🌹Rose🌹

“Did you just-” You lower your gaze instantly. 

“-Forgive me.” The words come without thought. They always do. Silence stretches for a beat too long and you can feel it coming. You braced internally for an impact you deserved for the insolence of not staying quiet.

“For what?” Lyonel asks, genuinely confused. Your grip tightens around the cup. 

“I…I did not mean to offend.”

“I didn’t say you offended me.” He blinked down at you, furrowing his brow while fixing you with a look. 

“You did not need to, my—Lyonel.” You self-correct with a subtle twitch, voice is steady, practiced, devoid. “I understand.”

Another pause.

When you dare glance up, he is staring at you—not with anger, but something sharper. Something searching, trying to understand. 

“You understand,” he repeats slowly, “what, exactly?”

“That I should not presume.” Three hours was all it took for you to make a fool of yourself, you sneered within your own mind. A muscle in his jaw ticks and your stomach twists, still bracing.

“That you should not—” He cuts himself off, dragging a hand down his face with an exasperated sigh. “Seven weeping hells.” Around you, the feast continues, but it feels distant now, like a storm heard from behind stone walls. “Come,” he says abruptly, standing from the head table and placing his great antler crown upon the table carelessly. “Walk with me.”

You rise at once.

Of course you do.

The corridors of Storm’s End are colder than the hall, the roar of celebration fading behind thick stone. Your shoes upon your feet make no sound against the floor. His boots do.

Heavy. Certain. Unafraid.

You keep two steps behind him, head down, hands clasped in front of you.

“Will you stop that?” he snaps suddenly. You freeze in place. Your stomach drops. 

“I—”

“That.” He turns, gesturing sharply. “Hovering like a-a frightened doe. It’s unnerving.”

“I am sorry I’ve displeased you, my lord.” There it is again. You hate it. You hate how easily it comes, how your hands clasp each other so tightly to not show how they are trembling because you know what happens when you fall short, when you are lacking. It was the unknown of your new husband’s temperament, how he would ultimately discipline you and why that had you further on edge, but you would learn. You always learned. You always endured. 

And Lyonel…he loathes it in a way you could not comprehend. He exhales hard, like a man trying—and failing—to keep his temper. “Do you ever say anything else?”

You don’t answer because the answer is no. Because any answer feels like a trap. And because silence is safer—not always, but it did not allow yourself to continue the error.

Lyonel studies you, eyes narrowing slightly, dark brows furrowed as he tries to solve you. “Look at me.” Your gaze lifts at once, not because you want to—but because you must. He notices that too and something in his expression shifts.

“Gods,” he mutters, shaking his head. “You’re not shy.” You blink. He steps closer, slower now, like approaching a skittish animal. “You’re afraid.” Your heart stutters.

“I am not—”

“You flinched when I laughed.”

You swallow. “It was loud.”

“I am loud,” he says plainly, pulling a face. “That’s not likely to change.”

You nod quickly. “Of course, I would not expect you to change within your own household, my lord.”

“Stop that.” You still. “Stop agreeing with everything I say.”

“I—” Your breath catches. “I will try.”

“That’s not—” He groans, turning away, pacing once before facing you again. “What kind of house did you come from?” The question strikes like a blow. You feel it in your chest, in your ribs, in the old, buried places you have learned not to touch.

“A respectable one,” you answer carefully.

“I didn’t ask if it was respectable. I asked what it was.”

Your hands clasp tighter. “Orderly.”

“And?”

“Disciplined.”

“And?” You hesitate. His gaze sharpens. “And?”

Your voice is quieter now. “Strict.”

“How strict?” 

The word slips out before you can stop it. “Very, as every household should be.” Your words were scripted, he knew. Silence follows. Heavy. Expectant. You should stop speaking. You know you should. But something about the way he is looking at you—not cruel, not mocking, just… waiting—pulls the truth loose from your throat.

“My father, as every good lord does, believed… obedience was a virtue above all else,” you say, each word measured. “There were… consequences for lacking.”

Lyonel goes still. “What kind of consequences?”

You stare at the floor. “The earned consequences, my lord. As is customary of any house.” Was he testing you? 

“That tells me nothing.” You close your eyes briefly. You should not say this, you should not, but the words come anyway, thin and fragile because he requested an answer, demanded it. And you followed demands to the letter, as is your purpose. 

“He did not like to be questioned, nor should he be as lord of the keep. Or contradicted. Or… startled.”

A beat.

“Startled,” Lyonel repeats.

“Yes.” You don’t realize what you’ve said until it’s too late. Until his laughter—earlier, booming and sudden—replays in your mind. Until your body remembers the instinct before you can stop it. Your shoulders draw in. Your head dips. You make yourself smaller.

The way you always have.

The way you were taught.

And when you open your eyes, Lyonel is staring at you like he has been struck.

“Oh,” he says.

Just that.

Oh.

You brace yourself again—for anger, for ridicule. For something. Instead, he drags a hand through his hair and turns away again, pacing harder now.

“Seven hells,” he mutters. “Seven bloody fucking hells.”

“My lord—Lyonel,” you correct quickly as to not anger him further, “I did not mean to—”

“Stop apologizing!” His arm shoots out in a stopping motion and you flinch as if you’ve been struck. He sees it and that—more than anything—seems to undo him. Lyonel’s anger collapses in on itself, leaving something rawer behind.

“My anger is not directed towards you,” he says, quieter now. You were the only person around, you tried to make sense of it in your head, so who could his ire be directed at if not you? “Gods.”

You nod quickly. “Yes.”

He closes his eyes. “You’re doing it again.”

“I—”

“You’re not listening to me,” he says, not unkindly, but it still causes your spine to stiffen in a way that was familiar, expected. Measured. “You’re listening to… him.” His hand gestures at nothing, but you knew what he meant. The word hangs between you, unspoken, but understood.

Your father.

Your throat constricts.

“I am trying to be a good wife,” you whisper, fear of failure so soon overtaking you. “I will improve.”

Lyonel’s eyes open, and for the first time since you met him, he does not look larger than life. He looks… human in a way you did not trust. Lyonel peers down at you with softness and men weren’t soft, neither were they gentle—not towards their wives and not towards you. It was not real, nor was it proper, and so your mind labeled this as a fallacy. You would not fall victim to this test. Perhaps you would impress him when he saw you would not bend. 

“And you think that means being afraid of me?” he asks.

“No,” you say quickly, too quickly. A lie passed from through your lips as a means to soothe. Lyonel’s mouth tightens.

“I’m loud,” he says simply. “I drink too much. I celebrate often. I’ll likely drag you into half my nonsense whether you wish to be in it or not.” A faint, humorless huff of breath. “But I am not him and that is not how my household operates beneath this roof.”

You don’t answer because you don’t know how to believe that. It is how all households are ran underneath their roofs. He studies you for a long moment, then sighs. “This is going to be a problem.”

Your stomach drops. “I can do better-” He cuts your pleas off before they can finish. 

“-That’s not what I meant.” He steps closer again, slower this time. Deliberate. “I don’t want a wife who’s afraid to breathe too loudly in my presence.” he says. “I don’t want someone who looks at me like I’m about to strike her for speaking.” His voice lowers. “And I certainly don’t want to become that man through my own frustrations without realizing it.”

You stare at him. Confused. Frightened. Something else you cannot name.

“I do not know how to be anything else,” you admit, feeling smaller than you did in the great hall. The honesty feels dangerous, but you cannot take it back.

Lyonel exhales slowly. “Then we’ll have to learn you something new, won’t we?”

You blink. “We?”

“We,” he repeats. “Because if I leave you to it, you’ll keep shrinking every time I laugh, and I refuse to spend the rest of my life whispering in my own hall.”

Despite everything, a small, startled breath escapes you. It’s not quite a laugh—never a laugh—but it is close and you discreetly pinch your own hand to self-correct. Lyonel’s eyes catch it even if you do not intend for him to, and this time when he smiles, that softness returns and it turns your stomach. 

“Good,” he says. “That’s better already.” You don’t realize it yet, but for the first time since your wedding began, you are not bracing for the next blow.

And for tonight, that is enough.

The next morning, you wake before the sun.

You always do.

The habit is carved into you—rise early, dress neatly, speak little, make no mistakes. Even here, in Storm’s End, where the sea roars instead of your father’s voice, your body remembers its lessons.

You sit at the edge of the bed, hands folded, waiting. For what, you are not sure. For instruction. For correction. For something to go wrong. A dull ache twinges between your thighs, a remnant of the coupling you endured within the first night of your marriage bed. 

Duty

It makes you wince. It was as your mother and septa explained–painful, violating, expected, endurable. The memory of you laying stiff against the mattress, Lyonel’s drunken breath upon your neck as he rutted for a few moments before rolling off of you and falling asleep has you clenching your eyes shut. 

Duty 

Behind you, Lyonel stirs and you go still, like a rabbit startled by the break of a stick on the ground. Danger impending, your mind told you. He groans, rolling onto his back with one arm thrown over his eyes to shield the daylight that breaks through the clouds outside the windows. “Gods… whose idea was that last cask?”

You do not answer. It is not your place to comment. Heavy silence stretched uncomfortably, and slowly, his arm lowered. He squints at you through the dim morning light, trying to get a read on you.

“…Have you been sitting there long?”

You hesitate. “No.” A lie.

His brow furrows. “You’re dressed.”

“Yes.”

“For how long?”

“I did not wish to wake you.” His eyes narrow slightly, not in anger—but in that same searching way that makes your chest feel tight.

“You’re my wife,” he says. “Not a servant waiting for permission to breathe.”

“I understand.”

“You keep saying that,” he mutters with a sigh. You lower your gaze. There is a pause, then, abruptly—“Come back to bed.”

Your head lifts. “My lord?”

“Lyonel,” he corrects automatically, voice rough with sleep. He pats the space beside him. “Come here.”

Your pulse stumbles. You do not move a muscle.

“I…” You swallow. “It is morning.”

“Yes. I’ve noticed. Too bloody early, if you ask me”

“There will be duties—”

“They can wait.”

“They should not,” you say quickly. “A lady must not be idle.” His expression shifts.

“There it is again,” he says.

You stiffen. “Again?”

“That tone,” he says, pushing himself upright now. “Like you’re reciting something.”

“I am only speaking properly.”

“You’re speaking like someone else put the words in your mouth.” Your fingers curl slightly at your sides.

“They are appropriate words,” you say, carefully.

“And are they yours?” The question lands heavier than it should. You hesitate and that is answer enough. Lyonel exhales sharply, swinging his legs off the bed. He is nude, just as he was when he fell asleep. You quickly turn your head back to the window, eyes wide. “Seven hells.” He mutters as he throws on a sleep shirt and pours himself a cup of wine that’s been sitting on the mantle. Seven Hells–something he’s taken to saying around you, to you, since you got here. You flinch at his sudden movement.

He sees it, of course he does, and his jaw tightens as he walks around the bed to stand before you. “I wasn’t even near you that time.”

“I know.” Your eyes don’t meet his.

“Then why do you look like I just drew a blade?”

“I do not.”

“You do.”

Silence. Tense. Fragile. “I am trying,” you say quietly.

“So am I,” he snaps, pacing back and forth before you like a caged animal. The words hit harder than shouting and you go still. Lyonel runs a hand through his hair, pacing once across the room before turning back to you. “Do you know what it’s like to feel like everything you do is wrong?”

Horribly so, you wanted to answer. Your throat tightens and all you can get out is a pathetic, “Yes.”

He gestures sharply with a hand. “Then you should understand how bloody frustrating this is.”

“I am not trying to frustrate you.” You stand, hands still clasped in front of you, pinching. Gods, the pinching. Lyonel’s eyes go to it, but he does not comment on it.

“I know that!” he says, louder now. “Gods, I know that. That’s what makes it worse.” Your heart begins to pound. Too loud, too fast. This is how it starts–voices rising and tempers flaring. You take a small step back without meaning to. His voice cuts off and he stares at you, at the distance you’ve put between you and something in his expression hardens.

“Right,” he says flatly. “Of course.”

Your stomach drops. “I did not mean—”

“You never mean anything, do you?” he interrupts. “You just…are.”

“That is not—”

“You don’t speak unless you think it’s safe. You don’t move unless you think you’re allowed. You don’t even sit beside your own husband without looking like you’re awaiting judgment.” His words come faster now, sharper. “And I’m supposed to—what? Gently coax you out of it forever? Tiptoe around my own wife so she hopes I don’t strike her?”

“I never said you would!” Your voice was more shrill, more panicked than you meant it to be. A lady does not lose her composure.

“You don’t have to,” he shoots back. “You wear it on your face every time I raise my voice.” Your chest tightens painfully.

“I am trying to adjust-”

“Then try bloody harder!” The words crack through the room like thunder. You freeze. Completely. Resolutely. Your breath stops. Your shoulders draw in. Your gaze drops to the floor. Small. Still. Silent. Exactly as you were taught. The moment stretches before he speaks again.

“…Gods.” The anger drains from his face all at once and he steps back like he’s been burned. “No,” he mutters. “No, that’s not—”

You cannot look at him. You cannot move.

You are waiting.

