

“And risk you taking out another guest? Not a chance.”  

He slips through the main doors already whirling open, muscles flexing a little unfairly—and annoyingly—under the thin stretch of his sleek, crisp white button down.

When did he get that kind of body?

“Stop staring and hurry up before that chill of yours comes inside, too,” he calls back, chuckling under his breath as you thank the driver one last time, slam the trunk shut, and follow him into the warmth. 

The heat of the lobby floods your bones in an instant. 

There’s a faint flicker of a wood-burning fireplace in the corner, casting heat over the lobby adorned with intricate, classically-antique furniture. A fresh-cut tree—at least 16 feet or so—fills the space with the earthy smell of pine, dressed in delicate lights and glistening ornaments, centering a mirrored staircase daintily winding around it. 

A spill of familiar laughter and humble conversation floats through every doorway, the muffled clinks and clatter of toasts and reacquaintance in the distance. 

You’re about to grab your stuff from Bob so you can check in, get away from him, and find the Floyd you’re actually here to see when a pair of tall men saunter up— Champagne flutes full, clothes neatly pressed, neither of them subtle in the way they check you out. 

You catch a glimpse of yourself in a mirror just past them— Cheeks and nose pink, lips full, makeup still in place, curves of your smooth skin cut from soft shadows, and hair somehow decent, despite the wind whipping just behind you. 

You looked good. At least one thing was still going your way.

“Baby on Board,” one of them calls, clapping a firm hand on Bob’s shoulder and taking the stack of boxes from his hands. “Didn’t anyone ever tell you that sharing is caring when it comes to helping a lady?”

The stranger gives you a winning smile, all bright teeth and smug pride. 

He’s the same height as Bob, just broader— Charming to the point of a fault, hair perfectly blonde and coiffed, eyes the kind of green that looked blue the longer you got lost in them. 

Bob’s jaw sets, expression blank and unamused at his friends’ attempts to swoop in. 

“That’s Abby’s,” he points out flatly.

The smug one’s smile falters. “Oh,” he mumbles, setting the stack down on a table behind him and effortlessly shaking off whatever fractured piece of bruised ego threatened to show. 

“Lt. Jake Seresin,” he introduces, voice smooth, shoulders squared, cool and confident as his eyes slowly slip down your body. He shakes your hand firmly, grip impressive and intentional. “Pleasure.” 

Before you could return the gesture, the guy next to him steps in— Hand extended and paired with a similar smirk, standing straight like he has something to prove. 

He was the epitome of tall, dark, and handsome— Albeit a little shorter than the other two lieutenants. He smelled expensive—looked it too—dressed in a sleek, black button down and leather jacket. 

“Don’t waste your time on a guy whose call sign is Bagman,” he dismisses lightly. “Lt. Javy Machado.” 

“It’s Hangman,” Jake corrects, briefly rolling his eyes and tipping his flute to his lips, attention never leaving you. 

Your eyes flick between the two of them battling it out for your attention like children. A faint smile creeps up, your lips twisted into something that lived between unimpressed and… amused, voice light and coy. 

“And you think I’m spending my weekend with either of you why…?”

Jake purses his lips, head tilted as his eyes darken a tad. “You bite. I can work with that.” 

Bob bulldozes through their attempts— Body stiff, expression rigid, eyes heavy and impatient. You kinda forgot he was still here, all broody and bored. 

“Are you two done embarrassing yourselves yet?” he snaps, shifting his weight, shooting the pilots a look. 

Javy steals a flute off a fresh tray being brought into the dining room behind him where the festivities were unfolding and hands it to you with a grin. 

“Not our fault you missed the boat, Bobby.”

You raise your eyebrows, interest in drowning whatever little time you had to spare this weekend in either of them quickly dwindling. They really weren’t good at this, but they certainly thought they were. 

You couldn’t tell if it was charming or overdone. 

Bob runs his tongue over his teeth, eyes narrowed. “Funny. This is Abby’s maid of honor,” he explains, introducing you and sharing your name. 

Their expressions falter—teasing, flirty nature snapped on cue—so quickly it makes you shift your weight and swallow so uncomfortably you have to convince yourself they didn’t hear it. 

Javy’s eyes dart toward you, taking you in again like you somehow changed since the last time he looked. Jake chokes—literally chokes—on a smug sip of champagne, now anything but assertive and poised. 

Hell, you put together these were Bob’s friends—Rooster’s friends, therefore, Abby’s friends—but based on the way their expressions went cold and the flirty competition was sucked from the room like it never existed in the first place, you’d swear they were introduced to a murderer. 

You figured they knew about you—knew Bob wasn’t your biggest fan, of course—but you were suddenly insecure about the prospect of whatever it could’ve possibly been that Bob told them about you. 

Of course he had somehow already ruined your one opportunity to achieve the much-needed, mindless task of keeping the other side of your bed warm this weekend. 

They were both headstrong—in more ways than one—but they were still options. Attractive ones, at that. 

Guess they were out of the question now. 

You try your best to swallow down your anxiety threatening to come loose and unravel you and plaster on your best clueless expression— Lips parted softly, brows furrowed just so, hint of a smile so you weren’t akin to the bitter monster he had apparently made you out to be. 

“What… You guys know me?”

“Of course,” Javy pipes up, clearing his throat and glancing between you and Bob in a way that was anything but inconspicuous. “We’ve heard a lot about you.” 

Jake gives him a shove, subtle as a freight train.

You bite your nail innocently, hiding the nervous slant in your lips. “You have?”

“Rooster’s girl’s best friend she claims was the sibling she never had?” Jake points out, teasing smile tugging at his lips as he glances at Bob who bristles. “Yeah— We know you.” 

Well, when he puts it like that, duh— Of course they do. But you weren’t stupid. You know that knee-jerk reaction was more than just finally meeting Abby’s best friend. 

You hum sweetly in acknowledgement, mind abruptly cut off from trying to scrape together a way to salvage this encounter by Bob shoving the stack of Abby’s decor at Hangman. 

“Great. Everyone knows each other,” he mumbles, miserably failing at hiding his expression worn thin. “Go make yourselves useful like you promised and give this to Abbs.” 

“I can just take it,” you pipe up. “I should probably help her finish setting up before anyone else gets here, anyways. Y’know… maid of honor duties, or whatever.”

“And make you more of a liability than you already are? No way.”

Bob steers the two pilots toward the room they came from before they could get a word in edgewise, sparing no time for an explanation on what it was they seemingly know about you.

Your lips press together, arms crossed. “Are you ever gonna let that go? I barely even touched you.”

He studies you for a beat, all faux contemplation. “Mmm… I don’t think so. It’s fun to watch you get all worked up.”

You narrow your eyes, trying to ignore the way he managed to make the tension between you pull tighter, managed to spark a live wire with patronizing, prideful glances and smug smiles he tried to pass off as sweet. 

“Your CO’s coming, right? Maybe he’d like to know one of his lieutenants can’t handle a little weight.” You lean closer, voice sharper, adding, “Or pressure.”

His eyes flick between yours. Once, then twice, corner of his mouth upturned and twitching. His shallow blue eyes darken behind the glint of his wire frames, daring, like he was going to push it further— Whatever further meant. 

But he retreats, exhaling sharply and swiveling your suitcase back to you with a tilt of his chin. 

“Get yourself checked in. You’re missing the party.” 

Something unnamed flickers in his expression, eyes trained on you even as he adjusts his sleeve cuff and starts for the room he just sent his squad mates. 

“You were right,” you call after him over the rim of your flute with a smirk, watching him freeze on command at a sentence so seldom said. 

He turns on his heels slowly, confusion a veil over his face: brows lifted gently, hands shoved in his pockets, head slightly cocked like he can’t help but be curious.

It didn’t take much for you to have his full attention. 

You smile effortlessly, shaking your head and grabbing your luggage as you echo,

“Still so bossy— Some things never change.”

A lot of the guests had already arrived by the time you dropped your things off in your room, freshened up, and made your way downstairs again.

It was quaint, quiet, but buzzing and warm in all the perfectly familiar ways that made it feel like you uprooted a slice of home under Montana skies and planted it in the secluded mountains of upstate California.

The party was small, living in between a welcome party and just a makeshift gathering of everyone who just so happened to fly in early and be in the same place at the same time. 

The second description was more fitting. 

A tiny dining room on the north end of the Inn served as home base for old acquaintances reintroduced and the tangled threads of delicate, new beginnings. 

The atmosphere settled like reassurance— Intimate, like old and new memories bent to become one. The gentle lull of easy conversation and laughter swelled like a symphony pouring from the French doors propped open. Beyond it was an array of intricate finger foods, small tablescapes, and mingling bodies all bathed in delicate candlelight— Successfully delivered and set up by Coyote and Hangman, apparently. 

The Floyds were like gravity, quietly possessing this special knack for bringing comfort wherever they were. A loose handful of close friends and relatives existed comfortably in their presence— You included, especially once you finally caught sight of the one person you were actually here to see. 

Abby was always your center, your safe space to land, that one steadfast pillar of support, never wavering. Always there for you, always grounding. Always on your side, your one piece of solidarity— Even now that she came attached to the arm of a new addition.

She spots you immediately, turning when you step into the room like a sixth sense, something only the two of you could feel. And the fracture in your world remembers there's grace in healing when she smiles— Beaming and bright and beholden. Already the perfect bride.

Or, more importantly, your best friend.

A flood of elated sounds close to squeals of glee fall from her lips, immediately slicing through the dots of guests to greet you.

You’re in her embrace instantly, held at arm’s length just enough so she could take you in. She makes you do a stupid little spin in a chorus of giggles like you were 15 again, standing on the edge of her bed in your first homecoming dress or her mother’s clothes playing dress-up.

“I can’t believe you’re finally here!” she gushes, smile never faltering and pulling you into a tight hug. 

Over her shoulder you spot Bob, already watching you two like a magnet— Expression unreadable. Not cold, not distant, just a quiet truth you didn’t have the code to decipher. 

Something you weren't meant to see. Something he didn’t mean to show.

You shake it off, busying your attention back on your friend once you pull out of her knuckle-white grip you missed dearly.

“Of course,” you assure, a little breathless. “It’s the week of your wedding— Where else would I be?”

“Nowhere, or I’d disown you.”

You laugh, hands woven between hers and giving her a tight squeeze that says Duh.

This made it all worth it— All the sideways glances and sharp smile lines and stiff posture. 

This was your family— She was your family.

And nothing would ever change that, not even her brother. She might be his blood, but she was a piece of your soul. 

Even he couldn’t change that. 

“You look stunning,” you gush, voice low and sweet, eyes playfully ogling the bride-to-be in the way she damn well deserves. “I literally couldn’t picture anything more perfect— You weren’t kidding when you said this place was better than your dreams.” 

“Isn’t it?” She sighs blissfully, grabbing some passed finger foods for you both as they drift by. “I knew you’d love it. And so do you! How do you always manage to look so good fresh off a plane?”

You shrug, smile growing, munching on your share of hors d’oeuvres. “Talent.”

“Truly. You’re the only person I know who steps off a flight looking better than when you boarded. It’s unfair.” 

You press your wrist to her forehead, pinching your lips in faux-contemplation. 

“You sure you’re not feverish? Already drunk on…” You steal a glance at the custom signature drink menu making a premature debut past her shoulder. “Bird Strikes? God, who thought of that?”

She swats your hand away. “Don’t even get me started.”

“Whiskey, honey syrup, and a twist,” you read, shrugging. “At least Bradley has taste.”

“Your mom’s favorite.” She goes quiet, pulling you close— That familiar, grounding rub against your skin, something you’d know in any lifetime. “I wish she could be here.”

You study her: the quiet sentiment, the worry for you when it’s her time, and that look— The one that never lets you hang off the edge for too long. 

“She does too,” you say, voice softer. “I just know she’d be obsessing over you— And Rooster’s choice in cocktails.”

The fiancé in question slides up along Abby, arm wrapped firm around her waist, lingering squeeze above her hips that makes you smile— Same gentle confidence and alluring presence.

The mustache too.

“Place your bets now,” he boasts, tugging his wife-to-be closer into his side. “It’s gonna outsell the Abby Road easy.”

You giggle with him, exchanging a polite half-hug with his free arm as Abby rolls her eyes loosely. 

“Says the guy who didn’t even want to do signature drinks.”

You ignore her playful pouting, leaning forward and pretending to examine his mustache with vigor. 

“Damn, I swear that thing gets bigger every time I see you. It’s like you comb it with Miracle-Gro.”

Rooster grins proudly, chuckling under his breath.

“I’m surprised I’ve had the willpower to avoid telling him to shave it,” Abby adds. 

“I’m not— You’ve always had a thing for guys with mustaches.”  

Rooster’s interest is piqued tenfold, brows lifting, smirking at his girl turning red on his arm. “Huh… Is that so?”

“No. Absolutely not.”

“Um, yes absolutely so,” you counter, smile growing. “Tim Rooney.” 

Her eyes widen, memories rushing back to her as she gapes. “Oh my God— Mr. Rooney, sixth grade gym class! Fuck, you’re right.” 

“Mhm,” you hum, stuffing the last bite of long-forgotten crostini in your mouth with an accomplished nod. “Of course I am.”

Rooster looks delighted, expression intrigued and flirting with mild satisfaction as he brushes over his mustache. 

“Damn, honey, did anyone else ever stand a chance?”

“No,” she teases, leaning closer, voice low and loving. “Only you— Even without the ‘stache.”

“Ew,” you tease, mouth twisting as Abby’s lips brush against his. “Save it for the wedding night, you two.”

“Oh, please— Bold coming from the woman who’s gonna bitch with Bob 24-7.”

Before you could protest, cheeks heating at her subtle dig, Rooster beats you to the punch, thumb brushing over her shoulder with an amused smile. 

“How is that even remotely the same thing, Abbs?”

“Trust me— It’s like their own weird version of foreplay.”

Rooster snorts. “Freaky.”

Your heart stutters, pulse racing. It’s not true—not even close, no matter how much Abby loved to tease—so why did it make your palms sweat, make your body feel tense and heavy, suck the air from the room when you catch a glimpse of him again? 

You bite your lip, trying to brush it off— Failing. “I’ll let that one slide because it’s your wedding.”

Abby smiles, brow lifted. “Or because it’s true.”

The pair stares expectantly, making the room narrow. You suddenly felt really aware of your surroundings, of your body, of what the lines in your forehead and the heat in your cheeks gave away without your permission. 

“Oh, do you hear that?” You hold your hand up to your ear, doing your best to sell your excuse. “I think I hear your mom… She wants to say hi.”

And you beeline to where you spotted Mrs. Floyd before Abby could grab you back, trying to drown out the way Rooster laughed and you could feel her knowing eyes sear into the back of your head—expression still loving—and calling after you, 

“She’ll just tell you the same thing!”

The rest of the night was harder without Abby as a shield. 

It’s not that you didn’t love the Floyd family and all their friends—well, your friends too… Small towns tend to run in all the same circles—but catching up with old ties never really seemed to be that easy in large doses. 

Talking with Mrs. Floyd was, however, always the opposite. She was the epitome of comfort, always somewhere safe to land, just like her daughter. You knew her basically your whole life, and she knew you— Which unfortunately, much like Abby, included knowing your tells. 

Your body language was never well hidden, nor your faux joy or best attempts at pleasantries. That meant you couldn’t really hide the fact that you weren’t particularly enthralled to be in the same room as her son again. 

Or same state, for that matter. 

She gave you some hugs that felt like home and all the things you missed most, a handful of compliments about how far you’ve come— How good you look and how proud she is of the life you’ve created for yourself. How you smelled pretty and how she ‘used to have a dress that cute and tiny when she was young.’

But—same as always—she didn’t miss the opportunity to (lovingly) point out that you should have someone with you or someone to spend the weekend with. 

And that meant a couple teasing comments along the lines of ‘it would be nice to make you an official daughter,’ or ‘you know, Bobby’s always adored you.’

You couldn’t fault her—couldn’t really do anything other than offer a soft smile and flustered dismissal—because she chalked up your history to normal adolescent adrenaline edged with attraction and quiet competition you, of course, age out of. 

She didn’t know it ran deeper. She didn’t need to. 

So, you changed the subject— Talked about how nice the venue was and how lovely she looked. Asked how her book club was going and—after you both had another glass of champagne—if she actually likes her future son-in-law.

She does. 

You mingle your way through the rest of the family: distant relatives you met once or twice at a barbecue growing up, Mrs. Floyd’s best friend who owns the pharmacy in town and gave you your first job, some other familiar faces from home. 

You also got to meet two other members of Rooster’s squadron, Fanboy and Payback, all loudly polite and equally over-confident as the other two from the lobby.  

It was all good and fun until you were referred to as ‘Robby’s pretty high school sweetheart’ a few times by Abby and Bob’s extremely elderly great grandfather to the pilots.

You adored him, knew it didn’t mean anything and was completely harmless—he was nearing 97 for God’s sake—but your brain was starting to melt at constantly hearing yourself referred to in some type of affectionate context in relation to Bob.

Especially when the guys' expressions went wide with amusement, accompanied by raised brows and smooth, teasing echoes of ‘oh really?’ among other boyish laughs. 

So, yeah— You needed a break. 

You find your window shortly after clarifying just how very untrue that was to the guys and make a break for it to the little antique bar in the corner. 

A guy with a handlebar mustache greets you, all warm smiles and crinkly eyes.

“A glass of Chardonnay, Miss?”

You blink, take a look over your shoulder at Bob’s solid frame becoming a landing spot for one of his mother’s friends laughing like he was suddenly Montana’s most charming bachelor, and sigh. 

“Whiskey,” you mutter. “Rocks, please.” 

“Make that two,” an unfamiliar voice adds. 

It was a woman— Lean, tan, ridiculously sleek, black hair and a friendly smile, elbow casually propped against the bar top.

“Nice to finally put a face to the name,” she says, slipping into the open seat next to you. “I’m Natasha— Or Phoenix.”

Realization washes over you, accepting your matching drinks from the bartender with a smile and sliding hers in her direction. 

“Ohhh— The Natasha who Abby keeps threatening to replace me with if I don’t come visit,” you tease. “Got it. Nice to meet you.”

She laughs softly. “I’m surprised you went with that description over ‘Bob’s front-seater’ but, yeah— The one and only.”

You hum, swirling your drink around the large ice cube. “You must have fun putting him in his place all day.” 

If you were being honest, you weren’t entirely sure what you meant by that— If it was just a subtle dig at him because you can’t help yourself, if it was inquiring—wondering if he was just as much of a pain in the ass as he was back then—or if it was… sexual? 

You shouldn’t care—you don’t care—but of course you were curious. Natasha was gorgeous, strong-willed, ridiculously accomplished, and confident… He would be kinda stupid not to try to make a move. 

Her brows lift. “Bob? No, he doesn’t need any place-putting. If anything, he’s the only sane one around besides me.” 

“Of course, always so perfect.” You roll your eyes loosely like a reflex, succumbing to the gentle buzz in your bloodstream from a few casual drinks. “God, he was born for the Navy.” 

She shakes her head, giving you a sideways glance. “Bob’s not perfect— Trust me.” 

Your cheeks flush at how ridiculous you sound. Back in his presence for all of two hours and he already had you acting like a child again. You needed to get a grip.

“Sorry,” you sigh, staring at the thin line of amber at the bottom of your glass. “I probably sound like such an asshole right now.”

She nudges your shoulder with hers like you’ve been friends for years, giving you a look that says stop it without saying it. 

“Don’t be. He can be a real pain in the ass sometimes.” 

“That I believe,” you laugh, resting your chin on your hand and swiveling to face her. “It’s just… You didn't grow up with him. Old habits die hard, I guess.”

She studies you for a moment, expression open and patient. All calm and collected— A typical fighter pilot. 

She was cool. Really cool. A bite of something unnamed swims in your stomach at the thought of it— Of him.

“I wouldn’t sweat it,” she says with a shrug. “His biggest competition as a kid was an academic genius a grade below him who also happened to look like a prom queen? The chip on his shoulder shouldn’t get to you, that’s for damn sure.” 

Your skin flushes at the compliment, shifting your cheek into your palm to hide the smile you can’t seem to bite back. 

“I think we need to reassess your definition of both those things.” 

She eyes you— All genuine and knowing, like she had you completely figured out. Like she’s known you forever. 

“I know the stories. And I’ve seen some pictures,” she counters, leaning closer, voice all quiet teasing but still steady. “I don’t lie.” 

Before you could respond, her gaze shifts past you, landing somewhere behind. 

“Besides, he’s still a boy,” she offers, smirk tugging. “Of course you drove him crazy.” 

You turn to look where she is, finding the man in question with his eyes already locked on you across the room. 

His posture was tense, shoulders squared and jaw set, eyes cutting through the dots of people, clearly not paying a shred of attention to whoever was talking to him. 

And when you return the favor, his stare rips free— Busied down at his fingers twisting around his glass, at the spot on the old wood floors the toe of his dress shoes scrubbed at, scratching the back of his neck all innocent and oblivious like you didn’t already catch him looking. 

In some weird, twisted, petty way, your feelings bordered on something reminiscent of relief knowing you weren’t alone in being hung up on adolescent drama tonight. 

Things like this always seemed to stir up old memories, especially when it comes to you and Bob. 

Something about him was impossible to flush out of your system— No matter how many years passed, no matter how much you’d grown. No matter how trivial or insignificant, it didn’t matter. A pathetic sense of pride settles in your chest knowing it was the same for him. 

You shake your head, turning back to Natasha who wore a proud smile and coy tilt of her head.  

“See,” she says, voice low. “I don’t lie.”

You clear your throat, throwing back the rest of your drink and letting the hollow glass hit the bar top unceremoniously. 

“How do you know so much about me already?”

She blinks, expression saying isn’t it obvious as she silently flags down the bartender for a second round. 

“Well, for one, I’m intuitive— So don’t go feeling like you’re too special,” she teases. “And I’ve just… heard a lot about you.” 

Your heart rate rattles a bit in your chest, anxiety flooding your veins at the thought trying to claw free. A repeat of what his other friends heard about you, surely. 

The only difference was her expression didn’t flip to panic mode around you. It was intrigued, interested— Like you were someone worth getting to know. 

Still, your nerves spark all the same. 

“Oh, boy,” you groan, throwing your head back with a lazy smile. “All bad, I’m sure.” 

Her eyes flick between yours— Just once, expression blank, cards close to her chest. 

“No… Why do you say that?”

You blink. “Are you serious?”

She shrugs, stuffing a five in the tip jar when the second round is delivered promptly. “Are you?”

You go quiet, silently weighing how to respond. 

Phoenix seemed like the type of person who would always be straight up with you, but at the same time, you couldn’t shake the feeling you were failing to read the subtext of whatever was lying beneath the heart of your conversation and lined her gaze. 

But, yeah— Bob hated you. Of course you were serious. 

So you nod, not so much as an answer but rather a soft acknowledgement.

“Yeah, I am.”

She studies you for a moment, smile slowly returning— Effortless, like she wasn’t suddenly speaking in riddles. 

“Good. Me too.” 

Eventually, the night draws to a close. The candles burn low, the laughter falls softer. Small groups of guests trickle out, slowly heading back up to their rooms until morning. 

You help Abby and Rooster pack up some of the little decorations they set out—collect bouquets, blow out flickering flames, clean up the little signs and pictures they had displayed—before you’re finally ushered up to your room to turn in for the night. 