For the next thing.

For the punishment that always follows.

But it doesn’t come.

Instead, there is only the sound of his breathing—uneven, frustrated, something dangerously close to regret.

“I just did it,” he says quietly.

You don’t understand.

Your heart twists.

“You did not—”

“I shouted. You froze. And now you look like you’re waiting for me to—” He cuts himself off, dragging both hands down his face. “Seven hells.” Repeated once more. You begin to associate it with something negative. Something bad. Something that needed correction. 

Silence fills the space between you. Heavy. Suffocating. Familiar. 

“I cannot do this,” he says finally. The words slice clean through you.

Your head lifts, panic flaring. “I will do better, I swear it—”

“That’s not what I mean!” he snaps—then immediately winces at his own tone. You flinch again. Of course you do. His shoulders sag.

“See?” he says hoarsely. “I can’t even speak above a docile tone without—”

“You should not have to change yourself for me,” you interrupt, the words tumbling out faster than you can stop them. Your fingers pinch the back of your hand in another self-correction and he watched it like a hawk tracking a mouse running through the underbrush. “I am the one who must adjust, my lord. I am the one who must be better. That is how this works. I beg for nothing more than a small adjustment period and I will be all that you can expect.”

He stares at you.

“No,” he says. The word is firm. Unyielding. “That is how your father worked. Not me.”

Your hands tremble slightly. “A wife must be obedient above all else and I am. Obedient.”

“A wife must be a person before that,” he counters and the words said aloud capsize you. The force of them makes you falter.

“I do not know how,” you whisper. There it is again. The truth. Raw. Unvarnished. Terrifying. Lyonel’s expression shifts—not to anger this time, but to something that exhausts his mind. He looks at you like he is trying to solve a battle he cannot win with strength alone.

“…I don’t know how to teach you,” he admits. The words hang between you.

Not cruel, but honest, and somehow that stings more.

You lower your gaze again, voice small. “Then I will learn on my own. I am capable, I promise you.”

“How?” he asks, looking at you expectantly. He knows you don’t have an answer because you have never been allowed to find one, not before and not now.

The silence stretches–long and uncertain–then, after a moment, he exhales slowly.

“…We’re going to make a mess of this, aren’t we?” You glance up.

There is no anger in his face now, only quiet frustration and something else you cannot identify. Determination, perhaps.

“Yes,” you say quietly in agreement. The corner of his mouth twitches—not quite a smile and not quite joyous.

Lancel had said it plainly enough in the small council chamber three weeks prior, with the particular straightforwardness of a man who has run out of patience “my daughter is of age, Your Grace, and I would see her settled well, and there is no finer match in the Seven Kingdoms than your son,” and the council had agreed, Baelor had agreed, and the whole thing had been arranged with smooth efficiency.

King Daeron II's nameday celebration had been Baelor's own suggestion as convenient cover for the visit. A natural occasion for the Lannisters to travel to the capital, he'd said, and you had apparently been wanting silks that weren't available back home, it would also give Valarr and you time to find footing without the weight of a formal betrothal negotiation hanging over every interaction.

The Lannister procession came through the gates of the Red Keep at midday, when the autumn sun was still high enough to be warm without being punishing, and Baelor was already in the courtyard to receive them– standing at the foot of the keep's great steps with two of his household knights behind him and Lord Tarly at his elbow, saying something about trade routes that Baelor was not listening to.

He could not have said, afterward, why he had come down himself rather than sending a steward. It was not customary, strictly speaking, for the Prince of Dragonstone to stand in the courtyard like a man waiting for something. He had told himself it was a matter of courtesy.

The horses came through first, then the outriders, then the luggage carts, and then the carriage– crimson-lacquered, the Lannister lion picked out in gold on the door, and Baelor watched a groom move to open it and watched Lord Lancel step down first, broad and unhurried, already scanning the courtyard. Then a figure behind him, partly obscured, one hand catching the carriage door for balance as you stepped down, and then the hand let go and you straightened, and Baelor–

Baelor stopped thinking about trade routes.

He was not certain how long he stood there before he remembered he was supposed to be doing something. You were looking at the keep, at the towers of it, with the unhurried attention of someone who has decided to take a place in properly before saying anything about it, and there was something in it, in the simple fact of you standing in his courtyard looking at his home like it was worth looking at, that struck him somewhere in the chest with a precision he had not been braced for.

You were not looking at him. Most people, upon arriving in the courtyard of the Red Keep to be received by the Prince of Dragonstone, looked immediately at the Prince of Dragonstone. It was a reliable quality in people, the instinct to locate the most important person in a space and orient toward them.

Though you were looking at the towers.

And then, as if you had simply finished with them, your gaze came down and found him, and Baelor, who had stood in front of armies without flinching, who had presided over councils that decided the fates of thousands, who had buried his wife and raised two sons and not been rattled by anything in longer than he could remember– felt something move through him that he could not name and did not try to. 

"—wouldn't you say, Your Grace?" Tarly was saying.

"Mm," Baelor said, which covered most things, and walked forward to meet Lord Lancel.

The man clasped his hand with both of his, warm and firm, the grip of someone genuinely pleased to be here. "Your Grace," Lancel said, with the easy warmth of a man whose plans were going according to schedule. "You're too generous, as always." He glanced around the courtyard briefly. "King Daeron will be well celebrated. The city seems in fine spirits for it."

"It does," Baelor agreed, pleasantly. "His Grace will be glad you've come, my lord. He asks after you." He said it to Lancel's face the way a man was supposed to, and not to the figure just behind Lancel's shoulder, who had not moved and had not spoken.

He was extremely aware of not looking at you.

And then Lancel shifted, stepping slightly aside with the particular ease of a man about to make an introduction he has been looking forward to, and Baelor looked, because there was nothing else to do, because the alternative was to visibly avoid looking, which was worse, and you were there.

He extended his hand and said, "It is a pleasure to finally meet you, my lady…" and stopped, because he found, absurdly, that he wanted to hear your name from you rather than say the version he'd read in correspondence, which had always felt like a different thing from the real one.

You looked at him with the same look you'd given the towers and said your name, and offered your hand, Baelor took it and thought, with a clarity that was almost violent in its precision: I have made a terrible mistake.

Your name sat on his tongue like it had always been there. Like it belonged. He filed that away with considerable force, straightened and said pleasantly, "We hope King's Landing treats you well, my lady. I understand there are silks here you've been after?"

Something shifted in your expression, brief, contained, the ghost of something wry moving across your face before being put away. "There are, Your Grace," you said. "Though I suspect my father has also brought me here for reasons that have considerably less to do with silk."

Beside you, Lancel made a sound in his throat that wasn't quite anything, and Baelor looked at the man and found him studying the middle distance with the focused interest of someone who had absolutely heard what was just said, and Baelor looked back at you and felt the corner of his mouth move before he'd decided to let it. "Perceptive," he said.

"Occasionally," you said, and the word had a lightness to it, almost a warmth, and you held his gaze for just a beat longer than was strictly necessary before you looked away toward the keep, and Baelor looked away toward Lancel, and that was the first thirty seconds, and he was already in considerable trouble.

It had not been long before Valarr eventually came down. Baelor still in conversation with Lancel, still being perfectly composed about all of it, when the doors of the keep opened behind him and Valarr came down the steps into the courtyard with the easy, unhurried confidence of someone who had been told guests had arrived and saw absolutely no reason not to come and find them immediately.

He was, Baelor thought, with the particular mixture of pride and something considerably less straightforward, very like his mother in that way. Jena had never waited for things to come to her either.

"My lord," Valarr said, extending his hand to Lancel with the bright warmth he gave most people on first meeting, the smile of a young man who genuinely liked people and wanted them to know it. "I've been looking forward to your visit." And then his gaze moved easily, the way it always did, searching out the most interesting thing in the space, and found you, and something in his expression shifted into the particular surprised pleasure of a man who had been given something better than he expected. "And you must be–"

"His daughter," you said, with a faint lift at the corner of your mouth. "Yes."

Valarr blinked. Then laughed, a real one, caught off guard by it, and said, "I was going to say my lady, but yes, that too." He took your hand and bowed over it with a gallantry that was entirely genuine and only slightly showing off, and when he straightened he was already tilting his head with that look he got when something had caught his interest and he intended to find out more about it.

Baelor watched his son look at you with the slow dawning delight of someone who had been expecting a pleasant obligation and found something else entirely, and thought, with a conviction he had absolutely no business feeling: of course he does.

Baelor watched his son look at you with the slow dawning delight of someone who had been expecting a pleasant obligation and found something else entirely, and felt something move through his chest that he could not call by its right name in a courtyard in broad daylight. It was not pride, though there was pride in it somewhere. It was something uglier than pride– the sudden, unreasonable, completely inexcusable awareness that he did not want this. 

That he had arranged it himself, had sat in a council chamber and approved it with both hands, and was standing here now watching it begin to work exactly as intended, and wanted, with a clarity that shamed him, to undo all of it. To send Lancel Lannister back to Lannisport. To find some quiet room and keep you in it and not share you with anyone, least of all his own son, who deserved none of what his father was currently thinking and had done nothing wrong except arrive in a courtyard and smile at a girl.

Baelor looked away. He was not a selfish man, had never been, had spent the better part of his life making sure of it. He was not going to become one now, and certainly not at the expense of Valarr, who was good and kind and deserved a match that his father had not already decided to covet before the first afternoon was out.

He was not going to do that.

He looked away, and kept looking away, and was thoroughly disgusted with himself.

"—wouldn't you say, Your Grace?" Lancel was saying beside him.

"Entirely," Baelor said, and looked back at Lancel with the practiced ease of a man who had been half-present in conversations for most of his life and had learned to manage it gracefully.

Behind him, Valarr said something that made you tilt your head and give him that look — the assessing one, the one that made people feel they were being read — and then say something back that made Valarr laugh again, and Baelor kept his eyes on Lancel and his expression pleasantly attentive and turned away.

He was very good at turning away.

He was considerably less good at it than he used to be.

King's Landing was louder than you had expected, and warmer, and smelled quite differently from Lannisport, which smelled of salt and sea wind and the particular clean cold of the Westerlands coast. Here it smelled of people and dust and something underneath it that wasn't quite pleasant but wasn't quite unpleasant either, the smell of a city that had been alive for a very long time and had no interest in apologising for it.

You had wanted the silks, and you had gotten them, three bolts of Myrish lace and two of a pale sea-coloured silk that you had been thinking about for the better part of six months, and your chambers in the Red Keep were comfortable and the servants were efficient and the view from your window was the sort that made you stand there longer than you meant to every morning, the whole of the city spread out below you in the early light.

It was fine. It was more than fine. You were being very ungrateful, you told yourself, for the small persistent feeling at the back of your mind that said your father had not brought you all this way simply because he was feeling generous about silk.

Your father had done it again. Brought you somewhere and arranged for there to be a man, the way he always did, the way he had been doing since you were old enough for it to be a thing worth arranging.

Lord Whatshisname from the Reach, the second son of somebody important from the Stormlands, the cousin of someone your father owed a favour to. They arrived, they were pleasant or they weren't, they made their interest known or they didn't, and nothing ever came of any of it. Your father would look at you afterward with that expression of fond, exhausted patience and say that your heart was merely just too big for most men to know what to do with it, which you had decided a long time ago was a very kind way of saying that you were too much.

You were used to it by now. You were good at making peace with things you were used to.

What you were considerably less good at, you were discovering, was making peace with Baelor Targaryen.

You had noticed him noticing you, which was the problem, and you had noticed him in return, which was a bigger one.

It would have been easier if he were not handsome. You had not been prepared for that, which in retrospect was foolish of you, he was a Targaryen, and Targaryens were not, as a rule, difficult to look at, but there was a difference between knowing a thing and being confronted with it in a courtyard on a random warm afternoon when you had nowhere to put your face. 

He was broad-shouldered and distinctive-bearded with greys decorating spots of it and had the kind of face that had been lived in long enough to have something behind it, though his eyes were mismatched, one brown and one blue, and they were the most specific thing about him, the thing that made looking at him feel like being caught even when he wasn't looking back. You had decided on the first evening to stop noticing any of this and had been failing at it consistently ever since.

And then there was the other thing, which was worse than the handsome, which was the way he paid attention. Not in the way men at court paid attention to women, which was a performance you had seen enough times to recognise immediately and set aside without much effort. This was different. The difference was in the quality of it, the way his attention when it landed on you felt less like being looked at and more like being seen, and those were not the same thing at all and you wished they were, because you knew how to handle being looked at. 

You had been handling it your whole life. You did not know what to do with someone who listened to the things you said and also, somehow, to the things you didn't say, who noticed the small ways you held yourself in a room and said nothing about it, who had looked at you on the first afternoon across a courtyard with those mismatched eyes and made you feel, for one disorienting moment, like you had already been known by him for a very long time.

You were fighting it. You wanted to be clear about that, at least to yourself, because there was no one else you could be clear about it. You were fighting it with the practical, clear-eyed determination of someone who understood the situation completely and had absolutely no intention of making it worse. 