Despite putting up a fight—insisting it was your job to make sure the bride was the one getting rest—you were truly no match for Abby Floyd once she made up her mind about something. 

You never were. 

So, begrudgingly, you grab a water bottle from the bar and say your goodbyes to the handful of people still left behind. You needed a shower and some good sleep after your flight, so you weren’t too mad about it. 

Your room was quaint and charming, yet spacious for an old, vintage Inn. It was decorated with elaborate pictures and hushed wallpapers, freshly carpeted and topped off with a set of old mahogany armchairs adjacent to a lavish, king-sized bed.

The bathroom was stocked to the nines with artisan bath salts and imported body washes. They were the kind you’d want to take home with you just from the soft scents of lavender and cedar alone. 

You’re halfway through drying your hair, eyes heavy with the whisper of sleep starting to flood your bones, when your phone buzzes on the vanity and a name you haven’t seen light up your screen in years settles at the top of your text threads. 

You pause, flicking the switch on the hair dryer off and rolling your eyes as you click the thread open.

Bob Floyd

Do you really have to be so loud at quarter to midnight?

You bite your lip, trying to piece together how he even knows that was you. 

You

Are you listening to me?

Some might call that creepy, Robert

Three dots dance across your screen instantly. 

Bob Floyd

Kinda hard not to

Because you’re loud

You

I don’t feel like getting breakage or folliculitis just because you’re a baby about your sleep

The cool granite touches your back as you turn and lean against the counter, smiling as you add,

You

Omg is that why your call sign is Baby on Board? 

You were kidding—clearly—but you’d been waiting for an opportunity to tease him about it all night after Hangman’s comment. Of course you didn’t forget— And of course you weren’t going to let it go. 

Bob Floyd

Very funny

That’s not my call sign

You

Doubt it

What is it then?

The dots flicker again—thinking—then disappear. 

You

By the time you finally type it out my hair’s gonna air dry and we won’t need to worry anymore

That does it. His reply lights up your phone almost immediately.

Bob Floyd

It’s just Bob

And no, it’s no need to worry because you’re not gonna get folliculitis

You’re so dramatic

You unplug the dryer—not because you’re giving into him, but because your hair is basically dry—and plop down onto your bed, lip caught between your teeth as your fingers go to work.

You 

I don’t believe you

And that’s why you only got a 92 in sophomore year microbio, btw. It’s a common infection

Do you really want to be responsible for the maid of honor having horrible hair for the wedding?

Bob Floyd

I got a 93, actually

You

And you could’ve had a 95 like me if you spent more time studying and less time staring at the back of my head 

You click off the screen and sink into the cool, compressed weight of fresh hotel linens, snuggling into your pillow as warm lamp light spills across your tired features. 

A veil of hazy steam from the bathroom floats through the air, mingling with the soothing scents of bath salts and lotion.

It buzzes again moments later. 

Bob Floyd

I was too busy checking for folliculitis ;)

You roll your eyes—loosely, lazily—smiling into your pillowcase. What a pain.

You

Good

Someone’s got to

You reach over and click off the lamp, shifting onto your back as you add,

You

Wait is that what your call sign stands for then? Bad At Bio? 

You could practically feel him roll his eyes through the drywall. It only makes your smile widen.

Bob Floyd

That spells Bab not Bob, you idiot

Heat rushes to your cheeks instantly as your tired eyes blink at the screen. 

Damn it. 

Maybe you should just block his number and pretend that never happened.

You 

I’m tired leave me alone

It sounded really funny in my head

Bob Floyd

Seems like I’m not the only baby who needs sleep after all, huh?

You 

Shut up

Let’s go back to talking about your call sign being Baby On Board

Bob Floyd

You’re so annoying

You 

And you’re a creep 

Bob Floyd 

I’d also remind you that you’re dramatic but then we’d be here all night  

And Baby needs his full 10 hours

A muffled snort escapes before you could stop it. You cover your mouth loosely even though you were completely alone. 

As much as you hated to admit it, sometimes Bob was funny. He always knew how to make you laugh. That was something that would never change.

You 

How could I forget

Sleep well, Baby

You freeze, blinking back at the message.

Shit, you really need to stop and think before you send things because what? 

You didn’t mean it like that. Not at all. Maybe he’ll ignore it… But that wouldn’t be Bob, now would it?

The typing dots appear immediately.

They flicker, stall, but nothing comes through. 

Fuck. 

Your stomach drops.

Then— 

Bob Floyd

Oo did you just call me baby? 

You squinch your eyes shut and groan. 

You could correct him. Shut him down like always. Or, you could double down, throw him for a loop— Something you’re really good at doing.

Jesus Christ— Was Abby right? Was this foreplay?

No. You were tired. You weren’t thinking straight. Your thoughts were starting to sound delirious. 

You

In your dreams, Floyd

A sharp exhale leaves your lungs when you hit send, expression twisting as you toss your phone on the other side of the bed and stare up at the ceiling. 

It buzzes quickly— Too quickly. 

Bob Floyd

Maybe

It could be the lack of sleep, could be the familiarity or the environment—this weird, delicate, snow globe-like atmosphere you were suddenly trapped in despite your best efforts to put distance between you and him—but something in you softens.

The tension in your forehead, the adrenaline running out. The rhythm of your heart as you sit up suddenly, pausing when your knuckles hover over the wall behind you— The only wall that touched another room. 

Slowly, you knock three times.

And you wait.

You wonder if he’s the one you’re bothering. Wonder if he’ll even remember that little secret language you came up with that summer you spent at the lake house together and shared a wall, just like now.

All these years later. 

It didn’t mean much, not then, not now. It was just a quiet acknowledgement you shared when both of you were still awake in the middle of the night.

A simple thing. 

A brush of knuckles that lingered— That recognized. 

Does he still? 

Two brisk knocks echo back against your headboard from the other side, just like always. 

He does. 

You slip back under the covers, smiling with something different now— Something unnamed where he’s concerned. 

Before your eyes lull shut, you pick up your phone again, fingers hovering before you type, 

You 

Night creep

It buzzes against your pillow.

Bob Floyd

Goodnight, annoying neighbor  

And for the first time in years—in lifetimes—you fall asleep feeling something other than irritation simmering under your skin from Bob Floyd.

By the time morning comes, it’s not really morning anymore. 

Maybe it was the bleak, blistering chill of the outside world washed in wistful whites and gentle greys. Maybe it was the plush cocoon of covers wrapped around you, or the fact that you were up later than you damn well should’ve been texting someone you can’t stand, but yeah— You slept in.

It was evident. Your body was heavy as you lazily pushed the door open to Abby and Rooster’s suite, immediately hit with a wall of pure wedding chaos and commotion. 

Your eyes were glazed over, warm sweats still on, hair— Definitely suffering from the lack of styling last night, though, your half-assed efforts to try to kill the bedhead helped a little. 

You skip the pleasantries and flop face first onto the bed with a muffled groan. 

Maybe Bob was right. He wasn’t the only one who got moody without sufficient sleep, apparently

You sense a presence intercepting the window, fighting to fill the room with pale winter light, a small shadow eclipsing you. 

“Well good morning to you, too,” Abby teases, playful lilt in her voice, definitely grinning at your misfortunes. 

You sigh into the comforter, face still buried. “Hi.”

“Long night?”

You nod, reluctantly lifting to rest your chin on your hands and peer up at her. 

“I had this really annoying neighbor. Wouldn’t shut up the whole night. Liked to talk.”

You sneak a brief glance over at Bob sitting in a lounge chair in the corner. There’s the tiniest flicker of an impish smile at the corner of his mouth as he listens, eyes still trained on whatever it was he was folding.

It was a good thing Abby didn’t have access to the room assignments in the hotel block because she just hums, all careless and oblivious— Clearly not aware her older brother was the neighbor in question. 

“Sorry, babes,” she mumbles, fingers gently tracing wisps of hair from your eyes. “Hopefully it doesn’t happen again so you can get some sleep.”

Slowly, you lift yourself off the mattress and take in the scene unfolding around you. 

Everyone was in full-blown work mode— Concentrated on random tasks like their lives depended on it, arguing if the welcome sign was straight or not, inspecting a seemingly-broken box of giant glow sticks for the reception… Everything and anything you can imagine. 

You’d basically walked into a subpar assembly line.

Most of Rooster’s squadron was there, screwing around when Abby wasn’t looking and playing with decorations instead of actually working, but it was still help to a degree. 

Mrs. Floyd and some of Abby’s extended family was there alongside you, Rooster, Abby, and Bob, who sat by himself— All quiet and responsible, per usual.

If he needed the sleep, it didn’t show. He looked completely put together—too put together—all perfectly combed hair and wide-awake eyes as he diligently concentrated on his task. 

You rub your hands over your face and sigh. “Where do you want me?”

Before she could answer, Rooster tosses a stack of something at you, papers all fluttering and fanning out across the bed. “Wanna fold? There’s, like, a million of these damn things.”

Abby shoots him a look for his comment, collecting the papers and placing them neatly.

“Bob’s already working on those. I’ll find something else for you.”

“You sure?” you ask, eyes flicking down to what seemed like a stack of at least 200 sheets. “I don’t mind folding if that’s what you need.”

She nods, passing the stack over to Bob who barely lifts his gaze to grab it. “I think he has a particular system going, anyways. He’s flying through ‘em.”

“Yeah,” Hangman adds from across the room with a grin. “Bobby’s real good with his fingers.”

Your eyes widen slightly, glancing over at Bob who stiffens—imperceptibly so—and keeps his head down. 

But you don’t miss the way the tips of his ears turn red under the curve of his glasses and his jaw works.

Fanboy snorts, earning a shove and pointed look from Phoenix. 

“Meanwhile you can’t even put batteries in the right way,” she mutters to Hangman, taking a glow stick, turning the batteries around, and closing the cover with a snap. 

She shoves the glow stick back to the pouting pilot and returns to her area of the room with Abby’s aunt.

“Maybe someone smart should go help the guys,” Abby suggests, brow raised in amusement. 

“You mean babysit,” Nat adds over a rumble of groans and protests.

You give Abby a tight smile, obliging. “On it.”

The afternoon was spent doing whatever was needed: fluffing flower arrangements, helping Abby and Mrs. Floyd finalize their jewelry options, double-checking seating charts or name spellings. 

After helping the guys make sure the glow sticks and bubble wands were all ready to go, you spend your time typing out the thin strips of sticker paper to put over the little welcome pamphlets Abby made and forgot to edit a section of.

Luckily, the wedding was no longer on a Friday in June in Tulsa.

When you were done, you brought them over to their final station, quietly slumping into the chair across from Bob as he finished meticulously laying thin spreads of Wite-Out across the incorrect text on the papers, now all neatly folded. 

Neither of you had said a word to each other since last night—not in person, not over text—and if you were being honest, that felt… confusing. 

Sure, it’s been years since you’ve been around him like this, in this way— For a weekend and change rather than a brief encounter at home for the holidays or something. No matter where it was, you always found each other— Found this weird, familiar rhythm easily. 

And yet, even still, it never sat right with you. 

Maybe it didn’t with him either. 

But the longer you were around him, the harder it was for you to remember exactly why you hated him so much. You had to remind yourself he’s not the lanky, dorky, annoyingly-polite boy you grew up with.

The one who pushed buttons you didn’t even know you had and then left you the last pink Starburst instead of taking it for himself. 

The one who spent every waking hour he had to spare learning the ins and outs of every class, every chapter, every test—not because he wanted to excel, but because he wanted to be better than you—then would slip over his cue card when you blanked during a debate or pushed his homework to the edge of his desk when you forgot to do it, all without even looking.

The one you hated— Who you teased and pushed and dug into until you started feeling something else. Something that apparently meant nothing. 