The situation was: you were here for Valarr. Your father wanted this match and your father's wants were not nothing, they were the product of careful thought and genuine care for you, and Valarr was warm and kind and had laughed at something you said on the first afternoon with a genuineness that had caught you off guard. 

Valarr was fine. Valarr was more than fine. Valarr was who you were supposed to be thinking about, and you were thinking about him, you were making a concerted and ongoing effort to think about him, and it was working, mostly, except for the times you were sitting in a room and his father said something quietly funny and you had to remind yourself, with more effort than should have been necessary, that you were not there for his father.

You were very good at not finishing thoughts that started that way. You had gotten a great deal of practice at it over the past week and expected to need considerably more before this visit was over.

The tourney held in honour of King Daeron II's nameday was on a bright, punishing afternoon, the sun sitting high and merciless over the yard and the heat of it pressing down on everything like a hand laid flat on the back of your neck. 

You sat in the royal box with your father on your left and the awareness you had been managing for two weeks now on your right, in the form of Baelor Targaryen, who had been there when you arrived and had set aside whatever he had been discussing with Lord Tarly when you sat down with the easy unhurried attention of a man who was very good at making you feel like the most important thing in the room without doing anything that could be specifically identified as doing that. 

"How are you finding the celebrations so far, my lady?" he asked, as the lists filled below and the crowd noise swelled around you.

You fanned yourself with the folded programme your maid had pressed into your hands on the way in and looked out at the yard. "Considerably hotter than I was prepared for, Your Grace," you said.

He made a sound that was almost a laugh. "King's Landing in early autumn. It gets worse before it gets better."

"That is the least reassuring thing anyone has said to me since I arrived," you told him.

"You've been speaking to the wrong people, then," he said. "Most of them are much less honest."

You glanced at him sidelong and found him looking at the lists with that composed half-smile of his and looked away again before he could catch you looking. "And is that what you are, Your Grace?" you asked, directing your words at the yard below. "Honest?"

"Occasionally," he said, and something in the way he said it made it feel like more than a word, like it was the beginning of a sentence he had decided not to finish, and you fanned yourself again and watched the first knight take the field and told yourself the warmth in your face was the sun.

It was midway through the afternoon, when the crowd had warmed to the sustained pleasant noise of people who were genuinely enjoying themselves, that you heard your name called from below. 

You looked down. Valarr was on his horse at the edge of the lists, having just unhorsed a knight from the Vale with the easy competence he brought to most things physical, and he was looking up at the royal box with that bright open smile of his and a question in his expression that he made verbal a moment later, raising his voice just enough to carry. "My lady, would you do me the honour of your favour?"

The crowd nearest the box rippled with the pleasant noise of people who found this charming, and you felt your father shift beside you with the satisfied stillness of a man watching something go according to plan, and you stood carefully because standing quickly in this heat was inadvisable and reached up to unhook the laurel wreath from your hair.

"Good luck, my prince," you called down, and leaned over the railing to pass it to the page who had appeared below, and as you straightened you became aware of two things at once. Your father's expression, which was pleased in a way he was not quite bothering to conceal. And the quality of the silence on your right. 

You sat back down. You looked forward at the lists. You told yourself you wouldn’t even gaze upon Baelor but you did the eaxt opposite.

He was watching the yard, his profile composed and still, he did not look at you, and somehow that was worse than if he had, because you had spent enough time in his company over the past week to know the difference between him not looking at you because there was nothing to look at and him not looking at you because he had decided not to. 

Valarr won. Of course he won. He was young and quick and had been trained by the best in the kingdom, and he dispatched the Dornish knight he was paired with in two passes with a thoroughness that brought the crowd to its feet. You clapped with everyone else, genuinely pleased, and told yourself the warmth in your chest was simple uncomplicated gladness.

And then Valarr rode up to the box again and the crowd went quiet in the anticipatory way of people who knew what was coming, and he looked up at you with that bright easy smile and declared you queen of love and beauty, and the yard erupted, and you rose and accepted the crown of pale roses with the composed grace your mother had spent years teaching you, and you smiled, and it was fine, it was genuinely fine, you were glad.

You just also couldn't stop thinking, somewhere very quietly underneath all of it, about what it would have felt like if it had been his father asking for your favour instead. What Baelor's voice would have sounded like carrying across that yard. Whether he would have smiled after, the way Valarr was smiling now, or whether he would have simply looked at you with those mismatched eyes of his and let that be enough.

You sat down and did not think about that anymore, and were almost entirely successful.

The feast was held in the great hall on the fourteenth evening of your stay, by which point you had been in King's Landing long enough to stop finding the noise of it startling and long enough to have developed, you were privately admitting to yourself, feelings that were becoming increasingly inconvenient.

Not for Baelor. You were managing that. You were managing it very well, you thought– you had developed a system, which was to look at him only when it was necessary and to keep your expression pleasantly neutral when you did, and to occupy your mind with other things when you found it drifting in directions it had no business drifting, and it was working, mostly, except for the times it wasn't, which were more frequent than you would have liked but still, you felt, within the bounds of manageable.

The inconvenient feelings were for Valarr.

This was not something you had planned for. You had arrived in King's Landing with your silk. your suspicions, your practiced composure and your very sensible intention to be pleasant and unattached to let your father do whatever your father was going to do without getting your own heart involved in it, and then Valarr had been– Valarr. Warm and easy and funny in a way that didn't require anything from you, and genuinely interested in the things you said in the way that some men performed interest and some men actually felt it, and you had caught yourself, over the past two weeks, looking forward to seeing him in a way you hadn't planned on and were now trying to figure out what to do with.

It was fine. It was more than fine. You were making peace with it, the way you always made peace with things. Your father wanted a match, Valarr was a good man, and you were starting to feel something real, perhaps that was simply how it worked sometimes. 

You had almost entirely convinced yourself of this by the time Valarr appeared at your shoulder during a lull in the dancing and said, "My lady, would you dance with me?" and held out his hand, and you looked at it for a moment. "I would," you said, and took his hand, and let him lead you out among the other dancers, and told yourself the warmth in your chest was uncomplicated.

He was a good dancer, better than you'd expected, though you weren't sure why you'd expected otherwise. He held you with the comfortable confidence of someone who had learned young and never had reason to be nervous about it. The music was good, the hall was warm and bright, you talked while you danced the way you had started talking over the past two weeks, easily, without the careful weight of people trying to make impressions on each other.

"You look like you're enjoying yourself," Valarr said, with a slight lift of amusement in it, like he was pleasantly surprised.

"I am," you said, which was true. "Should I not be?"

"Most people look slightly terrified at formal feasts," he said. "Like they're being evaluated."

"I am being evaluated," you said. "I'm just choosing not to find it terrifying."

He looked at you with that tilted-head thing he did when something caught him off guard, and laughed. "That's– yes. That's exactly the right way to think about it, actually." He turned you neatly through a gap in the other dancers. "My father says something similar. He says the court can only make you small if you let it."

"Your father," you said, very carefully, "seems like a wise man."

"He is," Valarr said, simply and without hesitation, the way people spoke about things they had never had cause to doubt. "He's a good man. Better than he gets credit for, I think. People see the prince and they forget the man."

You looked at him while he said this, at the open uncomplicated affection on his face, and felt something complicated move through your own chest in response to it that you did not examine. "That must be–" you started, and then Valarr's feet stopped.

Not gradually. Not the slowing of someone who has decided to stop. It was a full, immediate, involuntary halt, like a man who has walked into a wall he didn't see, and you stumbled slightly into him, and said, instinctively, "Oh– I'm sorry, did I–" and started to look down at his feet, thinking you'd trodden on him.

"No," Valarr said, distantly, already not quite looking at you. "No, you didn'™ forgive me, my lady, I–" He was looking past you, toward the doors of the great hall, and his expression had done something you hadn't seen it do before, something unguarded, startled and– lit, somehow, like a man recognising something he hadn't expected to see here. "Forgive me," he said again, already moving, already stepping back from you with a brief apologetic incline of his head. "There's someone I– I'll find you later, my lady.”

And then he was gone, moving through the crowd with a purpose that had nothing to do with you, and you stood in the middle of the dance floor as the music continued around you and the other couples moved past you like water around a stone, and you turned, slowly, because some part of you already knew you didn't want to see it and were going to look anyway, and found Valarr across the hall at the doors, smiling at a girl you had never seen before.

She was beautiful, which you noticed the way you noticed most things that were true and inconvenient, with a flat, clear-eyed acknowledgment that didn't help at all.She had pink hair, dressed in the particular style of the Free Cities that sat slightly apart from the Westerosi fashion around her in a way that drew the eye, and Valarr was taking her hand and pressing his lips to it and saying something that made her laugh, and his smile– his smile was different from the one he'd been giving you all evening. Wider. Less considered. The smile of someone who had forgotten, just for a moment, that they were in a room full of people.

You were still standing in the middle of the dance floor.

You became aware of this, and of the number of people around you who were either too polite or too interested in their own conversations to remark on it, and you moved smoothly, with the composed unhurried walk of someone who had somewhere to be and had chosen this direction deliberately, back to the table, back to your seat, back to the cup of wine your father's steward had left for you, and you sat down and folded your hands in your lap and looked at the table.

Your father noticed. Of course he noticed, he noticed everything, always, it was his most reliable quality, though he said nothing, because he also knew when silence was more useful than speech. 

You did not look at Valarr and the pink-haired girl.

You looked at them for approximately forty-five seconds, which told you everything you needed to know, and then you looked at the table and felt the heat of embarrassment move through you slowly from your chest outward, warm and thorough and deeply unpleasant. It wasn't grief, exactly. It wasn't heartbreak you hadn't been there yet, you hadn't had time to get there, it was something smaller and sharper, the embarrassment of having started to let yourself believe something that turned out to be beside the point. 

"My lady."

You looked up. Baelor was watching you from further down the table, his expression giving nothing away, his eyes doing that thing where they were more specific than his face, seeing more than the face admitted to, or so it always felt when they were directed at you. "Are you alright?" he said, quietly enough that it was for you and not the table. 

You smiled. You were very good at smiling when you needed to, you had been practicing since you were old enough to understand that a lady's face was a thing she owed to the room she was in. "Of course, Your Grace," you said, pleasantly. "It is a wonderful evening."

His eyes did not move from yours for a moment, and in that moment you had the uncomfortable feeling of being seen very clearly by someone who was not going to say so. "It is," he agreed, and looked away, you looked at your hands in your lap, while the hall moved cheerfully around you, and the wine in your cup was very good and you barely tasted it.

"I think I need some air," you said, to no one in particular, or to your father, and rose before anyone could respond, and walked to the doors of the great hall with the measured, unhurried steps of someone who was fine, who was perfectly fine, who was simply in need of a moment outside and would be back shortly. 

The Red Keep was large enough that you could walk for some time without doubling back, and you had been walking for ten minutes before you found yourself in a part of it that was quieter than the rest, an older wing, by the look of the stonework, the torches fewer and the ceiling lower and the whole corridor having the particular quality of a place that was maintained but not often used.

There was a window alcove at the end of it, deep-set, with a stone seat worn smooth by what must have been centuries of people sitting in it, looking out at whatever this particular angle of the keep faced. You sat in the alcove and pulled your knees up slightly and looked at the courtyard and let yourself, finally, in the absence of anyone watching, feel all of it.

It wasn't much, in the end. A few tears, which you caught with the back of your hand before they could make it past your cheekbones, the kind of tears that came less from sadness than from the pressure of holding a face together for too long. It was the frustration of it. 

The frustration of being here, again, in this same position you had been in a dozen times before, having tried and adjusted and made peace and tried again, and somehow always arriving at the same place: standing in the middle of a room watching someone look at someone else the way you had started, foolishly, quietly, to hope they might look at you.

Your heart is too big. You had always thought that was a generous interpretation of the evidence. It suggested rather more plainly that there was simply something about you that people grew tired of, some quality you had too much of or not enough of, something that made men perfectly happy to spend a fortnight in your company and then look across a room and find someone else entirely, the fact that you could never identify what it was did not make it better, it made it worse, because you couldn't fix a thing you couldn't name. 

You wiped your eyes with the back of your hand and took a slow breath and looked at the dark courtyard and told yourself firmly that you were done, that this was enough, that you were going back to the feast in five minutes and you were going to be perfectly pleasant for the rest of the evening and you were going to stop being so–

The voice came from behind you, low and unhurried, and you knew it before you had finished turning. You stood up too quickly, nearly getting your foot caught in the hem of your dress, as you brought your hands to wipe your face, the hem of the dress righted itself.

Baelor was standing at the entrance to the alcove, a few feet away, looking at you with an expression you had not seen on him before and could not immediately read. 

“Your Grace,” you said, your voice came out steadier than you deserved credit for. 

"Just Baelor," he said, quietly. "If you'll allow it."

You lowered your hands. You could feel that your eyes were red, that there was very little you could do about it. "Baelor, then," and the name sat differently in your mouth than the title had, warmer, more familiar, like something you had been saying for longer than two weeks.

He did not look away from you, and did not look around the alcove or at the courtyard below or at anything else, just at you, and you had the sense that the looking was very deliberate, that he was choosing to look at you the way people chose to say difficult things, because they had decided it was the right thing and were going to see it through. "What's upset you?" he asked.