That was what you had to remind yourself. 

He wasn’t that boy—maybe never was—and he certainly wasn’t someone you could categorize your relationship with anymore.

Because even now—even after all those years of sparring back and forth, and the soft, confusing moments in between—you still don’t know how to be around him. How to pivot, adjust, every time you both threw caution to the wind and let something other than disdain settle between you.

And yet, it always found its way back to what it was.

“Are you sure I’m the one who’s responsible for the maid of honor having a bad hair day?”

He breaks the silence enveloping you two, running a cautious thread of fingers through a strand of your hair that was slightly out of place.

You stop your scissors along a strip of text and glance up at him, already looking at you with that smooth, satisfied smile.

You study him, eyes flicking between his once, then go back to work. “Maybe I would’ve had time to style it if I wasn’t up all night arguing 10th grade science topics with a grown man.”

He shrugs, continuing to drag the corrector across the text. “And whose choice was that?”

You open your mouth to shoot back a response—or insult—but he beats you to it, adding, 

“I always knew I was in for it those days.”

Your brows knit. “What do you mean?”

“You’d come onto the bus in the morning the same way,” he starts, flicker of a softer smile forming. “Hair all ruffled, eyes extra sleepy, more attitude than usual.”

You roll your eyes, trying to shake off the way your nerves gently rattled at the memory. 

“I always knew it was because you were up late studying or something,” he continues, capping the Wite-Out and tossing it on the table between you with a thud. “Always knew you were up working extra hard to kick my ass.”

You raise your eyebrows, setting some cut strips down for him to take. “Not everything is about you, you know.”

“And yet that hair is always evidence of me.”

You pause, watching him through narrowed eyes, lip caught between your teeth as you try to gauge where he’s going with this.

“That too,” he adds, nudging your foot with his and tilting his chin up at you. “Always chewin’ that damn lip when I make you think too hard.”

The rhythm of your heart does some quiet, perfidious, little thing— Fluttering under the iron armour of your ribs, a steady thread loosening, peeling a vulnerable part of you open against your will. Exposing something tender you weren’t entirely ready to face.

You exhale, lip slipping free from your teeth immediately. “How do you always manage to assume so much responsibility yet none at all?”

He smiles, half-laughing under his breath as you both begin carefully applying the strips of sticker paper. 

“Same way you always managed to be up so late studying and still got lower grades than me.”

“You’re extra irritating today.”

“Believe it or not, you’re not the only tired one,” he teases, fingers brushing yours as he reaches over to fix the strip you were about to place. “Some of us are just good at actually hiding it.”

You snatch the strip away and eye him, only making his expression sparkle with satisfaction.

“Are you, though? Because you seem extra fussy.” You press the strip down and toss the finished product onto the completed stack, piling high quickly. “Sure you don’t want me to get you a pacifier?” 

That was, admittedly, extra snarky, but it slips out regardless. Was he right? Were you moody?

He raises an eyebrow, glancing up at you from under his glasses, eyes darkening just slightly. 

“Depends— Are you gonna call me baby again?”

“Only if you keep acting like one.”

He purses his lips, pretending to consider it. “Noted. Whatever you say, Boss.” 

You freeze, expression twisting in confusion as you watch him grin like he has a secret you don’t know. 

“I’m sorry… Did Hell freeze over or did you really just call me boss?”

“It’s your new callsign,” he says offhandedly, organizing the stack and sitting back with an effortless look. “Bad At Spelling— You know, since apparently A’s and O’s are the same thing now.”

Great— Another stupid thing he wasn’t going to let go of. Maybe you needed to stop texting when you were feeling bold and overtired. 

Or, maybe you should just stop texting him.  

As dumb as it was—admittedly embarrassing, too—you were failing to suppress a small smile at just how stupid and weirdly… endearing he made it sound— Even when he was driving you absolutely crazy.

“Bad at spelling sometimes,” you clarify.

“Sure,” he hums. “Sometimes.”

“I hate you.”

He leans forward, elbows resting on his knees, suddenly a lot closer than before. “Quick— Spell hate. Hint: there’s no O.”  

You roll your eyes, throwing a ball of crumpled sticker backings at him as he chuckles, swatting them away. 

“Yeah— I’m definitely getting that pacifier to shut you up.”

His stare holds yours, gaze suddenly heavy and persistent, somehow stealing your breath. His heat whispers along your skin as he lowers his voice, smirk pulling at the corner of his mouth. 

“And if that doesn’t work, then what? You got other plans to keep me quiet?”

“If you two are done eye-fucking, can you please go help Bradley bring the favors up from the car?”

Abby hovers above you: hands on her hips, eyebrows raised, eyes darting between you and her brother suspiciously— But certainly not annoyed. 

No, that was just for show. 

A flustered heat crawls up your neck. Bob clears his throat, quickly leaning back and weakly brushing the spare strips off his clothes, avoiding eye contact completely. 

You move first, quickly getting up and scurrying after her, trying to dismiss what she walked in on.

Or, rather, what she thought she walked in on. 

“If that was eye-fucking to you, I’m incredibly worried about your sex life,” you mumble. 

She looks at you flatly, then glances behind her at Bob, still red-hot in the corner. 

“At least I’m having sex, unlike some people.”

Your pulse hammers in your ear, blood thick with heat and some sort of nervous, restless energy you can’t seem to shake. The cold rush of winter air doesn’t stop your face from flushing as you silently carry boxes up from the car, not daring to say a word.

You don’t challenge her after that.

After a long day of draining, meticulous last-minute tasks, the self-indulgent solitary confinement of chlorine and bubble jets was just what you needed to detox.

Your fingers were sore from tying the world’s tiniest twine bows for the favors with Phoenix. Your bones ached from the cold— Bitter and persistent while your body stayed hunched over paper strips. Your vision was starting to blur the longer you stared at anything that wasn’t a heavy pour of wine and a good book. 

You were more than happy to help—more than happy to lend your hands until they bled—but you’d be lying if you said it didn’t feel good to finally take a break.

Mostly from Bob.

It didn’t help that he lingered— Around every corner, involved, embedded in spaces you’d consider too close even if you were separated by walls. And it certainly didn’t help that you couldn’t read whatever was sitting between you after last night.

It’s been like this for years— This subtle, infuriating ache to dig into each other, every exchange edged with something sharper than irritation. Something that felt too much like want if you let yourself linger on it. 

Something that stirred your heartstrings until they squeezed the inside of your chest and made you dizzy.

It was starting to wear on you, chipping away at your sanity with every glance and word spoken. It was like his voice was trapped between your ears, like his heartbeat was woven with yours without permission. 

Like you hated each other so much that you didn’t.

You couldn’t stand it.

And as fun as it was to push his buttons, you needed a generous stretch of time without his presence— Without his guileful, abrasive attitude he dressed up as courteous, charming chivalry.

So you stepped into the elevator around half-past nine, a plush bath towel wrapped around your body, shivering from the chill that managed to creep into the Inn. 

The lobby hums with quiet life— New families checking in, warm laughter spilling from the bar, children snoring softly against their parents’ shoulders after long drives. Couples whisper as they disappear into their rooms for the night. 

You patter down the hall unnoticed, quickly swiping your key card and slipping into the rec room.

The doors swing shut behind you with a hollow thud, trapping you inside the humid, heavy bloom of steam and chemicals. Chlorine and heat wrap around your lungs as you breathe deep, the weight of the day finally starting to loosen its grip.

It was just you, the roar of hot tub jets, music pouring from your headphones, a glass of wine, and a book begging to have its spine cracked. 

And, most importantly, no—

“Bob?” 

Your eyebrows shoot up, voice cracking over the gentle hush of the natatorium as you watch him finish a lap— Slicing through the water so silently you wouldn’t think a soul had stepped foot in there in years.

Clearly, you were wrong.

He spurts water from his mouth, running his hands down his face and bracing his elbows against the scratchy cement to catch his breath. 

“Jesus,” you mutter, shifting to clutch your towel tighter as you stare down at him. “You really are everywhere, aren’t you?”

He blinks through steady beads of pool water tracing the slope of his nose, the cut of his jaw, the muscle in his arms and his chest and holy shit— When did he start looking like this?

“I could say the same for you,” he says, eyes skimming down your bare legs almost imperceptibly before snapping back into place like it didn’t happen. “I think you might be stalking me.”

A weighted silence pulses through the air, both of you staring at the other like it would make you disappear. 

Or make you say something that hasn’t revealed itself yet.

Night glow spills through the glass ceiling, stars fighting to pierce their way through careless strokes of fog and clouds. A delicate whisper of pool lights flicker, shapes of pale blue and cool teal dancing across the tile. They wash over the stretch of toned, tanned muscle as he pushes off again, resuming mechanical laps.

It’s the kind of movement—kind of skin and body—that suddenly has you entranced against your will. 

You sigh, letting yourself collapse onto the edge of a sticky plastic lounger. The towel slips from your body, pooling uselessly at your feet. And you watch, half-heartedly making sure he doesn’t stop dead in the water like he might suddenly want to watch you too. 

Vulnerable, and not just because of the sleek trim of black bikini stretched sparingly across your skin.

You both try to move on— Ignore the other, fall out of orbit and back into your own center of gravity before you get pulled under again. A losing battle neither of you seems to be able to ignore. 

His arms work steadily, slicing through the soft lull of undisturbed water, chest rising and falling as he glides onto his back with ease. Shadows catch dips and curves that certainly weren’t there when you were 17. 

You swallow tightly, ripping your eyes away, trying to ignore the gentle puffs of air slipping through his lips and spray of water— Trying to settle into what you came here to do. 

Relax. You’re here to relax. You’re here to let go of him— Of this. To clear your head of God knows what, enjoy a glass of rosé, and read a goddamn book, for once. 

Even if it’s just for an hour. For a minute. For two.

But it’s too loud: your head, your conflicting thoughts and simmering rage at his presence— His heat and his exhale, the way the water only seems to splash louder the longer you lie there pretending not to care. 

You click the volume up on your headphones. You pick a louder song. You down half your glass and hope the burn in your throat might scorch the incessant, ambiguous novelty of his presence from your system. 

Then he stops, limbs gingerly wading in the deep end closest to you as he keeps himself afloat. You can feel him watching you through your book, your eyes blankly fixed on the same paragraph for the last five minutes, hoping the words might finally learn to read themselves to you instead.

“I can hear you complaining from here.”

You blink, slowly pulling the small partition of pages down and eyeing him over the top. “I haven’t said a word. You’re the one being loud over there.”

“You didn’t have to,” he says, voice echoing softly through the empty space as he treads water. “I can still tell. And if you’ve found a quieter way to swim— Please, be my guest.”

You shift, crossing your ankles and lifting your book again. 

“I’m not complaining.” That’s a lie. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

He huffs a laugh, arms flexing as he swims himself to the edge, peering up at you over the concrete.

“I do. You get that crinkle in your forehead, you pick at your nails.” His mouth tilts playfully. “And I’m pretty sure I could feel you glaring at me through those pages.”

You sigh, meeting his smirk across the space, all cocky and pleased like he actually knows you— Like he remembers. 

“It’s not my fault that pretty little smile of yours doesn’t fix everything,” you snap. 

He rests his chin on his forearm, wet hair clinging to his forehead, stained a deeper, darker brown. Familiar— Too familiar. 

“You think I’m pretty?”

“Not what I said.”

He shrugs easily, smile in question stretching. “Sounded like it to me.”

You exhale sharply, letting your book fall closed against your thighs as you sit up straighter in the chair. 

“What are we doing?”

He goes quiet, gears visibly spinning. “Well, I’m doing this thing where I move my legs so I don’t drown. You’re… trying to sunbathe at an indoor pool in the middle of the night?” He pauses, eyes warm and derisive. “Abbs was right— We need to get you to North Island so you remember how real sun works.”

“Bob,” you interrupt quietly, something heavier threading through your voice. “You know what I mean.”

It wasn’t accusatory, wasn’t irritated, just empty. Sad. Distant. 

You don’t know why you broke out of the safety of your banter— This thing you both cling to so you don’t have to touch what’s actually there. You don’t even know why you’re here: sitting in front of him instead of soaking in the hot tub, ditching your plans like your body didn’t consult your mind at all.

It didn’t matter. You still orbited him, and him, you.

And suddenly, something else lingers in the silence connecting two lost, lonely souls who don’t know how to exist around each other anymore. Who can’t resist, and don’t know why. 

You hate him. He hates you. Wasn’t that supposed to be easy?

He goes quiet, pushing wet hair from his eyes and lifting from the water with ease, sitting on the edge— Closer, but so much further away.

And it was suddenly like looking at you was the hardest thing in the world. 

But when he finally does—when he finally looks back again, finally stops avoiding whatever’s chewing him up inside—you miss the vacancy of his eyes. 

You miss the distance, miss the numb buzz of ignorance. Miss the chill of him, and the moment before you finally realize his coldness might always be warmer than anyone else’s heat. 

His lips part, brows knitting softly, beads of water tracing the slope of his mouth, the shape of words, empty and foreboding.

And then the doors slam open.

Laughter crashes through the natatorium, sharp and careless as a handful of rowdy aviators slip in alongside a few of Abby and Bob’s little cousins, shoes slapping through lukewarm puddles, wrapped in their own world, unaware they were shattering yours.

Mickey cannonballs—too close to the edge, too close to Bob—and paints the room in sprays of water, filling the empty echoes that learned how to scream before they settled.

Bradley follows, tossing in two of the kids—five and nine—giddy and unrestrained, diving haphazardly just to splash them more. Their shrieks ricochet, wild and delighted.

Ruben, Javy, and Jake trail in behind, talking over each other, tossing their stuff aside, all easy smiles and loud greetings once they notice you before stripping down and barreling in themselves.

Natasha quietly steps into the shallow end, eyes flicking between you and Bob once—careful, perceptive—before looking away. 

Bob simply stares down at the water lapping around his ankles, wading aimlessly, hands flexing at his sides like he’s grounding himself back into his body. 

You sit rigidly, a little shocked at your rush of courage to try to name this doomed, hopeless thing you dance around. The book stays closed in your lap, wine long forgotten, heartbeat still stuttering with something that never got the chance to finish speaking.

And just like that, whatever this was—whatever fragile, almost-bridged bandaid starting to stretch over this festering, aching fracture between you two—was gone. 

The morning was quiet in every sense of the word. 

Too quiet. 

You saw him at the breakfast buffet in the lobby. His fingers brushed yours when you reached for the same scone. He took it, put it on your plate, and walked back to his table without saying a word. 

You saw him while waiting for the elevator back to your room. He paused in the entryway, eyes meeting yours tentatively. His lips twitched into a fleeting, distant smile, but it never reached his eyes. Not even a bit.  

He left just as quickly, ducking his head and opting for the stairs instead. 

You knew he was next to you—just one thin, cold wall sitting between two warm bodies—both back in your rooms, getting ready for the day. 

And you don’t know what takes over you—this strange, distant clawing at the pit of your stomach, urging you to face an unnamed thing clearly lost—but you hover close to the wall before you leave. 

You inhale deeply, pinching your eyes shut as you decide, and take the leap. Tense knuckles graze against the sheetrock— A hesitant little noise cracking through the silence three times. 

A minute passes. 

Then two. 

No knock is returned. 

You exhale, trying to brush it off, trying to pretend it didn’t bother you that it was starting to feel like you were in completely new territory— That he suddenly really didn’t care at all, not even for the sake of annoying you. 

Maybe you scared him off, slipping into honesty that felt too dangerous in the heat of a cold December night. Finally alone— Something you rarely were. 

Maybe he didn’t want to push you back when you finally acknowledged it and questioned why you were still teasing each other like kids. When you asked yourselves what that even means anymore.

Something past a point of no return— Until now. 

And suddenly, if even possible, this weekend just got a hell of a lot harder when you closed your door behind you, glancing at the light still on under his, and slipped down the hallway in silence, carrying a hollow echo in each empty step. 

Later in the day, you took a quick break to grab some coffees while you, Bradley, Nat, and Mrs. Floyd assembled the welcome bags. 

The wedding was in two days so it was officially crunch time, but coffee breaks were still mandatory in your book. 

Especially considering you didn’t sleep much, yet again. 

No matter how hard you tried, you couldn’t stop replaying everything over in your head. The heat of that room, the new kind of tension that lined the shallow blue of his eyes when he looked up at you, the way his expression broke open when you confronted him— When you wanted to name whatever this game of yours really was. 

All of it lived behind your eyes, trapped between the whirl of your mind and buzz of the heat pulsing through your barren, bleak room in the middle of the night. 

So, coffee it was. 

You ran into Hangman and Fanboy down at the hotel café. They had curbed their extremely obvious advances since initially meeting you, but apparently whatever it was Bob told them about you wasn’t enough to keep them from trailing after you like lost puppies, insisting you needed help carrying the coffees back. 

You didn’t mind. It was nice to feel wanted. Not that Bob wanted you, not that you wanted him—definitely not that—but you still felt the loss of his presence anyway. 

And it hit harder than you ever really thought it would, even after all this time. 

Regardless, it was extra hands to help out with the remaining wedding chores as it got dangerously close to the big day, so you let them tag along. 

“Oh my God,” Natasha mutters to Rooster as you walk back into the conference room. “If you undo my bow one more time, I’m gonna turn your neck into one.”

Hangman whistles low, clearly amused. “Congrats, Bradshaw— You’ve managed to make another woman besides your fiancé wanna kill you.”

“You sure that’s not your true calling?” Fanboy adds with a snort, sliding the cups in his hands to the pair at the end of the table. 

Rooster shoots them both a look, muttering something under his breath, and very, very carefully sealing a welcome bag shut— Avoiding Nat’s perfectly crafted bow like his life depended on it.

Because it did.

“Y’know, ma’am,” Hangman says, stretching into a chair next to Mrs. Floyd, hard at work. “There’s still time for you to get a better son-in-law.” 

He points over his shoulder to a pouting Rooster, grinning. “This one’s not all that great.”

Mrs. Floyd just hums, carefully setting down a mini Snickers bar, and raises an eyebrow at an overly-confident Hangman. 

“Who’s the upgrade? You?”

He shrugs, thinking. “Could be.”

Her eyes flick over his presence quickly, making his winning smile falter and chair squeak as he shifts his weight.

“No it couldn’t.”

The room falls into soft snickers and laughter, enjoying the way Jake’s bubble bursts immediately.

“Oh my god,” Natasha mumbles in incredulous wonder. “I love her.”

The older woman smiles gently, giving a supportive pat to a deflated Hangman sulking next to her, and gets back to work like nothing.

That is until Abby bursts through the doors, Bob silently following and dropping into a chair on the opposite side of the room that suddenly felt too small now that he was in it. 

“Oh my God,” she squeals, energy dialed to 100, earning everyone’s attention— Except Bob, who silently steals a pack of smarties from his mom’s stack of candy and stares at the floor, completely disinterested. 

Rooster watches Abby, raised brow with a little smitten smile. “Care to explain?”

She flops into the other chair next to him, practically vibrating with excitement. “The cake is finally done!”

He blinks, glancing at her as he continues to seal bags. “I thought it already was done.”

“This is why you’re not in charge of wedding stuff,” she dismisses, rolling her eyes and stealing a sip of his drink. “It’s from that one baker I was on a waitlist for, but the order was finally processed.”

“That’s great, honey,” he affirms, eyes widening in fear as he almost undoes a bow and earns a pointed look from Phoenix for not paying attention again. 

Abby hums in agreement, slouching dramatically against the table, face smushed in her hand and sighing. “Only thing is it’s up in Sierra City.”

“Sierra City?” Phoenix echoes. “Isn’t that, like, an hour from here?”

“Yeah,” Abby mumbles, swirling the burning black coffee in Rooster’s cup. “And I can’t go get it, I have a lot to do today.”

You don’t bother letting anyone else offer before you pipe up, posture straightening immediately. “Give me your keys. I’ll go.”

“I can’t ask you to do that,” Abby counters, giving you a soft frown. 

“You aren’t. I’m offering— I wanna do this for you.” 

In all honesty, you did—it was killing you that you weren’t able to be as hands-on with wedding stuff as you would’ve liked—but it was also the perfect excuse to get a damn break.

It couldn’t get any better: you’d get to explore California a bit more—even if you were just in the mountains—Abby would get her dream cake, and you would escape the unease between you and Bob.

You’d seen more of him in the last two days than you have in years and it was starting to wear on you— The bickering, the teasing, the weird, unshakable feeling sitting in the pit of your stomach when you both inadvertently danced around something more serious, more weighted. 

You were in dire need of an out from the silence— From the way he sat rigidly in the furthest corner of the room from you, from the way he wouldn’t even look at you, didn’t bother opening his mouth to tease you over something dumb… Nothing.

This was a blessing in disguise. 

“Nonsense,” Mrs. Floyd adds lightly. “You can’t go out there by yourself— Bobby will go with you.”

Fuck. You spoke too soon. 

Honestly, you should’ve seen this one coming. Mrs. Floyd always made sure you never did things alone, would always make Bob go with you and Abby if she felt you needed it. It was a little suffocating—especially when you were younger—but now that you were older, you could appreciate the sentiment. 

Except for right now. 

Out of the corner of your eye, you could feel Bob’s attention shoot to you— Suddenly very aware of the conversation unfolding around him, expression blank, but still alert. 

“It’s okay,” you say, waving your hand. “Really. I can handle it.”

Abby gives you a look, one you hated. “I think Ma is right. Those roads are super narrow and, like, in the middle of nowhere. I can’t send you out there by yourself.”

You look across the table at Natasha—eyes already on you—and you widen yours slightly, trying to silently communicate something that begged Please offer to go with me instead.

She gives you a sympathetic frown and glances at her hands busy in a pile of different wedding crafts— Clearly signaling she’s busy. 

Goddamnit. 

“Fanboy can go with me,” you quickly say, volunteering Mickey who mindlessly poked at a pack of cookies on the table, perking up immediately with an almost too-enthusiastic grin. “Right, Mick?”

He opens his mouth to agree, but Mrs. Floyd beats him to it. “Oh, honey, they don’t even trust that boy to drive a plane, nonetheless a car.”

Nat snickers. “She’s not wrong. He’s a terrible driver.”

Fanboy shoots her a wounded look, crossing his arms and muttering, “Damn, thanks, Nat.”

“Exactly,” Mrs. Floyd affirms sweetly, like she didn’t just shatter a grown man’s confidence. “Bobby will take you.”

“Is that really necessary?” Bob pipes up, the first words you’ve heard him speak all day— Bitter and cold in a way you’re sure everyone could pick up on. “I think she can handle it on her own. It’s just 89 North.”

His eyes snap to yours briefly, quickly—calculated in a way only you could feel—and retreat, watching his boot scrub into the hotel carpet like it needed special attention. 

“Robert Floyd, who raised you?” his mother scolds. “Because it certainly wasn’t me if that’s the kind of man you turned into.” 

His face flushes a little, crossing his arms while a quiet, playful chorus of noises pour out from his friends. 

“It’s not, I just meant—”

“No. I don’t care what you meant.” She cuts him short with a pointed look over her reading glasses. “You’ll drive her and you’ll do it safely, you hear me?”

He grows quiet, a little huff under his breath slipping through the thin stitch of his lips and shake of his head. 

Of course he’d fold. He was still the perfectly respectful, chivalrous, obedient guy he loved to pretend to be.