"Nothing," you said immediately, with a smile plastered on your face. 

Baelor looked at you, and the corner of his mouth moved, not quite a smile, not quite anything else, just a small acknowledgment of what you had just done. "My lady," he said.

"Nothing worth mentioning," you amended.

"That isn't the same as nothing," he said.

You looked at him. He looked back at you. The torch at the end of the courtyard below moved in a breath of wind, sending the shadow of it shifting across the stones.

"I'm merely–" you started, then stopped, then started again. "It has been a long evening, Your Grace– Baelor." The name again, and the same warmth in it, and you saw something shift very slightly in his expression when you said it. "I needed a moment away from the noise."

"You've been crying," he said, simply and without cruelty, just the fact of it.

You opened your mouth then closed it, looking at the courtyard then back at him, because looking away from him felt somehow more revealing than looking at him.  "A little," you admitted. "It's nothing."

"It doesn't look like nothing," he said. He had not moved from the entrance of the alcove, had kept that careful distance, and you were aware of it. Aware of the distance and his awareness of it, of the sense that it was a choice he was making and maintaining. "If something has happened to distress you, I would know of it."

There was something in the way he said it, not a demand, not the authority of a prince requiring information, but something quieter than that, something that had more weight in it than a command would have had, precisely because it wasn't one. You felt it somewhere in your chest and looked at your hands.

"I was enjoying myself this evening. Before." You smoothed your skirt, a small unnecessary gesture. "And then I found myself somewhat abruptly not, and I think I simply needed to…" gesturing vaguely at the alcove, "...be somewhere quiet for a moment. That is all."

"Valarr," he said.

You looked up. He was watching you with that steady, specific attention, and you felt the back of your neck go warm despite the cool of the corridor. "I don't—" you started.

"You don't have to," he said.

The quiet between you held for a moment, full and textured, the kind of quiet that was made of things not said. 

"I feel foolish," you said, finally, quietly. "I know it is foolish to feel foolish about feeling foolish, so please don't tell me that." You said it with a small attempt at lightness, and he received it without patronizing it, and so you continued. "I had started to think perhaps there was something there. Between Valarr and I. Something real." You looked at the courtyard. "And then he looked across the room at her, and I could see that whatever he'd had with me was. It was practice, maybe. Or kindness. And she was the actual thing."

Baelor said nothing for a moment. You could feel him looking at you, and you kept your eyes on the courtyard because meeting it felt like more than you had the composure for just now.

"You think you scared him off," he said, carefully. 

You made a small sound that was not quite a laugh. "I think I always do, somehow," you said. "My father says my heart is too big for most men. Which is very kind. I have somewhat less kind interpretations of the evidence."

"What evidence," Baelor said, and something in his voice had changed, something that made you look at him despite yourself, and find him watching you with an expression that was more intent than before, something in it that you couldn't name.

"The pattern of it, I suppose. The same thing, more or less, every time. I am, I think I am quite a lot. I talk too much, or feel too much, or– I don't know exactly what it is, only that it seems to be reliably too much for people to–" you stopped, because you had said rather more of that than you intended to, and your voice had done something at the end of it that you were not pleased with.

"Look at me," Baelor said. You looked at him.

"You are not too much," he said, and he said it the way he said things he meant. 

 His eyes had not moved from yours, and they did not move now, and you felt the looking of them like something warm and specific, like a hand placed with care. "You are not too much and you have not scared anyone off and whatever the pattern is that you think you've found, you have read it wrong."

You looked at him, this man standing in a quiet corridor with torchlight from the courtyard moving on the stones behind him, looking at you with something in his face that had no safe name and that you had been avoiding naming for two weeks, and felt something in your chest pull in a direction that was deeply inconvenient and completely beyond your ability to manage.

"Baelor," you said. Very quietly. Not as a sentence, not going anywhere, just the name, because it was the only thing you had.

"Yes," he said. Just as quietly. 

His jaw tightened fractionally, and he looked at you, and you looked at him, and the torch moved in the courtyard below, and neither of you said anything else for a long moment that held everything and nothing at once.

Then he straightened, and something careful came back into his expression, the composed half-smile of a man rearranging himself. "Come back to the feast," he said. "You have nothing to be ashamed of, and I won't have you sitting in a corridor thinking otherwise."

You looked at him for another moment. Then you stood, and smoothed your dress, and said, "Yes, alright," and followed him back through the quiet corridor toward the noise and the light, and did not think about the way he had looked at you.

You thought about it for the rest of the evening.

"This is absurd."

Your father's voice had the particular controlled fury of a man who had been raised never to shout and was currently finding that a significant inconvenience. He had been saying it for the better part of ten minutes now, in various configurations, and each time it landed a little heavier than the last.

"I did not travel to the Red Keep to be humiliated," he said, to the room, to the lords seated around the long table, and most specifically to Baelor Targaryen, who sat at the head of it in the place of King Daeron, who was ill. Nobody had commented on that. Baelor was the Prince of Dragonstone and the Hand of the King. "My daughter did not travel to the Red Keep to be humiliated. We had an agreement– Valarr was to court my daughter, and in return House Lannister offers the crown its full support and cooperation. And now, a week after the feast, Lady Kiera of Tyrosh appears and the boy announces he will be marrying her and no one else."

He looked at Baelor directly. "It’s fucking nonsense."

You were looking at the table.

You had been looking at the table since you sat down and had no immediate plans to stop. You were not upset about Valarr. That was what made all of this so much harder to sit through. You were not upset about Valarr, not genuinely, not in the way your father seemed to believe you should be. You had seen the way Valarr looked at Kiera of Tyrosh across the great hall and understood, with a clarity that was almost kind in its simplicity, that whatever had been between you and Valarr had been warmth and nothing more.

It was genuinely fine.

What was not fine was that your father had reminded you last night, when the news spread through the Red Keep and reached your chambers before supper, that you were once again unwed, once again the almost, once again the woman that men were perfectly pleasant to and then left for another woman. He had not been cruel about it. He was never cruel. But he had been sharp, in the way only people who loved you could be, and the sharpness of it had stayed with you through the night and was sitting with you still.

You kept your eyes on the table. Hands folded in your lap. Face arranged into something you hoped read as dignified rather than what it actually was.

"My lady."

You looked up before you had decided to.

Baelor's voice had a quality that did that to you, had done it since the first afternoon in the courtyard, and you still had not worked out how to stop your body from responding before you had chosen to respond. He was looking at you from the head of the table with an expression that was calm and unhurried and gave nothing away, the way his expressions always did, except for his eyes, which were doing the thing they always did, which was see you considerably more clearly than you wanted to be seen. He did not look stressed. He did not look rattled by your father's outburst or by the situation or by any of it. He looked, infuriatingly, rather pleasant.

"What are your thoughts on the matter?" he said, and leaned back in his chair as he said it, settling more fully into the seat, and his hands came to rest on the armrests with the unhurried ease of a man entirely comfortable in the space he occupied. 

You noticed his hands, which you had no business noticing– the width of them, the rings he wore, the particular way they moved when he was thinking, deliberate and unhurried, like everything else about him. He was turning one ring slowly with his thumb, the one on his right hand with the Targaryen sigil carved into dark stone, turning it in a slow circle without seeming to know he was doing it, and you watched it for a moment longer than you should have and thought, with shame of a person whose mind had gone somewhere they had absolutely not given permission to go, about what those hands would feel like.

Around your wrist. Against your jaw. Curved at the base of your throat, pressing, the weight of them, the warmth.

You looked back at the table.

Your face felt very warm. You were grateful, for the first time, for the poor lighting in the small council chamber.

When you looked back up at him he was still looking at you, and his expression had shifted by something so small it was barely a shift at all, just a quality in the eyes, something that said he had noticed exactly where your attention had gone and was choosing, with great deliberateness, not to say so.

The heat moved from your face down the back of your neck.

"I am quite happy for Prince Valarr and Lady Kiera," you said, with every ounce of composure you had been rehearsing since the night before. "They seemed very well suited to one another and I wish them–"

"No the fuck she isn't," your father said.

The room went very quiet in the specific way of rooms where people are pretending very hard not to have heard something. You closed your eyes for one brief moment. Opened them. Looked at the table.

Baelor's gaze moved from you to your father with the slow deliberateness , something in his expression cooled, not unkindly, but with the quality of a man who had a great deal of patience and was keeping careful track of how much of it was being spent.

"I appreciate Lord Lancel's candour," he said, evenly, and then looked back at you, which was somehow worse. "If there is a grievance—"

"The grievance," your father said, the restraint in his voice something impressive in its way, "is that my daughter has been made to look a fool, and House Lannister has been made to look a fool, and this needs to be resolved before I say something in this chamber that I cannot unsay, or I swear to the gods that—"

"Wed her to me."

The words fell into the room like a stone dropped into still water, and everything stopped.

Your mouth opened. You were not aware of deciding to open it. You became aware of it after, along with the fact that you had looked at Baelor before you looked at anyone else, which said something you were not going to examine right now, and he was looking back at you, just at you, not at your father or the lords or the room, just at you, with an expression that was entirely unreadable and eyes that were not.

"What," your father said. Flat and slow, the voice of a man refusing to accept that he had heard correctly.

"Wed her to me," Baelor said again, with the same even unhurried certainty of a man repeating something perfectly reasonable that someone had simply failed to hear the first time.

He had not looked away from you. You were having some difficulty breathing at a normal rate.

Your father looked at you with an expression you could not parse, something between disbelief and calculation, and you looked back at him and then back at Baelor because you could not seem to stop doing that, and Baelor was still watching you , and you felt warmth moving through you that had absolutely nothing to do with the temperature of the chamber.

"This does not solve the insult to my house," your father said. The snarl had gone out of his voice, replaced by something more careful, a man recalibrating. "My daughter was brought here under the understanding that she would be a prince's wife. You're asking me to consider her a consolation prize, Your Grace, which I find—"

"I am asking you to consider her a princess and future queen," Baelor said, still without looking at anyone but you, his voice patient and his hands still on the armrests of that chair. "She would be Princess of Dragonstone. When the time comes, queen of the Seven Kingdoms. Any children we had would be princes and princesses of the realm." A pause. "House Lannister would lose nothing it was promised and gain considerably more. The alliance holds, my lord, and your daughter's position would be rather more significant than the one you came here seeking."

"More significant," your father repeated, with the flat tone of a man being maneuvered and knowing it and not yet having decided how he felt about it.

"Considerably," Baelor said.

Your father looked at you again. You looked back at him and tried to make your face say something useful, and were not entirely sure what it said instead. Whatever it was, he looked at it for a long moment and then looked away, pressing his mouth into a thin line and saying nothing, which was Lancel Lannister's version of thinking very hard about something.

"She's been on the market longer than I care to admit, as the whole of Westeros is aware. You'd be getting goods that no one wanted, Your Grace, with respect to my daughter." he said finally, the snarky edge back in his voice, the particular one he used when he was testing something.

You stared at the table.

You had spent your entire life being loved by this man and in this moment you wished, very sincerely, that he would stop.

"Lord Lancel," Baelor said, and something in the way he said it made you look up despite yourself, and you found him looking at your father with an expression that was perfectly pleasant and had a quality underneath it like stone. "Your daughter is not goods, nor is she something to be appraised. I'd ask you to remember that in my council chamber."

Your father had the grace to look briefly taken aback. He cleared his throat. "I only meant—"

"I know what you meant," Baelor said, mildly, and looked back at you, and the shift from that cool quality to the way he looked at you was so immediate and so different that you felt it somewhere behind your sternum like a hand pressed flat. "I also know it isn't what I think."

The room was very quiet.

"I think it's rather a good idea."

Your voice cut through the quiet of the room cleanly, and you felt everyone in it look at you, and you looked at your father.

He was staring at you with an expression you had not seen on his face in a very long time, something between surprise and the particular stillness of a man recalibrating quickly. You held his gaze and kept your face very still and said, quietly, "After all, since no one wants my goods," and you let the words sit there between you, his words, and watched something move across his face that he could not quite contain, something that was not quite guilt but was adjacent to it, "he wants me for how I am."

The indifference in your voice was real and it was not real, both things at once, because underneath it was something older and more tired than anger, the particular hurt of being spoken of that way by someone who loved you, you were absolutely not going to cry in this council chamber in front of four lords and Baelor Targaryen, but you let your father see it in your face for one moment, the hurt, before you looked back down at your hands.

The silence in the room had a different quality to it now.

Your father said nothing. You could feel him beside you, the particular stillness of a man who had said the wrong thing and knew it and did not yet know what to do with that knowledge, and you did not look at him. 

“Alright,” your father said finally, his voice stripped of its earlier edge, much softer this time.

You looked at Baelor without meaning to. 

“In a moons time then.” He says, concluding the council. 

You were a wife.

You still could not quite believe it, even standing in the middle of your shared chambers with the candles burning low around you and the sound of the city muffled behind the thick stone walls and the weight of the day sitting on your shoulders like something physical. Wedded to Baelor Breakspear Targaryen. His princess. The words sat strangely in your mind, too large for the space you had made for them, and you stood with your back half to him and your hands clasped in front of you and tried to find somewhere to put yourself in this room that was now yours as much as his.

You had heard things, today. People talked at weddings the way they always talked, freely and without much care for who was listening, and you had caught enough of it in passing– in the sept, in the corridors, at the feast– to know what the court thought of this union. That he had married for duty. That he was trying to put a ghost to rest. That you were an alliance and a convenience and that Jena Dondarrion would always be the woman who had actually held his heart, and everything after her was simply duty.

You had smiled through all of it. You were very good at smiling through things.

The door closed behind him.

"Are you alright?"

His voice, even now, even after weeks of hearing it, did something to the back of your neck. You kept your eyes on the far wall and said, "Yes," and heard, in the small silence that followed, that he did not believe you.

"We are wedded now," he said, and his voice was soft, unhurried, the way it always was. "I would rather you not speak lies to me."

You felt his hand before you fully registered that he had moved, his fingers closing gently around your arm and turning you, not forcing, just the suggestion of it, and you let yourself be turned because there was no version of this where you were going to stand with your back to him all night. He was close. Closer than he had been permitted to be before tonight, and the candles threw his shadow long across the floor behind him and caught the silver in his beard and the particular quality of his eyes, one brown and one blue, both of them on you.

You opened your mouth. Closed it.

"Can I ask you something?" you said, and your voice came out smaller than you intended.

"Of course," he said, and the corner of his mouth moved.

You looked at the middle of his chest because looking at his face felt like too much right now. "I heard things today," you said. "People talking." You stopped, felt the embarrassment of it move through you, and made yourself continue anyway. "About your lady wife. Jena." You said her name carefully, like a thing that needed to be handled. "They said — they said you married again for duty, to put her memory to rest, and that I am an alliance and nothing more." You looked up at him then, because you needed to see his face when he answered. "Is that true?"

He looked at you for a long moment and there was no anger in it and no grief, just that steadiness, that particular focused attention he gave you that you had never quite gotten used to. "My lady wife who perished was the duty," he said, simply and without cruelty. "I was fond of her. I did love her, in the way that you love someone you have built a life alongside. But that was many years ago, and it was not–" he paused, and something shifted in his expression, something that looked like a man choosing his words not because he was being careful but because he wanted to be accurate. "It was not what I felt the day I saw you in that courtyard."

You went very still.

"I have never felt that in my entire life," he said, and his voice was quiet and even and utterly without performance, the voice of a man stating a fact he had already made his peace with. "That feeling. The strength of it." His eyes had not moved from yours. "I came close to calling off the betrothal entirely. I could not justify it to myself — I thought you had feelings for Valarr, I thought I was simply a man of a certain age wanting something that was not his, and I told myself that every morning for weeks and believed it less every time."

"You thought I had feelings for Valarr," you said.

"I did," he said.

"I didn't," you said.

Something moved across his face. "I know that now," he said.

The candles moved in a breath of air from somewhere and the light shifted across his face and you stood there in your wedding clothes in your shared chambers and felt the heat of the past weeks, all the looking and not looking and the rings and the council chamber and the alcove and every moment you had pressed down and put away, rising up through you all at once like something that had been held underwater finally breaking the surface.

"Baelor," you said.

"Yes," he said. Not a question. Just the word, steady and warm, and he was already close and he did not move closer and did not move away and simply waited, the way he always waited, with the patience of someone who had decided something and was content to let you arrive at it yourself.

You reached up and touched his jaw before you decided to, your fingertips against the grey of his beard, feeling the texture of it, and you heard the quiet sound he made at the back of his throat, barely anything, just the smallest exhale, and it moved through you like heat.

His hand came up to cover yours where it rested against his face, his fingers closing over yours, warm and certain, and you felt the size of that hand, the breadth of it, and thought about everything you had thought in that council chamber and felt your face go warm.

"I have been wanting to do that," you admitted, very quietly, "since the first week."

"Only the first week," he said, and the warmth in his voice had a low quality to it now, something underneath it that you had not heard before, and you felt it in your chest and lower.

"Perhaps since the courtyard," you said.

"That's more honest," he said.

You laughed, a small unsteady thing, and he smiled at the sound of it, and then the smile faded into something more intent as he looked at you, and his free hand came up slowly, giving you every opportunity to move away, and curved at the side of your neck, his thumb at your jaw, tilting your face up, and you felt the weight of it exactly the way you had imagined it and it was worse than imagining, it was so much worse, warm and specific and certain.

"I am going to kiss you," he said, low and unhurried, watching your face.

"I know," you said.

"Are you alright with that," he said.

You looked at him, this man who had been patient for weeks and built a fire in your chest without touching you and was asking you, on your wedding night, if he was allowed. "Baelor," you said, and your voice had gone soft with something you did not bother to hide anymore. "Yes."

He kissed you slowly, the way he did everything, without rush, and his mouth was warm and his beard was exactly as strange against your skin as you had imagined and also nothing like you had imagined, and his hand at your jaw tilted you into him and his other hand found your waist and you felt the warmth of both of them through the fabric of your dress and made a small sound against his mouth that you had not planned on making.

He pulled back just enough to look at you, his forehead nearly against yours, his thumb moving once along your jaw, and his eyes were very dark in the candlelight.

"I have been wanting to do that," he said quietly, "since considerably before the first week."

You laughed again, breathless, and felt him smile against your temple when he pressed his lips there, and then to your cheek, and then to the corner of your mouth, unhurried, like a man with all the time in the world who has nonetheless decided to use it very specifically.

"Baelor," you said, against his mouth.

"Mm," he said, which was not quite an answer and did not need to be.

His hands moved to the laces at the back of your dress, slowly, finding them without rushing, and you felt the loosening of it, the give of the fabric, his fingers warm against the skin of your back as he worked, and you pressed your forehead to his jaw and breathed him in and felt the particular quality of the quiet in the room.

"Are you still nervous?" he asked, low against your hair.

"A little," you admitted.

His hands stilled at your back, just resting there, warm and certain. "We have time," he said. "All the time there is."

You pulled back enough to look at him, at his face in the candlelight, at those mismatched eyes that had been looking at you since a courtyard in early autumn, and felt something settle in your chest that had been unsettled for a very long time.

"I don't want time," you said. "I've been patient for months."

Now, as the Red Keep’s gates yawn open ahead of them, the word tolls through Baelor’s skull like a bell.

—

They thunder into the yard a mess of dirt and steel and torn white cloaks.

The city’s stink still clings to him—river and tanneries and hot stone—but the keep has its own smell: smoke, old rushes, the faint tang of oil on the hinges of the great doors. Grooms and guards scatter as the party crashes in under the arch. A stableboy drops a bucket; water fans across the cobbles, turning dust to mud that splashes up the legs of the nearest horse.

Baelor swings down before his gelding has fully stopped.

Pain lances up his left thigh as his boot hits uneven stone; he realises distantly that at some point in the chaos, something has wrenched, that his knee is swelling under his boot. It doesn’t matter. The leather of your bridle burns his palm as he catches it when your mare dances, eyes rolling white at the sudden dark of the gate. You’re still slumped forward over the saddle-bow, arm hanging limp.

“Easy,” he murmurs to the gelding, not looking at his own horse at all. “Stand.”

Maekar hits the ground beside him with a thud. There’s blood on his cheek that is not his own, drying in a flaking streak from hairline to jaw. His mace hangs heavy in his hand, crusted dark. One of the Kingsguard is missing a piece of his cloak; another’s shield looks like someone took a bite out of it.

“Clear the yard!” Maekar roars, voice cracking across the stone. “Make way for the maesters—move, damn you!”

Servants freeze for a fatal fraction. Then the shout penetrates; they scatter, pulling benches away from the path, grabbing at startled chickens, dragging a cart back by its wheels. Gold cloaks pour in from the walls, some wide-eyed, some already reaching for swords, faces sharpening as they see the limp, grey-clad figure draped over the northern saddle.

Baelor reaches up.

Your body is dead weight in his arms as he lifts you down, cradling you to his chest. Your head lolls against his shoulder; your hair is stuck to your neck with sweat and blood. The arrow is gone now, but the tear in your gown gapes, dark and wet around the ugly puncture of the wound. The flesh around it is starting to discolour—angry red spiking outwards into a faint, sinister shadow under the skin.

Poison, one of the knights had said.

Baelor holds you tighter.

“Prince Baelor.” A maester shuffles at his elbow, breathless, his chain clinking. It’s not the old man from Summerhall, nor the thin crow Daeron keeps in council; this one is thick around the middle, hands surprisingly steady. “We must get her to the healing rooms. I’ll need light, hot water, and my stores. That wound—”

“Then move,” Baelor snaps.

He is aware, dimly, that he almost never speaks like that to men of learning. Maesters are his father’s favoured tools as much as his own; he’s learned to husband their goodwill. Right now, he does not care. The world has shrunk to the weight in his arms and the way your breath catches in shallow, uneven pulls.

“Your Grace!”

The voice cuts through the yard like a trumpet.

King Daeron is already striding down the steps from the keep, cloak thrown back, a pair of white cloaks flanking him. He must have been told at the gate, or perhaps he heard the yard erupt and came of his own accord. Either way, he looks nothing like the gentle scholar most of the realm names him when they think he can’t hear.

There is fury in him, banked and sharp.

Baelor has seen his father angry before. At lords who played too freely with peasant lives, at Blackfyre pretensions, at his own father’s, Aegon’s, old ghosts. That anger has always worn the civilised face of statecraft: clipped words, cold decrees, ink that might as well have been blood when it dried on parchment.

Now, for the first time in many years, Daeron the Good looks very much like a dragon.

“What happened?” he demands, voice ringing off the stone. His gaze flicks over the yard in one sweeping cut: the torn cloak, the dented shield, Maekar’s blood-streaked face, the way Baelor clutches you like a man afraid someone will try to take you from him. His eyes narrow, settling on the black smear around your wound. “Is that—”

“Poison,” the maester confirms grimly. “A slow one, by the look of it, Your Grace. Not the Stranger’s kiss, but not kind either.”

Colour drains from Daeron’s cheeks, leaving his skin waxen around the mouth.

“In my own Kingswood,” he says softly. “An arrow for the heir of Winterfell. In sight of my city walls.”

One of the courtiers hovering at the edge of the yard opens his mouth—some platitude, some coward’s suggestion about bandits. Daeron does not look at him, does not raise his voice. He simply says, very clearly, “If the next man who speaks the word ‘bandit’ in my hearing is not carrying a bow and a deer, I will have him flogged.”

Silence slams down.

Then Daeron’s gaze comes back to Baelor. For a heartbeat, prince and king look at one another over the curve of your body. Baelor feels it—the old, familiar weight of expectation, the question without words. Are you hurt? Are you whole? Can you stand?

“Yes,” Baelor forces out, though his throat feels tight enough to strangle him. “We were ambushed, Father. Blackfyre sympathisers. There were… there were sigils. Inverted dragons. They knew our route.”

Daeron’s jaw clenches. “We will speak of that. Later.” His eyes drop to your face—the pained tightness, the sheen of sweat on your upper lip, the way your lashes lie too still against your cheeks. A muscle jumps in his cheek. “For now, get her inside. Quickly. Every moment we waste talking in this yard is a moment that poison has to root itself deeper.”

Baelor shifts his grip, ready to carry you himself.

The maester steps in. “My prince—let the porters—”

“No.” The word comes out raw, so sharp the man flinches back, startled. “She—”

A hand clamps on his arm. Maekar’s fingers are like iron bands around his bicep, biting through the leather of his sleeve.

“Bael,” his brother says under his breath. “Let them work. You’ll slow them, and you know it.”

He does know it. That’s the worst of it. He can see, in some cold, rational part of his mind, the path: maester, table, knives, clean cloth, tinctures. Yet his arms will not give you up. The porters hover at the edge of his vision, faces tense, hands empty and ready. The maester watches him with professional impatience, poorly masked as concern. Over all of it, Daeron’s gaze, heavy and intent on his brow.

“Baelor,” his father says, quieter now. “Son. Give her to them.”

The plea in it nearly undoes him.

Your head lolls against his shoulder; your lips part on a tiny, unconscious sound. He feels it more than hears it, a little vibration against his collarbone. The skin around the wound is darkening further now, the veins radiating out faintly like ink drawn through paper.

If he hesitates any longer, he will be the one doing harm. Baelor swallows, feeling something in his chest crack, and forces his hands to loosen.

“Careful,” he grinds out as he transfers your weight into the porters’ arms. “If you drop her—”

“We won’t,” the maester assures him. There is none of the usual obsequiousness in it; only a man sworn to save lives speaking to another who understands that oath. “I swear it, my prince.”

They bear you away at a near-trot, the maester bustling ahead, shouting for hot water, clean linens, wine, willowbark, the pale blue vial he keeps under lock for snake-bites. The little procession disappears under an arch, swallowed by the keep’s shadow.

Baelor’s body sways after them.

He takes one involuntary step, then another. The need to follow is a living thing under his skin, clawing at his ribs. It wants him moving, wants him in that room, wants him between you and everything that might hurt you further—including the maester’s knives.