“Yeah, Ma, okay.” He looks at you—barely—and slips out of his seat, already heading for the door. 

“Get your stuff. We’ll leave in 20.”

Bob was already waiting for you by the time you got downstairs to the turnaround in front of the hotel— Body lazily leaned against his car, arms and ankles crossed, expression blank, his breath harsh in the cold, bleak air. 

He looked ridiculous, all bundled up in layers: an undershirt peeking through a thick, moss green henley topped with a warm coat. His boots are on, hat pulled down over his ears, gloved fingers twirling his keys, completely oblivious to your amused presence. 

“I’m sorry— Are we going to Sierra City or Antarctica?” 

He catches his keys mid-swing in his palm and glances up at you—dressed in a regular long sleeve top, light jacket, and sneakers—then down at himself. 

“It’s freezing out,” he says flatly. “You’re the stupid one for not dressing warmer.”

You laugh under your breath, warm air that slips from your lips curling in the bitter air. 

“It’s…” your voice trails, pulling out your phone. “31 degrees out, Floyd. Not ten.” 

His lips press flat and chapped. “Don’t go asking for my jacket later when you’re inevitably cold.” 

Your eyebrows lift in mischief. “Wow, California changed you.”

His eyes narrow, challenging, before he slips the passenger door open and clomps over to the driver’s side. 

Of course he still got the door for you. 

“Hurry up and get in so we get there before it’s dark out.”

You roll your eyes and climb up into the truck, already starting to thaw as the engine grumbles in the empty Inn turnaround. 

Bob shifts the truck into reverse, his arm stretching across the back of your seat as he cranes his neck to check behind him. His fingers free of their gloves now stuffed into the spare cup holder linger near your shoulders. 

Your muscles stiffen as his heat sits close to you. It’s like you could feel him touching you through empty space, even a thin sliver of it. 

“I really didn’t need you to come with me, you know.”

The rigid cadence of your voice cuts through the soft blow of heat pouring from the dashboard vents, the only disruption as you both settle into the truck dragging its tires across the cobblestone and out of the lot. 

He huffs a laugh through his nose, brief and quiet. “Well your own best friend didn’t seem to think so.”

You glance over at him, watching the way the straight stitch of his mouth curves up in the corner, all proud and smug. It makes you sit up straighter in your seat, voice light with faux ponderance. 

“Who was able to drive first despite being younger, again?”

“That was ridiculous and you know it!” His voice raises, all flustered and defensive in a way that makes you grin. “What 14 year old expects there to be a question about a suspension system on their permit test?”

“People who studied,” you counter with a shrug. 

He glares, eyes flicking between you and the road ahead of him. “Remind me— What color pump is the gas?”

“Oh my god, that was one time.” 

“Still happened. At least I never put diesel in my car,” he teases, lifting his fingers from the wheel in surrender. 

“I realized before I started pumping,” you grit. “And that’s because you had allll that extra time waiting around to get your license to figure it out.” 

“I’m a great driver,” he mutters under his breath, glaring down the road drenched in hazy greys and wisps of thick clouds. 

“Is that why you’re a backseater for Nat?” 

He goes quiet and for a split second, you feel your heart twist. Maybe that was too far. You and Bob might like to push each other, but that didn’t mean you forgot how talented he really was.

Even if it killed you to admit it. 

“The most offensive part of that sentence was you calling her Nat, actually.” 

He glances over at you, smallest smile evident on his lips before it fades away back with his attention on the road. 

If you hurt him, he wasn’t showing it— And yet you still felt a lot more guilt than you’d like to admit. 

You try to shrug it off, voice light as you ask,

“What— Don’t like to share?” 

His fingers drum along the steering wheel, tangling over each other, eyes flicking to the rearview mirror. 

“Not particularly.”

You glance out the window, cheek in palm, elbow bent against the armrest. Suddenly this car felt a little too small. 

You don’t care. Why do you care? 

“She’s great,” you offer quietly. “I wouldn’t wanna share her either.” 

Slowly, the few small buildings around the Inn disappear and more bare trees take their place, shifting by in blurs. A thin vignette of fog clings around the corners of the windows, just a frail shield from the frost.  

The silence settles, but your mind doesn’t. What the hell were you even saying? You were the one pushing Bob right now, so why was it starting to feel like you were the one getting hurt? It feels like hours pass even though it’s only seconds, silence your only company. 

Then, 

“That’s not what I’m worried about.”

Your pulse stutters, eyes fixed to the dashed yellow between two strips of asphalt slipping under the car. 

“What?”

“Phoenix,” he clarifies. “It’s not her I’m worried about sharing.” 

His voice comes out small, weighted words suddenly too present, too scared. But it’s honest— A brief glimpse of sentiment you so rarely saw. 

All of it makes your head spin from more than just the winding uphill roads and bleak weather. All of it makes you freeze from more than just the cold. You don’t know what to say.

Fuck, what do you say? What does that even mean? 

It’s best not to read into it. You learned the hard way that nothing ever meant anything when it came to him, so why should you? 

Words don’t come. You just nod, slow and receptive, though it still feels like you’re detached from your body— From your brain and processing system that’s trying and failing to make sense of whatever intent lies behind his words. 

“Stop chewing,” he mumbles suddenly. “You’re gonna make it bleed.”

You glance at him, completely caught off-guard, not realizing you were even doing it. Your bottom lip slips out from between your pinched teeth unceremoniously.

He didn’t even bother looking at you when he said it. He said it so plainly, so offhand. So unspecial— Like it was a normal comment cushioned in a regular conversation. Like it meant nothing. Like it wasn’t making your head spin. 

You stop biting. He stops talking. 

Neither of you say much after that. 

Eventually, you turn the heat down after it starts to feel like you could melt without the sun. He turns the radio up and slumps against the window, one hand lazily resting along the top of the wheel. 

Occasionally his eyes glance over to you. You notice—of course you do—but you don’t bother looking back. Straight ahead felt safer for reasons you didn’t really understand. 

Slowly, you slip farther and farther away from everything. Your eyes glaze over. Your mind goes numb. Every turn starts to look the same— Though that would’ve been the case regardless of your indifference. It’s like you're the only car on the road for miles, climbing deep into the mountains of Sierra City draped in a thick winter sky. 

When you finally hit civilization again, you might as well’ve been transported to the Swiss Alps or Vail. 

The town is small, virtually non-existent, even at the heart of everything. It’s all old, antique wood buildings and weathered streetlamps draped in dainty winter garland. Every window display is dressed to the nines and the cobblestone streets are home to a thin dusting of fresh snow. 

The bakery is on the corner, tucked down a little alley across a boutique’s side entrance. Both doors twinkle under string lights piercing through the stretch of grey clouds staining the sky. 

It smelled of freshly baked pastries and warm sugar, small and quaint and comforting. Everything was pristine— From each carefully laid sugar flower to the little Christmas town decorating the front window display. There wasn’t a single thing out of place. 

All the desserts looked magazine ready— So perfect and intricate they didn’t even seem real. Of course Abby’s dream cake was from here. And you would’ve driven several hours—days, even—if it meant she was happy. 

Even with her brother. 

The cake was sitting ready to go and boxed up on the back counter when you arrived. A small notecard labeled Floyd was perched on top in handwriting so ornate it looked printed. 

In hindsight, it was a mistake to present yourself that way when asking for it because the shop worker couldn’t seem to catch the hint that you weren’t the Floyd in question after she saw Bob’s credit card with the same last name on it. 

After a few trying days of being described by Abby’s elderly relatives as someone romantically involved with her brother, the last thing you were in the mood for was more soft smiles and half-laughs of just going along with it. 

But there were worse outcomes, considering Bob took the opportunity to talk up how his beloved “wife-to-be” just adored this place and you drove hours just to secure your dream cake— Among other ass-kissing sentiments that resulted in the owner sending you off with a free dessert. 

It didn’t help that Bob picked exactly what you would’ve for yourself and silently handed it off to you, hand warm and steady around the dip of your waist as he guided you out to the car and waved all friendly and polite over his shoulder. 

It didn’t help that he still knew you. Not at all. 

You move out of his grip first, making quick work to get to the passenger side and slip in. Bob slows once he gets to the door, leaving it open as he stares out into the distance. 

“Could you at least close the door if you’re gonna stand around and gaze all day?” you grumble, wrapping your arms around yourself. “It’s like a wind tunnel up here.”

His frown deepens, attention still ahead of him, fingers drumming against the car. 

“Do you think maybe we should just, like, take a pause and evaluate if we should be driving back right now?” 

You blink. “Uh… No, not really. What is there to evaluate? Abby’s wedding is in two days. Her cake is here with us, she isn’t. Why would we wait around?”

You already knew the answer, ducking down to glance out the frosted windshield at the sky that’s managed to somehow grow even dimmer since you went into the bakery ten minutes ago. 

A few stray flakes of snow float down, clinging to the car before melting away, not sticking long enough for the windshield wipers to be needed. It was hardly anything.

Bob had a point— But the faster you got back, the better. It wasn’t going to solve anything pondering the weather, especially not when your sanity was quickly dwindling.

Not to mention you were in the mountains during the middle of winter. Of course it looked dismal.

“No shit,” he huffs, checking his watch. “It’s just… we have the time and that sky doesn’t look very promising. Did Abbs ever mention anything about a storm?”

“No, so I’m sure it’s fine,” you dismiss, starting to undo the lining of your cupcake. If you waited any longer to eat it with that door open, it’d be frozen. “She’s been tracking the Doppler like crazy.”

“Yeah, but—” 

“This looks like the kind of place that always has a flurry. I think it’s fine to go— Really.”

He pauses, considering. He glances at you and back again, squinting up at the overcast sky. Then he caves, sliding into the driver's seat and turning the key with an exaggerated sigh. 

“Alright. Fine. Whatever you say.”

You watch as the engine revs and he puts the address for the Inn back into his GPS. 

It wasn’t like Bob to give in so easily, at least when it came to something you were arguing about with him. Other people, maybe, but you…? Definitely not. 

You don’t have the energy to question it, and he doesn’t have the care to explain.

The drive is the same as before— Quiet. Stiff around the edges. Something sharp forcing its way between you two. Only this time when you look at him, he’s the one who won’t look back. 

You busy yourself on your phone and that stupid book you got all of ten pages into the night before. It was only an hour drive, give or take, but the more reasons you had to avoid talking to him, the better. 

The cake sits tightly tucked against your chest, serving as the perfect arm rest for your book you hold up like a shield. 

You let yourself get lost in it. 

It was better than getting lost out here with him. 

“In one mile, turn left onto Main Street.”

The GPS cracks the silence with new instructions, despite you being on a straight road for 20 miles or so.

It already said that as the first instruction a few miles back… There must be poor service. 

You don’t bother looking up. It’ll adjust itself. 

“In 900 feet, turn left onto Main Street.” 

A few seconds pass.

“Turn left onto Main Street.”

Out of the corner of your eye Bob fiddles with his phone on the vent grate, grumbling inaudibles under his breath.

You raise a brow, not bothering to look while you pinch a page between your fingers. “I think it might want you to turn left, Bobby.” 

“If I turn left, we’ll drive off the cliff into a frozen lake,” he snaps. “If I can remember from earlier,” he adds under his breath.  

Remember? Earlier? Can’t he just see it now?

You glance over your book out at the windshield and your eyes immediately blow wide in shock. 

The tall pines that dotted the edge of a once clear, thin forest road hang heavy with branches already covered in a solid inch of fresh snow. There’s no contrast in your surroundings for miles, no sign of any visible depth perception— Just bristlingly cold billows of wind-blown winter snow coming down hard, all without remorse. 

Everything is washed in white— The sky, the foliage, the depths and caverns below the sharp twists and turns of the barren woodland road now completely indistinguishable and swallowed into affinity. 