Maekar’s grip tightens.

“Leave them to their work,” he growls under his breath, digging his fingers in harder. “You’ll be in their way.”

“She—” Baelor hears his own voice and hates it. Thinned, frayed, too close to breaking. “Maekar, I—”

“I know,” Maekar cuts in, and there is something rough in his tone that catches Baelor’s attention through the fog. “I know. But unless you’ve suddenly taken the chain, you’re no use in that room. Here—”

He shifts his stance, subtly angling his bulk between Baelor and the door through which they carried you. It’s not much—he’s not their father, he cannot command with a glance the way Daeron can—but it creates the smallest of barriers. Enough for Baelor to smash himself against instead of the wall.

He realises his hands are shaking. Baelor curls them into fists at his sides, flexing until his gloves creak. The yard is full of eyes; he can feel them crawling over him. Gold cloaks. Grooms. Courtiers. The lords who happened to be close enough to come running when the shouts started. All of them, watching the king’s heir with the wolf’s blood on his hands.

He drags in a breath that tastes of horse and iron and panic and forces it back out slowly.

Control, he reminds himself. You cannot lose it here. Not in front of them. Not while Father is watching.

Daeron has not moved far. He stands a little way off, conferring in a low, tight voice with the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, eyes still cold as the Narrow Sea in winter. As Baelor watches, a page sprints up, white-faced, stammering something. The king’s head snaps toward the gate.

Northern banners.

The direwolf on grey comes into view a moment later, wind-snapped and grim, followed by a column of riders splashed in road-dirt and sweat. Barthogan Stark had ridden for the Kingswood as soon as the first rider reached the city with the news, but even a northern horse can only eat so much ground. They have arrived too late for the fight.

Not too late for the aftermath.

Baelor feels the temperature in the yard drop as the Stark column pushes in. It’s not the wind; the day is still southern-hot, the stone still radiating heat. It’s something else. The way the air changes around certain men. Daeron’s anger burns. Barthogan Stark’s wrath chills to the bone.

He swings down from his horse in one smooth motion, barely waiting for the animal to stop. There is dust in his beard and at the hems of his cloak; his hair has come half-loose from its tie, silver and dark hanks falling around a face set in a line that looks carved from rock. His eyes—those cold, north-sky eyes—go at once to the blood on the cobbles.

“Where is she?” he snarls, without preamble, voice low and dangerous.

“Inside,” Daeron answers, stepping forward to meet him. There is an entire history in the way they stand facing one another: Aegon on the Neck, dragonfire over the Wall, oaths sworn and kept. “My maesters have her. An arrow—”

“An arrow,” Stark repeats, gaze snapping to Baelor, taking in the torn state of his armour, the smear of your blood on his hands, the pallor under the summer tan. “In your king’s own woods. On your watch.”

The words hit like blows. Baelor feels each one land. “I was there,” he says quietly. “I pulled her away. I—”

“Not fast enough,” Barthogan cuts in, his voice cold as river ice. “Not hard enough. You were meant to keep her safe, dragon. Not give the realm a story about how Stark heirs bleed so prettily for your family’s quarrels.”

Heat flashes up Baelor’s spine. Guilt rears, teeth bared, eager to agree with every syllable. It was his ride. His road. His failure to see the crack before the river gave way. He opens his mouth—he doesn’t even know yet if it’s to apologise or to promise, either way, to accept the blame—but Daeron speaks first.

“Take care, Barthogan,” the king speaks, voice gone very soft. It’s the softness that makes grown men flinch. “You speak of my son and my Hand.”

Stark’s head turns toward him slowly. For a moment, Baelor thinks he will push it anyway; northern tempers are headstrong things, not easily soothed. Then something in Daeron’s face—the iron under all his good-natured courtesy—registers, and Barthogan reins in with visible effort.

“My pardon, Your Grace,” he grinds out. The words are ice, not warmth. “Grief makes my tongue jump the leash.”

“It has every right to strain it,” Daeron allows. A flicker of something like old friendship passes between them, quickly drowned by the moment’s immediacy. “But remember also who stands before you. Baelor did not put that arrow in your daughter’s flesh. He threw himself between her and the worst of it.”

“He should have thrown himself in front of the damned shaft,” Stark snarls.

“He tried,” Maekar interjects flatly.

All eyes swing to him.

Maekar’s face is bare of courtly compromise. There is blood on his jaw and a fresh cut along his forearm; his leathers are scored and dark in places where something splintered too close. He looks like he’d rather still be in the trees, swinging his mace.

“Your daughter,” he goes on bluntly, ignoring the attention, “showed more courage than half the knights sworn to our house today. She sank her teeth into the hand of a man who came for her, then stepped into the path of an arrow meant for Baelor. If you’re set on blaming someone, Lord Stark, don’t start with the one whose life she’s already bled to keep out of the Stranger’s reach.”

It is as close to praise as Maekar Targaryen ever gives anyone. The fact that he offers it now, blunt and unadorned, drops into the silence like a stone into a well. Something flickers in Barthogan’s eyes at that. Pride and terror, twisting together. The idea of you, teeth bared, blood in your mouth, stepping into the path of a shaft meant for a prince—it is clearly both exactly what he would have expected of you and the very thing he has dreaded since you were old enough to hold a knife.

His hand flexes at his side, fingers digging into his own palm.

“The best maesters in the Red Keep are with her,” Daeron says, more gently now. “And I’ve already sent for my son Aerys. No man living in this castle knows more of poisons than he. If anyone can unmake what those bastards meant to do, it’s him.”

Baelor clings to that as if it were a rope thrown to a drowning man: Aerys, with his ink-stained fingers and his quiet, unnerving knowledge of plants that kill as easily as they heal. Aerys, who prefers books to blades and will, for once, be the weapon they need.

Barthogan’s jaw works.

“If she dies,” he growls at last, “no song in the realm will sweeten this alliance.”

“If she dies,” Daeron replies, grim and tired and furious all at once, “it will not be at my son’s hands. Nor mine. It will be at the hands of men who think the realm is a board they can upset at will. And those men will learn that even a good king has teeth.”

For a moment, the two of them stand in that cold, shared understanding. Then Barthogan turns on his heel, cloak flaring, and strides for the arch where they took you. The guards there begin to move to bar his way, then think better of it when they catch the look in his eye. Wolves on a scent. Only fools and dead men try to stand in front of a father desperate to see his daughter safe.

He disappears into the keep, following the trail of your blood. Daeron watches him go, shoulders tightening under his cloak. Then he looks back to the yard; it’s already filling again with people who smell opportunity the way hounds smell meat. Lords. Courtiers. Men who will want reassurance that this is not the first move in some wider war.

“I must speak with them,” he says, weary certainty in every syllable. “If we don’t seize this tale now, others will. Maekar—”

“I’ll see the men sorted,” Maekar answers at once. “We’ll have every survivor questioned before dusk. And the bodies—”

“Drag them into the throne room if you have to,” Daeron mutters. “Let the realm see what comes of loosing Blackfyre arrows at my guests.”

He moves away then, already gathering lords and captains into his wake, his voice dropping into that measured cadence Baelor knows so well: the tone of a king shaping a narrative before the chaos can. The yard begins to empty around them as people pull into the orbit of duty. Grooms lead horses off, clucking. A Kingsguard limps away toward the armoury with his dented shield. Servants squabble quietly over the best way to scrub wolf-blood from stone.

Baelor stays where he is.

His hands are still sticky. He looks down and sees the stains on his gloves—rust-dark, drying. The knowledge that it is your blood turns his stomach. Maekar doesn’t let go of his arm. Not until the last of the crowd has thinned enough that the yard feels almost, if not private, then at least less full of mouths. Only then does he release his grip, flexing his own fingers as if they’ve cramped.

For a moment, he merely studies Baelor’s profile.

Baelor can feel it like touch, that familiar, infuriatingly thorough assessment. Maekar has never needed words to take a man apart; his gaze does it for him. It ticks from the rigid set of Baelor’s jaw to the hollows bruised in under his eyes, to the way his shoulders hold a fraction too square, too high, as if he’s holding himself together by keeping everything clenched. It catches on the minute tremor in his right hand where it hangs at his side, fingers flexing against ruined leather as though they still remember your weight.

There is blood on Baelor’s neck too, he realises distantly—tacky where it has dried, a thin crusted line running from just under his ear to the collar of his doublet. It flakes when he swallows. He doesn’t know whose it is. Yours, probably. It always comes back to that.

“Well,” Maekar says at last, voice dropping into that heavy, disgusted fatalism that usually precedes him breaking something. “Seven bloody hells.”

Baelor huffs out a sound that might, in kinder light, pass for a laugh. Here in the bright, pitiless yard, it feels more like air escaping a cracked vessel.

Maekar scrubs a hand over his face, palm rasping against stubble, smearing the half-dried streak of blood on his cheek into a wider, uglier smear. He stares at his own hand for a heartbeat, as if surprised to see it shaking, then curls it into a fist.

“I thought—” He stops, grimaces, the words catching on something sharp on the way out. Starts again, rougher. “I thought you’d have more sense than this.”

Baelor turns his head, sharply enough that his neck protests. “Than what?”

Maekar meets his gaze without flinching. In this light, one of his eyes is deep violet, the other a softer lilac, the colours Daeron passed to his sons like odd little curses. Right now, they are both as hard as cut stones. There’s no mockery in them, no easy brother’s baiting. Just a tired, furious sort of knowing.

“Not the she-wolf,” he mutters. “Anyone but the gods-damned she-wolf.”

Baelor goes very still.

Still in that way he learned as a boy at court: no visible flinch, no outward recoil, just every muscle tightening by a hair, as if bracing for a blow. He feels the words slot into place between his ribs with obscene precision. Not because they’re wrong, but because they land so close to a truth he has been circling for days without daring to look at it head-on.

Images rise, unbidden, with horrible clarity. Your waist under his hand in the corridor, the warm give of you through wool. Your voice in his ear on the Wall, low and wry and entirely too steady for the height. The exact shape of your mouth when you said, My Lord Prince. The way your body twisted between him and that arrow in the dappled green of the Kingswood, as if the most natural thing in the world were to make yourself into a shield for him. He remembers the feel of you hitting him—shoulder to ribs, breath knocked out of him, his world lurching—and then the sound of you being hit in turn. That awful, wet, muted thunk. The way your eyes went wide, then dazed.

His stomach turns over.

He does not deny it.

Baelor feels his throat work once, twice, swallowing down the first instinctive rush of words: protest, excuse, minimisation. She is a guest. She is our ally. I would have done the same for any lord’s daughter. All of them lies, or half-lies so thin they might as well be.

There’s no point. Maekar has eyes. Maekar was there when Baelor’s mind blanked to a screaming white the moment your body jerked with the arrow’s impact, when for one terrible heartbeat all the careful discipline in him blew apart and left nothing but a man on his knees in the dirt with his hands slick in a woman’s blood.

Instead, Baelor drags in a slow breath that tastes of dust and iron, and lets it out through his teeth. He feels the air scrape his lungs raw on the way.

“It doesn’t matter,” he says, and the lie tastes like dirt between his teeth. “What matters is this: they knew where we would be. When. How many men would ride with us. That is not luck. That is not some farmer’s son with more courage than sense. That is treachery.”

Maekar’s expression shutters, the flash of brotherly exasperation folding neatly away under the weight of something more familiar: the prince, the soldier, the man Daeron calls for when he expects to need steel, not speeches.

“Aye,” Maekar says, voice gone flint-flat. “I figured as much, too.”

Baelor nods once, the movement small, controlled. “We left by a gate we weren’t supposed to use. Our route was decided late, after the council. The timing was tight. And they still managed to be waiting in just the right stretch of road, with just the right number of men, with sigils they were arrogant enough not to fully hide.” He flexes his hand again, feeling the grind of dried blood tightening the leather over his knuckles. “Someone talked. Someone inside these walls.”

Maekar’s mouth goes thin. “Could be a servant,” he suggests. “Loose tongue in a wine cellar. Stableboy trying to impress the wrong ears.”

“It could,” Baelor concedes. His voice has levelled out now, losing the ragged edge it held in the yard, taking on a different quality altogether. Calm. Measured. Cold. “Or it could be a lord with a Blackfyre cousin and more ambition than caution. A squire with the wrong father. A guard who’s been bought thrice over. I intend to find out which. And when I do—”

He doesn’t raise his voice. He doesn’t need to. He lets the thought hang there between them, heavy as a hanging chain. No threats. No bright promises of dragonfire. Just the simple, unadorned certainty of a man who has given the realm his whole life in careful, bloodless inches—and is now, finally, prepared to take something back with all the ruthless precision he’s spent years using on its behalf.

Maekar watches him for a long moment.

He’s seen Baelor angry before—sharp flashes, quick to bank. This is something else. This is ice over deep water, cracked clean through.

“Father will want to proceed carefully,” Maekar says at last, a half-warning, half-reminder. “He’ll talk of proof. Of not feeding Blackfyre tales of persecution.”

“I know,” Baelor says. “And he will be right. We cannot afford to punish the wrong man in our haste and drive the right ones deeper underground.” He looks back toward the archway where they took you, to where, somewhere inside the keep, your blood is seeping into white sheets and maesters’ hands. His throat works once. “But understand me, Maekar: I will not let this pass. Not when they aimed at the North to strike at us. Not when they turned their swords on us this brazenly. Not when she—”

His voice trips, catches; he rides over the stumble by sheer force of will.

“When she lies in there with poison working through her veins because some coward thought cutting down our ally’s heir would weaken the king’s hand.”

Maekar’s gaze darkens, something vicious flickering up through the soldier’s calm.

“That,” he says slowly, “sounds a great deal like you planning to tear the castle apart with your bare hands.”

“If I must,” Baelor replies, and the quiet of it sends a small, involuntary chill up even his brother’s spine. There’s no heat in it at all, only intent. “But I would prefer to start with questions. With records. With Aerys’s lists of men who’ve been writing too many letters to the wrong corners of the realm. With the names of every guard and scribe and groom who knew about our ride, who shouldn’t have.”

His eyes lift, meeting Maekar’s squarely. “Help me.” It isn’t a plea. It’s an invitation, laid between them like a drawn sword, sharp edge up.

Maekar’s jaw works once. Twice. Baelor can almost see him turning it over: the insult to their house, the sight of your body hitting the ground, the memory of your teeth in a man’s hand and your shoulder jerking as the arrow struck, the knowledge that if you hadn’t moved, he would be standing here without a brother at all.

Then he gives a short, savage nod.

“Always,” he answers, voice gravelly. “You think I don’t want those bastards’ heads on spikes as much as you do? They made me call that girl brave.” His mouth twists as if the admission is both bitter and oddly satisfying. “I don’t hand that word out lightly.”

Baelor’s lips twitch, the ghost of a smile that doesn’t quite make it to his eyes. There’s gratitude in it, and something rougher; a shared, silent promise.

“Then we start,” he says. “We wait for word from the maesters. We pray to any gods who will listen that Aerys gets here before the poison does what it was meant to. And in the meantime, we pull every thread we can find. We tug until something gives.”

He looks back at the arch once more.

For a heartbeat, the yard seems to tilt around him. He sees, overlaid on the sun and stone, the Kingswood again: shafts hissing through leaves, your body jerking, your hand leaving a smeared print of your own blood on his cheek as you shoved him out of the arrow’s path. The look on your face, shocked and stubborn all at once, already fading as the poison bit.

Baelor sets his shoulders.

Whatever waits beyond that door, whatever news the maesters bring—good or ill—he will meet it. And then he will make sure that somewhere, in some cold cell or shallow grave, the man who loosed that poisoned shaft—and the one who put the bow in his hands, and anyone who whispered the time and place into their ears—understands, down to their bones, what it means to strike at a dragon through a wolf.

Maekar’s hand comes down on his shoulder once, hard, the weight of it more vow than comfort.

“Come on, then,” he says gruffly. “Let’s see which of these bastards flinch when we start asking the wrong questions.”

Baelor nods.

He casts one last look at the doorway where they took you—at that shadowed threshold between the world where you stand at his side and the world where you might not—and then turns away, his face smoothing into something colder and sharper than any helm.

—

By the time the castle goes quiet enough that he can hear his own thoughts, the light has gone.

Not wholly—King’s Landing never truly sleeps—but the day’s harsh brightness has bled out of the corridors, leaving only pockets of lamplight and the odd guttering candle in a niche. The sounds have changed, too. Less clang of armour, more the muted shuffle of servants, the distant clatter of pots from the last of the kitchens. 

Baelor realises, dimly, that he has not eaten since dawn.

He cannot bring himself to care.

He climbs the last flight of stairs to the healing tower with his hand on the wall more from habit than need, fingertips brushing the cool stone. It steadies him in a way his own legs no longer do. His knee aches fiercely now that the day’s work is done, swelling against the confines of his boot, but he keeps his stride even. The guards outside the maesters’ door straighten as he approaches.

“Your Highness,” one calls out promptly. “Lord Stark is within.”

“Good,” Baelor replies.

He means it. He would rather face a dozen Blackfyre men in the trees again than walk into that room empty of anyone who loves you.

The healing chamber smells of vinegar and old stone and crushed herbs.

It is not large, but the maesters have made it feel crowded. Tables bristle with glass and clay: vials, bowls, little pots of salve. A brazier glows low in the corner, its heat pushing the air heavy and close. Wisps of steam curl from a basin of water gone pink at the edges. The narrow window is cracked open just enough to let a line of cooler night air lick at the ceiling.

You lie on the bed nearest the fire.

The arrow is gone now. In its place: bandages, tight and clean, white now but already bruised by the faint seeping of red at their centre. Bruises are blooming along your collarbone and shoulder where the impact tossed you. Someone has washed the blood from your face and neck; your hair is damp at the temples, laid back in heavy strands around your head. A sheen of fever-sweat shines at your throat.

Your chest rises and falls. Not easily, but it moves. That is enough to make his knees want to give.

Barthogan Stark sits at your bedside like a carved thing.

He has taken off his cloak and sword-belt, but nothing about the man looks less armed. His hands are braced on his knees, big and scarred and too still. The lamplight hollows his weathered face, carving the lines around his mouth deeper, turning the streaks of silver in his hair to threads of dull iron. His gaze is fixed on your face with an intensity that could melt metal. It is not the wild rage of earlier. This is something colder. The fury of an old wolf who has spent all day not tearing out throats, but only because there were none here he could reach.

A maester sits at a table a little way off, bent over notes. Another dozes in a chair by the fire, head lolling, hands still curled loosely around a cup of some dark infusion. Baelor recognises Aerys’ hand in the clutter: the fine glass phials, the bundled sprigs of plants from the east, the faint metallic tang in the air of an antidote already brewed.

They say the poison has been checked, for now. That much, at least, they have bought her.

Baelor pauses just inside the threshold.

For a beat, he can do nothing but look at you. Everything he has been holding at bay with tasks and questions and rage presses up against his ribs at once, clamouring. He feels it in his throat, behind his eyes, in the tremor that threatens his fingers.

Barthogan’s head comes up, dangerously slow.

“Your Highness,” he says.

The title lands like a thrown spear, perfectly aimed. Polite. Icy.

“Lord Stark.” Baelor’s voice is hoarse; he does not clear it. “How fares she?”

“Alive.” Stark’s gaze slides back to you, then to him, as if he is weighing how much information he’s worth. “Your brother’s pet maester thinks the worst of the poison has been drawn.” His mouth tightens. “He also says the next two days will decide whether she keeps the life she has or slips it.”

The words sink into Baelor like stones into deep water. Two days. As if your fate could be measured in something as small as that.

“The arrowhead was barbed,” the maester at the table explains without looking up, voice thin with fatigue. “They had the cruelty to roughen it, too. It tore more than it need have.” He makes a small, helpless gesture. “But the venom was not as quick as some. We had time to bleed it, and Prince Aerys sent instructions for a counter-draught. Her blood takes it, for now.”

Stark’s jaw clenches at the mention of the arrow; Baelor sees his fingers curl briefly into fists on his knees.

“Give us the room,” Barthogan orders without turning.

The maester blinks. “My lord, I should—”

“I am not asking.” Stark’s eyes remain on Baelor, but his voice carries to the corners of the room. “If she worsens, you’ll hear me shout from the yard.”

There is a heartbeat of hesitation. Then the maesters bow themselves out, gathering notes and cups, casting quick, assessing looks at Baelor and the old wolf at his daughter’s bedside. The door shuts behind them with a soft click that sounds louder than it should.

Silence settles.

Baelor takes a few steps closer, until he is near enough to see the way your lashes throw faint shadows on your cheeks, the way your fingers twitch now and then against the linen, as if chasing something in a dream.

“Was it worth it?” Stark asks.

Baelor looks up. The northern lord has not moved, but his eyes are on him now, stormy and merciless.

“She dragged you out of the way of that arrow,” Stark goes on, voice low, every word honed to hard ice. “Took it in her own flesh. I rode south with a daughter and an heir, dragon. You would tell me if that bargain was worth the cost?”

There is no good answer. Only the truth.

“I would have died,” Baelor admits quietly. “If she hadn’t moved me, I would not be standing in this room. That is not conjecture. The angle, the distance—” He forces himself to swallow. “It was meant for me. She interposed herself.”

“And you call that worth it?” Stark’s mouth twists dangerously. “My daughter’s life for your hide.”

Baelor takes the hit. Lets it land. There is no point ducking what he already believes.

“No.” The word is soft, and it is the hardest thing he has said all day. “No life is worth hers in that calculus. Least of all mine. But she chose to move. I do not have the arrogance to decide she was wrong.”

Stark’s eyes narrow a fraction. “So you’ll put the blame on her shoulders, then,” he says. “Convenient.”

Baelor’s temper flares, quick and hot, then is banked again by sheer habit. He makes himself breathe in and out.

“I will wear the blame for this until the day I die,” he responds, and the steadiness in his voice surprises even him. “I brought her into those woods. My men rode with us. My guard failed to catch the cracks in our line. Whatever she chose to do once the arrows flew, the fault that there were arrows at all is mine. I will not pretend otherwise.”

He takes another step until the end of the bed is a bare arm’s length away.

“But hear me, Lord Stark,” he says, and this time there is something harder under the words. “What she did there—the courage she showed—is not a weight I will ever set on the wrong side of the scales. That arrow changed the shape of my debt to your house. It is not one I mean to forget.”

Stark watches him for a long, measuring moment. He looks very tired, Baelor realises. It sits under the anger like an old wound. The lines at the corners of his eyes are deeper tonight; his shoulders sag a fraction, though his spine remains straight.

“She is my only child,” he says, voice gone hoarse. “Did you know that?”

Baelor looks at you. At the way your hand lies open on the coverlet, palm up, as if reaching for a sword hilt that isn’t there.

“Yes,” he says. “I do.”

“She has no brothers,” Stark goes on. “No pack to lose her in or to guard her. Just me, and a keep full of men who think they know what’s best for her.” His jaw ticks, a shadow passing over his rugged face. “I would mourn every man who rides under my banner, if I lost him. But she—” he looks down at you, and something in his face loosens, raw and unguarded, “she is my heart made flesh. You have younger brothers, Baelor. You’ve watched your mother look at you boys as if the whole world could fall and she’d still be holding it by the scruff for you. You ought to understand.”

“I do,” Baelor says again, more quietly.

Silence stretches. The fire pops. Somewhere below, a bell chimes the hour.

“The crown,” Barthogan says at last, “brought her south. The crown promised this was a visit for peace, for closer ties, for some bright tale about wolves and dragons not tearing at one another’s throats. The crown owes me an accounting for why my girl lies full of southern poison on a Targaryen bed.”

Baelor meets his gaze. Does not look away.

“Then let me start paying,” he says.

The words come out before he can overthink them, clear and absolute.

“I swear to you, my lord, this is a debt I will never forget. The crown will stand with House Stark until I am gone and my bones are ash. As long as I draw breath in this castle, there will be no hand raised against the North that does not find mine raised against it in turn. What she has done—what you have risked by sending her here—binds me.”

Stark’s eyes flash, something like grim satisfaction sparking under the ice, and something wary.

“You are bold,” he voices, and there is a faint rasp of impatience in it now. “But you are not king. Not yet. You cannot speak binding fealty for your father, not in those words. I will not have you swearing oaths that do not belong to you to give.”

“I know my place,” Baelor replies.

Then, before he can talk himself out of it, he steps to the side of the bed, turns, and drops to one knee.

The stone is hard under him, his bad leg protesting, but he barely feels it. His hand finds the familiar curve of his sword-hilt and rests there, not drawing, simply anchoring himself in the old forms.

He looks up at Barthogan Stark from his knees, the old wolf’s shadow falling long across him in the lamplight.

“I do not speak now as Hand.” His voice is low but sure. “Nor as Daeron’s heir. I speak as Baelor, son of Old Valyria, man of this house.” His fingers tighten on the leather-wrapped hilt. “Whatever kings decide, whatever storms the realm walks into, I will watch over your daughter until the day I die. In court, in council, in whatever field the gods are cruel enough to throw us onto—I will stand at her side. You have my word on that, and if there is any worth in my name at all, I lay it here.”

The words leave him feeling strangely lighter and more burdened all at once. It is, in truth, only the shape of what has already settled in his bones. Saying it aloud feels less like an oath and more like admitting something he has been carrying for longer than he knew.

Stark looks down at him.

For an unnerving moment, his face is unreadable. Then something in it shifts—a tiny softening around the eyes, a fraction’s easing of the hard line of his mouth. The old wolf’s gaze flicks from Baelor’s face to yours and back again.

“You’d make that vow,” he says slowly, “for any highborn girl with a good sword-hand, would you?”

Baelor holds his stare. “No,” he says simply.

The admission hangs in the air, stark as winter sky. Something like understanding passes through Barthogan Stark’s eyes. A grim amusement, perhaps, or resignation, or the bitter, reluctant recognition of a pattern: Targaryen princes and Stark girls, always drawn like storm and snow.

“You look at her like your father once looked at Dorne,” he mutters. “As if you’ve seen the piece you were missing and now can’t imagine the board without it.”