The snow falls heavy and fast, the windshield wipers squeaking, desperately trying to rid the frozen glass from a blanket of white. You can’t see the road in front of you— Not the trees, not the curve of the cracked asphalt, not the lines on it. 

Hell, you can barely even see the nose of the truck trying to cut through the frantic snowfall. 

“Oh my god,” you mumble in disbelief, mouth a little slack as you peer out. 

It’s been all of 15 minutes since you pulled left out of the actual Main Street in Sierra City, but your location was quickly indistinguishable. This was not good.  

“If you wanna go left, go right ahead, but get out of the car before you do it because I’d personally like to live to see my sister get married.”

“No, it’s not that, it’s—”

“I know it keeps rerouting, but that’s because—”

“Bob!” you snap. “You can’t even see the road!”

He finally goes quiet. His expression is blank. His knuckles grip around the wheel. He looks over at you. 

Once. Then twice. 

The car swerves slightly, just enough to shake your attention free and back on the less than ideal conditions starting to trap you out in the cold. 

“I don’t even know where the hood of the car is,” you continue, gesturing incredulously out in front of you as the tires struggle to crunch over the quick accumulation.

“Yeah, and you wanted to go! So we’re going.” 

“Okay, but—” 

“God, can you ever make up your mind about anything?” he huffs, voice raising a tick. “You either want something or you don’t. You can’t have it both ways.”

“Well, I didn’t realize we were gonna be driving into a goddamn blizzard when I said go!”

He shrugs his shoulders, expression bristling. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you. It’s fine, whatever. We’ll just take it slow.”

You exhale sharply with a roll of your eyes. This was really not the time for him to have a complex— To play high and mighty just to prove a point. You already knew you were wrong. A reminder wasn’t going to help anyone right now. 

“This is stupid, Bob. Just pull over.”

“Where?” he says, exasperated. “Last time I checked we’re now in the middle of nowhere.”

“I don’t know— Somewhere! We can’t drive like this.” 

He sighs, rubbing the bridge of his nose in aggravation under his glasses. “You’re actually ridiculous. I can’t with you.”

“I’m sorry! When I suggested we go, I thought there might be a small flurry or something, not all this! How was I supposed to know?” 

He shakes his head in silence, lips pressed thin, eyes heavy. His jaw works, tongue running over his teeth tight with tension under his skin. 

“Call Abby.” He caves reluctantly. “Knowing her, she probably drove out here to look at the cakes in person.”

You shrink, lump of anger crawling to your throat as you pull out your phone and try her once. 

It immediately goes to voicemail. 

When you pull it away from your ear, you only have one bar. Fantastic. You try again and it rings, hollow and long through your skull. 

Honestly, you couldn’t be mad at anyone but yourself. Your own stupid self-pity and wallowing was exactly what got you here. 

You knew better— Of course you knew better. You could’ve given it an hour, stopped in a bar considering the service was spotty up north and checked the local radar for a passing storm before getting on the road. 

The cake would’ve survived a small detour. You, however, were a different story.

But, no. God forbid you put your own shit aside for a minute and thought logically around Bob Floyd, for once. 

Why were you so fucking stupid around him? So irrational and impulsive? It was insane how he had this effect on you, even years later. 

The call finally connects, Abby’s voice light and completely oblivious coming through on the other end. 

“Oh my God, please tell me Bob remembered his wallet.”

You smile, running your fingers over the sticker sealing the box that sits securely on your lap. “He did, we got it— Don’t worry.”

“Good,” she sighs in relief. “Thank God.”

“Did, uh…” your voice trails, glancing at what used to be the edge of the road next to you, completely erased now. It’s like another inch fell in the minute you tried to get the call to go through. “Did you know it was supposed to snow, by any chance?” 

The silence is thick on the other end. Bob glances your way, trying to read her answer off of your expression. 

“No…” she answers eventually. “Why? Is it snowing up there or something?”

“You could say that.” 

“Bob took the truck, right?”

You nod slowly even though she can’t see you. “Yeah… but it’s not much help, actually. It’s coming down fast and we’re on a road that isn’t really good for any kind of car right now.” 

“Are you serious?” she pouts, voice cracking in and out from the weak connection. “Drive carefully, okay! I need you guys here in one piece.” 

“Trying to,” you affirm, glancing at the speedometer. It felt like you were gonna slide off the edge or drive headfirst into a tree at any given moment despite only going 15. 

“If it’s that bad maybe you guys should rethink this.”

“Yeah…” You sigh, lips tightening around the words before they come. “Do you know of anywhere around here we might be able to stop until it slows up a bit? Like a gas station or restaurant or something?”

She hums on the other line. “Lemme look.” 

“I’d tell you where we are but the GPS is going crazy. Service is kinda spotty up here.”

“No worries, I’ll just check Bobby’s Find My Friends.”

You snort. “You have him on Find My Friends?”

“For emergencies only, Abby!” Bob shouts over, flush creeping up his neck as she giggles in your ear. 

You swat him away with a look. “Relax, that’s adorable.” 

Bob pouts in his seat, going back to trying to steer through a storm that was only getting worse. 

“Oh!” Abby’s voice perks up through the phone. “Bradley said his uncle has a cabin not that far from you guys. Stop there until it blows over.”

Seriously? 

A cabin, alone, in the snowy woods, lost in the middle of a flurry that flirted with the idea of being a blizzard. 

With Bob. 

You truly couldn’t think of anything worse if you tried. 

Maybe you should cut your losses and gamble with your life on this treacherous drive to avoid that. 

Maybe this is what you get for choosing to travel in this just to avoid more time with him in the first place. 

Shit. 

“What did she say?” Bob asks, flicking the headlights in different ways like that might make some miracle of a difference. 

You pause, grimacing, not wanting to speak it into existence even though you really had no other choice. 

“Rooster’s uncle has a place we can crash, apparently.”

His hopeful body language deflates, the same realization you just went through washing over him as well. 

Great. 

“The app is getting kinda glitchy now— It thinks you guys are in a river,” Abby interrupts, completely immune to the peril both of you were suddenly sorting through. “But when I first looked you were, like, a half mile away from it. Just look for a Willow Street and follow that to the end.”

She gives you a few more details about the house—ensures it’s not a problem and no one ever uses it, as told by the uncle himself who arrived for the wedding that morning—and sends you on your way. 

You don’t know how you find it, but you do— Barely.

The piercing, reflective green of the street sign is intercepted by a raging swirl of flakes in the wind, but fortunately you’re able to find the turn and see just enough of the letters to know it’s indeed Willow Street. 

It feels like you drive over a mile down that frozen road until you slowly crawl to the end, finally finding a decent-sized cabin on top of a slight incline. You’re in the dead of winter, in the middle of nowhere— Only the woods, nature, and wildlife all taking shelter surrounding you for miles. 

When the storm settles between gusts of wind, you can almost make sense of a tiny pond in the distance surrounded by big, spindly branches of bare trees and the hearty green of tall pines surrounding the property. 

The house is cute—picturesque, even—tucked at the top of a tiered cobblestone staircase, lined with bushes and shrubs, all completely covered in fresh, lush snow. 

It has a massive chimney, a wrap-around porch, a little balcony, and large, welcoming windows. It’s all charming wood and soft stone, decorated with two small Christmas trees on the porch—now knocked over and half-buried in snow—and a couple dozen wreaths on windows and doors, weakly twinkling with a warm glow in the blustering storm. 

If Abby didn’t tell you no one ever came here, you’d never believe it. She mentioned they hire a housekeeper to keep it tidy, do a bit of decorating, and get it vacation-ready for each holiday season, but they never actually make it here and ship out to Florida instead. 

Even in these circumstances, who the hell would want palm trees over this? 

Bob pulls the truck into the driveway and kills the engine with an echoing roar, suddenly loud with the weight you both sat in. Neither of you speak—a familiar state—and just watch in silence as the truck quickly starts to become part of the surroundings buried in glistening white. 

You smush your face into your hands, exhaustedly rubbing over your eyes as reality sets in. 

How the fuck did you let yourself end up here? 

All because you couldn’t listen. All because you didn’t think you were strong enough to tough it out for a few hours around someone you’ve known your whole life. 

Now look where it got you. 

Bob clears his throat. “Listen, I don’t wanna be here either if it makes you feel any better, but we don’t really have a choice.” 

His voice is strained, tone desaturated. You could hear the irritation he so desperately tried to hide simmering under his skin. A facade that was definitely wearing thin. 

You pull your hands from your face, blinking out in front of you, still unable to look at him. 

The last thing either of you needed was more animosity. 

“No. That’s not—it’s not that, it’s—”

“Just stay here,” he grumbles, abruptly pushing the door open and pulling his hat back on over his head. “I’ll go check it out first.” 

You try to stop him, to explain that it’s not him—even if a part of it damn well is—but it’s the fact that you stupidly put yourself in this situation because you can’t handle him anymore. Because you can’t handle this. 

And more than that, just as always, you can’t handle being wrong— Especially because of him. 

How fucking pathetic were you? 

He doesn’t give you the chance to explain, just slips into the cold and leaves you in the hollow silence of the car already beginning to freeze. 

You watch as he examines the property: checks the name on the mailbox to make sure it’s the right house, peers through some of the windows, and retrieves the spare key— Left exactly where Abby said it would be. 

When the door swings open, you gather the stack of things in your arms and bolt, unable to sit still any longer.

You close the door behind you, hugging your arms to your chest to try and keep warm in the blistering cold. The wind was fierce— Biting and bone-chilling, whipping your hair without mercy, already staining your nose and lips a chapped pink. 

“Let me come get you,” Bob shouts over from the porch, already making his way down the steps and trying to stomp some snow down. “You’re gonna slip.”

“I’m fine,” you grit back, determined to continue despite your sneakers starting to easily slide around. 

The snow seeps into your shoes as you trudge through, wind biting at your exposed ankles, unforgiving and bitter as the accumulation grows. It didn’t matter— The last thing you wanted was more help from him. 

“This kind of snow is slippery. Just wait for once in your life,” he grumbles back, his frame blurry in the storm and soft, pale twilight beginning to peek through the trees. 

You push through, trying to slip past him when he reaches you. He catches your free wrist with frozen fingers, but you twist away in hot fury. 

“Just let me go, Bob. I’m fine.”

He steps back an inch, scanning over you and your sudden ire. Snow clings to his lashes under his glasses, to his shoulders, to his fingers that reach out— Reach out to hold you. 

He was being weird this morning, weird in the car, but now he was going to act like he cared about you and your wellbeing? After he made it quite clear he wanted nothing to do with you either? 

The mood swings with him were exhausting and unpredictable. You couldn’t keep up— Couldn’t predict which version of him you’d see next. The lines between what was an act and what wasn’t felt like they were starting to blur beyond your liking.

But you know him too. 

You know he takes pride in being needed, in being a hero. You also know he was probably just itching to take the opportunity to throw this back in your face and gloat about just how right he was— To get to take care of you just to prove a point. 

Because you fucked up. 

Badly. 

“You’re clearly not fine,” he counters, taking the cake from your hands and trying to hold his arm out for you to hold on to.

“Not now, Bob. I’m serious.”

“What, not now?”

His question is calm, it’s curious. It’s not demanding or smug like you thought it would be. It only confuses you more.

He reaches out for you again and catches your elbow, steadying you as you clomp your way toward the stairs. 

“This! The last thing I want right now is for you to do this when I already know how fucking wrong I was. I really don’t need the reminder, for once.” 

His face contorts in immediate confusion. “Seriously? That’s what you’re upset over right now?”

“Yes!” You wiggle free of his grip and let your arms fall to your side with a snap. “Of course it is— How could it not be? I already know I screwed up, Bob. I already know that you were right and you’re pissed with me for it, okay?” 

“I’m not—” He cuts himself off with a huff, squeezing his eyes shut and stomping after you heading for the door. “That’s not why I’m mad! Would you just slow down for a second?” 

“Why would I?” you shout over the swirling wind, not bothering to turn around. “You don’t wanna be around me, I don’t wanna be around you. This is less than ideal and we’re both annoyed, so let’s just get through this and get back for Abby.” 

His mouth opens, then closes as he stands in the cold and watches you slip farther and farther beyond a curtain of snow and into the door. 

He follows eventually, but he doesn’t say a word. 

The silence follows you both inside. It envelopes. It sits. It watches and waits and tries to find a fracture. 

It doesn’t come. 

You say the bare minimum, trying not to suffocate and drown in the unsettled energy expanding between you. Something was off— More so than usual. 

You can’t place it, and it doesn’t really want to be found. 

By some miracle, the power was still on, granting you both at least one piece of good news in a bleak situation. The heat was cranked to full blast, quickly trying to thaw out a house that clearly wasn’t used to being used. 

To the naked eye, it looked homey and lived in. The main fireplace was decorated with twinkling garland and empty stockings. In the corner was a large, elaborate Christmas tree, standing at least 12 feet tall and brushing against the ceiling. It was the kind you had to go up to and twist the needles between your fingers to realize it’s fake.

The room was showered in windows and warm couches with soft, plush blankets, all freshly washed and folded neatly, waiting to be used. It was truly the perfect setting for a quiet winter night.

You don’t know anything about Rooster’s elusive uncle, but man would it be nice to have a vacation home like this— Rarely used, but always welcoming. Always warm. 

The evidence of the lack of warm bodies comes from the details— Empty drawers, cleared-out cabinets, and a vacant fridge. There were a handful of canned goods, a few snack foods unopened and good into the new year. You glance in the cupboards for any drinks or something more substantial, but all that greeted you was a decently-stocked liquor cabinet and some tap water. 

That would have to do. 

You settled in while Bob slipped outside to track down some firewood in case you lost power before it got dark. You tried to argue against it—tried to tell him it’s too cold and harsh to go back out—but he didn’t listen. 

You didn’t put up much of a fight. Why would you? You were wrong about virtually everything else lately. 

While he got lost at the edge of the woods somewhere, you curled up between the bay windows in the living room, surrounded by the fine glitter of snow and whisper of wind, book in a feeble hand… again. 

He didn’t even have to be in the same room as you anymore to take your attention with him. You still found yourself looking for him through the blistering storm— Heavy and dense with white until he completely vanished. 

The pages fall shut against your fingers, still holding the spot like your mind would eventually turn back to it. 

It doesn’t. 

You just stare blankly out at the snow, watching as the pale grey sky grows darker and dimmer as night slowly falls into place. 

You couldn’t help but wonder about him— Think about him, about everything. Something about this place stirs a quiet, delicate feeling you abandoned deep within you. The time, the space. The distance and the animosity that all flirted with some aching, dire need to shift your center of gravity around each other. It’s all rattled.

You rest your head against the cool glass, frozen to the touch. You don’t care, don’t even notice your temple is numb until the front door swings open, snapping you back to reality. 

There, Bob stood, completely covered in snow, all bundled up and holding a hearty stack of wood against his chest. He kicks the door closed behind him with an unceremonious thud and carefully drops the wood on a welcome mat next to his feet, already dripping small puddles in the doorway. 

His nose peeks out from under his coat zipped up high, features all red and borderline frostbitten. Snowflakes melt across his cheeks, across his eyelashes, across the top of his hat, quickly removed and tossed onto a coat rack. 

Damp ends of brown hair curl at the nape of his neck where snow meets skin, cold and wet like the rest of him. 

You don’t realize you’re staring until he looks back— Expression patient. Calm. Completely different than when you last saw him. Something you can’t really read. 

He doesn’t look frustrated or angry or even indifferent. He just looks like… him. 

Like a version you knew a lifetime ago. 

Younger. Softer. Giving in to something tired.

You hug your knees curled to your chest a little tighter, pretending to be busy looking back out the window, book still lazily in hand. 

“You look like one of those people in a magazine.”

You glance over at him, still watching you. The smallest smile unfolds at the corner of his lips— Something almost not even there. Something that tries and fails to meet his eyes. 

You're tucked comfortably in your corner, blanket over your lap, winter’s exhale unfolding around you, eyes catching the faint glow of Christmas lights on the window wreaths and the tree. Your mouth slips open, a little at a loss at the sudden softness and the recognition of it. 

Or maybe it wasn’t so sudden. 

Your brows crinkle, an unwanted heat flooding the apples of your cheeks. Hopefully he couldn’t see in the low light. 

“I feel like I’m in a damn Hallmark movie.” You try to tease, but it falls a little flat, a little… vulnerable.                                                        

His lips slip into a subtle pout, sliding off his clunky boots and peeling his soaked gloves from stiff, cold hands. 

“I like Hallmark movies.”

“Of course you do.”

Even though you’re trying to slip back into old habits—to hold onto your safe, familiar rhythm like a lifeline—you still can’t seem to foster the same kind of bite behind your words. 

Too hollow, and yet, not at all. 

All of it falls softer, quieter. Hesitant, like something was fracturing without permission. 

“What’s wrong with Hallmark Christmas movies?” He shifts his weight like it’s personal, fixing his glasses draped in melted snow. 

You press your lips together with a shrug. “They’re unrealistic.” 

“Are you, like, allergic to joy of all sorts…? Or just the holiday kind?” 

Your eyes narrow. “No. Just the unrealistic kind.” 

“Yeah,” he huffs incredulously, tossing his hands up to gesture at the wall of snow quickly building around the cabin and trapping you in. “So unrealistic.”

“Well, that’s why I said I feel like I’m in one.”

He gathers the wood he dropped at the door and heads for the fireplace, empty and waiting just to your right.

“You’d be one of those girls who’s forced to go back to her hometown that’s obsessed with Christmas but she’s not into it,” he says, smiling softly to himself as he slides the glass doors open and starts assembling the wood in the cradle. “Then she ends up stuck there instead of working the whole holiday and eventually learns to love it again.”

You hum, brow lifted as you watch him work. 

The thick planes of his back muscles work under his layers, catching the flicker of daylight still fighting to burn and drape the room in soft shadows. His fingers are delicate around the sharp, jagged chunks of firewood he places with care. The harsh red of winter across his skin softens to a gentle pink— A pink you haven’t seen in years.

Something about this place was dangerous. It was like a vortex pulling you back into cold, dead, old habits you thought you buried a long time ago. 

You don’t even realize he’s still talking until you scold yourself out of your trance. Why the hell were you looking at him like that? 

“Which I guess would make me the ruggedly-charming guy who works at the family tree farm or something and shows her the true meaning of Christmas,” he continues, working diligently until the logs are layered just so, completely unaware of your sudden spiral. 

You sit quietly, watching him from the side, trying to wrap your brain around why he was being so… different. 

And why you were falling for it.

You shift, facing him a bit more. You inhale, trying to talk yourself out of what you say before you say it. 

“I don’t know if that would be us.”

You say it. 

It feels like you live outside your body saying something like that— The acknowledgement of an us. The semblance of reckoning with what used to be. 

With what could’ve been. 

“It could’ve been.”

Apparently he feels the same. 

That’s what makes it hurt worse, makes your heart twist and your mind reel. How the fuck could he say something like that to you after everything? How were you ever really supposed to let this go if he kept you on the hook? Kept pretending like he cared?

Maybe everything was a game to him when it comes to you. Even years later, even as adults. Even grown up and moved on— You were still tethered to each other no matter how hard you tried to cut the tangled rope. 

You hated how difficult it was to pretend, to act like you buried what craved to fester when you were alone with him. You hated how everything—the distance, the closeness, the heat and the cold and the familiar, precariously cautious quiet—makes you want to unravel what you’ve spent so long keeping tied down deep inside you. 

It makes you question if you were wrong all those years ago— Even though you damn well know you weren’t. You know better. 

You did then. You do now. 

He wasn’t this person. He wasn’t someone who could love you in the ways you needed— In the ways you’ve tried to forget that you could love him. In the ways that you can.

And in some sick, twisted way… the way you still do.

Slowly, you look at him— Fully. He’s fiddling with his hands, calloused and worn, red knuckles thawing from the cold. 

He used to do that when he was nervous. He would do that when he waited at the bus stop for you in the rain just to walk you home. 

He would do that in the middle of the night when you’d get a glass of water from the kitchen and he was the only one still up. 

He would do that when he’d see you from the porch when you’d come home for winter break or after he had to pull a drunk guy off of you at a party. 

He did it before he touched your hair the other morning and when you both waited in a silent, snowfallen car this afternoon. 

You hated that you knew all that, but even worse, you hated that you knew what it meant. 

And you hated that something weighted usually followed. 

“Do you still mean it?”

Something like that. 

His head hangs down, matted hair slowly beginning to dry, bathed in shadows and silence. He looks younger in the dim, dawning of winter twilight, in this honest and raw echo of reckoning, or a feeble attempt at it. He looks softer, all vulnerable and defenseless. 

Your breath catches, pulse a steady roar in your ears. 

You know exactly what he means— Exactly the moment he’s referring to. 

One you agreed to never talk about again. 

How do you even answer that? How could you? 

You sigh, facade fractured. “Bob…”

“So you do,” he says quietly, like he believes every word of it and is scared to. 

Then he stands, wading in front of you, hanging on your reaction, on your breathing, on what you’ll do next.

Your mouth opens, then closes. You’re at a loss around him for once— Truly and utterly at a complete loss. Half-formed words wither and die in your throat, suddenly dry and tight.

You know the answer: you did. You do. 

No matter how hard you’ve tried not to, no matter how long you’ve spent convincing yourself you don’t—you shouldn’t—you still fucking do. 

It might’ve been your idea to leave it for dead—that night, those words, everything you shared—but it still felt like maybe neither of you ever fully moved on. 

And you certainly hadn’t forgotten. Even if you wanted to. You never could. 

There’s a pull, an urge— Let go. Give in. Fall. You want to—in this moment, in this light, in this heat and space that all suddenly felt too heavy and too close—you want to cave. 

To bend with what’s been pulling you down for so long. 

It’s destructive and reckless and will only leave you more hurt, but maybe this was something you’ll never really heal from. 

Maybe it’s something you were never meant to. 

Maybe this was always supposed to cling to you— This fractured, shattered part of yourself that was stitched together by him when he was the one who broke it. 

Your lips part again. The words catch in the back of your throat, stick to what intentions you abandoned long ago. 

They try. They fail.

He shakes his head, a short laugh laced with hurt cutting through the window of honesty he opened for you quickly closing. 

“Of course,” he mutters. “Predictable. I can’t believe I thought maybe you would actually care.”

The room goes darker, the lights flicker off, and the heat dies with a whisper. You both glance around in suffocating silence as realization washes over you. 

The power’s out. Perfect. 

In the dark, his face shifts back to something you already know, yet something that feels so suddenly foreign— So rigid and distant. A flicker of something other than hatred dying a pitiful, worthless death. 

The cut of his jaw and sharpness in his eyes darken under the faint blur of grey glow outside as daylight struggles to live through the death of day and the heavy blanket of storm clouds. The only sound is the wind, whistling and whirling behind the thin wall of glass and wood keeping you sheltered.

He stalks toward the door before you can do something—anything—like you should. 

You can’t reach for him, can’t catch him, can’t stop him or talk to him, just watch pathetically as he storms out the door—no damp gloves or hat in hand—muttering not to follow him out. 

It’s not said in anger, not in hate. Just sad. Frail.

And for once, you don’t argue.

continue reading here .ᐟ — block limit is evil & made me cut this right when things heat up. though this work was not intended to be broken up, the second “chapter” will pick up directly where this left off to make it easier to find. i hope you enjoyed so far, thanks for reading !