Baelor’s breath stutters, just once.

“I look at her,” he says carefully, “as a woman who saved my life at the cost of nearly losing her own. As a lord’s daughter who walked into dragon country with her head high. As someone, the realm will be the poorer for if we let her slip away.” His gaze drops to your face, the sheen of fever on your brow. “As someone I would rather not have to learn to live without.”

A corner of Stark’s mouth twitches—not quite a smile, not quite a snarl.

“Then you had best speak with your father,” he says, a weary glimmer in his gaze. “Plainly, for once. About the true nature of this visit. About what kind of bond the crown intends to forge with the North.” His eyes narrow. “If Daeron means for my girl to be a southern pawn, he can say so to your face. If he means her to be more, he can stop playing at shadows and put the truth on a page.”

Baelor thinks of the half-said things in council; of the way Daeron’s gaze had lingered on you over supper in the hall, watching you speak plainly of winter roads and lean harvests with a small, approving tilt to his mouth; and of the ride, when you’d almost told him what your father had laid on your shoulders and then swallowed it back, right before all hells broke loose.

“I will,” he says. “He owes you that honesty. He owes her more than this.” His hand tightens reflexively on his sword again. “And so do I.”

Barthogan studies him for another heartbeat, then nods once, curt and decisive.

“Good,” he grunts. “Then we understand one another.”

He pushes to his feet with a faint grunt, old joints complaining. He stands looking down at you, the lines of his face softened by something that has nothing to do with Baelor or crowns—just a father watching his child breathe.

Then he turns.

“You have ten minutes with her,” he tells him, voice back to that rough, practical cadence. “No more. After that, I want you gone out of my sight for the night, prince or no. If I see you again before dawn, dragon, we may say things we can’t take back.”

Baelor inclines his head. “Ten minutes,” he agrees.

Lord Stark gives him one last, long look—as if fixing the sight of a prince on his knees beside his daughter’s bed into memory—and then strides past him, out into the corridor. The door closes with a quiet thud.

The room feels larger and smaller all at once. Baelor exhales, only then realising how tightly he has been holding his breath. Slowly, he rises from his knee, his bad leg complaining in earnest now. He steps closer to the bed until he can rest his hand lightly on the edge of the mattress, close enough to touch you if he dares.

For a moment, he simply stands there, looking down at you. The lamplight paints your skin and shadow. Your lips are parted just enough for breath. He can see the flutter of your pulse at your throat, a frail, stubborn drum beneath the smear of salve.

“Ten minutes,” he murmurs, mostly to himself.

He reaches out and, very carefully, takes your uninjured hand in both of his. The bones of your fingers feel small and strong against his palms. Your skin is hotter than it should be.

“I am here,” he says, barely louder than the crackle of the brazier. “And I’m not going anywhere.”

For the first time since the arrow flew, the knot in his chest loosens by a fraction.

For a while, Baelor only sits. The chair at your bedside is hard and too low; it puts a kink in his bad knee and a twinge in his back. He doesn’t move. His whole world has shrunk to the strip of mattress where your hand lies and the narrow rise and fall of your chest.

He traces the lines of your fingers with his gaze, the way other men might trace maps—learning them, committing them to memory. The callus along your forefinger from a bowstring. The faint, jagged scar at the base of your thumb that he’s never noticed before. The way your nails are cut, blunt and neat, fit for leather and reins rather than courtly embroidery. He swallows and shifts, just enough to bring your hand closer. Very carefully, as if afraid you’ll break, he cups your fingers between his palms and lifts them. Your skin is hot, fever-bright, but the weight of your hand is its own kind of anchor.

He bends his head and presses your knuckles to his forehead.

The contact is small, almost nothing, but it cracks something in him wide open.

“I am sorry,” he breathes, and the words scrape raw on the way out. They hang in the quiet room like smoke. “Gods forgive me, I am so damned sorry.”

He doesn’t know who he’s apologising to, exactly. To you, for bringing you into his father’s woods with only a handful of white cloaks and a promise. To his own gods, perhaps, for being foolish enough to think he could braid peace out of old grudges without anyone bleeding for it.

He breathes in, your hand still at his brow, and lets it out slowly.

“The Mother,” he begins, because that is where everyone begins. “You have sons enough across this bloody realm. One more will not strain you. Watch over her. Ease the pain if you can. Give her… give her back to her father with breath in her lungs and that tongue still sharp.”

His mouth twitches, despite everything, at that.

“The Father,” he goes on, quieter. “Judge me for this if you must. I will not argue the sentence. But judge her kindly. She came south in good faith. None of this was her doing.”

His thumb strokes absently along the back of your hand, feeling the fragile hammer of your pulse.

“The Warrior,” he murmurs. “Stand at her bedside for a while. You know she’d hate lying here helpless. Lend her some of your stubbornness until hers wakes up again.”

He hesitates over the next.

“The Stranger…” His jaw tightens. “You keep away from her. Do you hear me? You’ve had enough Starks these past years. Go haunt the bastards who loosed the arrow instead.”

It feels blasphemous to speak to the gods like recalcitrant children. It also feels, inexplicably, right. If any man in this realm has earned the right to talk back to heaven, it is one who has spent half his life trying to keep it from falling on people’s heads.

Baelor exhales and shifts your hand in his grip, turning it so that your fingers rest more easily against his mouth.

He kisses your smallest knuckle first, a ghost of a touch. A rite whispered into skin instead of stone.

“Forgive me,” he breathes against it.

He moves to the next. The third. Slow, reverent, the words unspooling in time with the soft press of his lips.

“For the road I chose.”

“For the guards I trusted.”

“For not seeing the crack until it broke under us.”

He kisses the line where your fingers meet your palm, eyes closing for a heartbeat.

“Forgive me,” he breathes out, “for thinking, even for a moment, that my life was worth the risk you took.”

He feels ridiculous and utterly sincere all at once.

If you were awake, you would probably roll your eyes at him, make some cutting remark about Targaryen theatre and the way dragons like to wrap guilt around themselves like cloaks. The thought nearly makes him smile. Nearly.

By the time he reaches your thumb, his mouth lingers.

“And forgive me,” he says softly, “for wanting things it is not my place to want.”

The admission hangs somewhere between you and the rafters. Baelor does not unpack it, even in his own head. It is enough that it has been given shape. Slowly, reluctantly, Baelor lowers your hand. He smooths the blanket beside you and lays your fingers there, arranging them with a care that would seem absurd to anyone watching. Thumb tucked just so, palm relaxed. As if you might wake and be irritated to find it cramped.

For a long moment, he simply looks.

He tries to fix the sight of you in his mind—not as you were in the wood, bloodied and reeling, nor as some court painter might one day try to catch you: all heraldry and poise. Just you. Hair damp and messy against the linen. Brow furrowed faintly even in sleep, as if arguing with someone in a dream. The set, stubborn line of your jaw.

He takes it in like a man drinking before a long march.

As he watches, something else loosens and shifts inside him, like a stone turning over at the bottom of a river.

He thinks of his father’s face these past weeks; the way Daeron’s eyes have flicked between you and him in council. The careful questions about northern customs. The way talk of marriages has crept closer to the Stark name each time the subject returns, always from some lord’s lips, never the king’s, and always redirected with a mildness that leaves too much unsaid.

He hears again Barthogan’s words: You had best speak with your father. Plainly, for once.

He has been telling himself, until now, that this visit was about trade and peace and the pleasant fiction of tours and hunts and unity. That his father’s silence on betrothals has been courtesy rather than calculation. That he, Baelor, could stand between you and any bargain he did not like simply by refusing to give it his name. Now, with your hand still warm from his lips and your blood still seeping into his father’s sheets, he allows himself to see it as it is.

Daeron means to bind wolf and dragon with more than ink.

It hits him, then, what he has been pretending not to see: that when his father looks at you, and then at him, he is not only thinking of peace and grain tithes. He is seeing a future drawn sharp as ink—you at Baelor’s side, not as a guest, not as negotiated ally, but as wife. As queen.

The shape of his life tilts beneath that thought.

For the first time, he lets himself follow it out fully: you in crimson and black at his right hand, your voice at his shoulder in council, your hand resting casual and steady on his arm at court. The two of you riding out from this keep side by side. Your laughter off the stone of his solar, your wolf set loose in the dragon’s den and utterly unafraid. It is dizzying, how easily the picture comes once he stops fighting it.

And under all of that—hot and startling and entirely, selfishly his—the sudden, treacherous awareness of what it might be like to kiss you without restraint or fear of consequence. To feel your mouth open under his, not in some fevered, guilty imagining, but as a right given and returned. The idea burns through Baelor so sharply he’s abruptly glad he is sitting; if he were standing, he thinks, his knees might have betrayed him.

His whole life, he has trained himself not to want. Want makes princes careless; it makes kings cruel. He has been content with duty, with the clean, cold satisfaction of doing what is needful.

Now, for the first time, he wants so much that the wanting itself feels like a living thing in his chest—and the cruellest part is how possible it suddenly seems.

It terrifies him.

It steadies him.

“Of course,” he whispers, more to himself than to you, “this is what he meant.”

He sits back slightly, drawing in a slow breath, feeling the contours of this new certainty settle around his ribs.

If you live—and the thought is a hard, unforgiving if—the path ahead has changed. Not in some hypothetical, distant way, but in the precise angles of conversations he will need to have with his Father, with Lord Stark, with the realm. He is his father’s Hand. He has spent years shaping other people’s futures in small, careful increments. He has never truly let himself consider the shape of his own.

Now, holding your hand print still faint on his lips, Baelor begins to.

“Wake up,” he says gently, leaning forward, his voice barely more than breath. “We have work to do, you and I. Deals to make. Old ghosts to settle. My father to needle.”

He allows himself one last touch—his fingertips brushing a stray strand of hair back from your forehead, careful not to disturb the bandages at your shoulder.

“Just… stay,” he adds, so quietly he is not sure whether even the gods can hear it. “Stay, and I will make the rest of it right. As much as any man can.”

Outside, somewhere in the depths of the castle, a bell tolls again, marking the passing of another hour.

His ten minutes are nearly gone.

Baelor sits there a moment longer, fixing the sight of you, the feel of your hand, the shape of his own resolve in his chest. Then, with a reluctance that aches in his bones, he eases his fingers from yours and rises to his feet.

He looks down at you once more.

“Until tomorrow, then,” he says softly. “Try not to terrify too many maesters in my absence.”

Baelor turns toward the door, his knee complaining, his shoulders set. 

His father waits. 

—

Daeron’s solar is still lit when Baelor finds his way there.

The torches in the corridor outside have burned low; their light throws long, wavering shadows over the dragon-carved door. Two white cloaks stand guard, helms under their arms, expressions carefully blank. Baelor nods to them; one reaches for the handle at once.

“His Grace is—”

“Awake,” Daeron’s voice calls from within, dry and precise. “Let him in.”

The solar smells of ink and cooling wax, with a lingering thread of something softer—citrus and myrrh, the scent of Dorne.

Maps and ledgers litter the great table in the centre of the room, pushed into uneasy heaps. A decanter of wine stands half-empty, two cups beside it. One of them is clearly Daeron’s: smudged where ink-stained fingers have gripped the stem. The other is untouched, its surface unbroken, catching firelight in a dark, garnet gleam.

By the hearth, in a tall chair pulled close to the warmth, sits Queen Myriah.

She has shed her courtly armour for the night: no jewels, no stiff brocade, only a deep red gown that falls soft over her, silk sleeves pushed to the elbow. Her dark hair is braided loose over one shoulder, a few silver threads winking where the light catches. A piece of embroidery lies forgotten in her lap, needle still caught in the half-finished spray of orange blossoms. Her bare feet rest on a low stool; she looks, for a moment, less like a queen and more like a tired mother sitting up too late.

Her head comes up as Baelor steps in. “Bael,” she breathes, the syllable soft with relief.

Daeron stands with his back to the room, hands braced on the stone sill, looking out at his city. He has shed crown and cloak; only the simple chain at his throat marks him as anything but a thin, weary man of middle years. The lamplight picks out the streaks of silver in his golden hair, the familiar line of his shoulders. His reflection in the glass is more dragon than scholar tonight—hard mouth, hard eyes, a contained fire.

“Busy day,” he notes without turning. “I’ve just spent an hour assuring half the realm’s loudest lords that the North is not about to rise in open rebellion because we let their wolf princess get shot on our doorstep.”

Baelor closes the door behind him. The sound clicks into the quiet.

“How did they take it?” he asks. His voice comes out steadier than he feels.

“In the way of men who would like something to be frightened of,” Daeron replies. He straightens, rolling his shoulders, then finally turns to face his son. “Half of them smelling opportunity, half of them smelling doom. All of them, for the moment, leashed.” He studies Baelor’s face for a heartbeat; his gaze catches on the smear of dried blood still at his collar, the hollows under his eyes. “How is she?”

“Alive,” Baelor replies. The word has become a litany. “For now. Aerys believes the worst of the poison has been checked. The next days will decide how much of her the venom tried to take with it.”

Something in Daeron’s face eases. Not much. But enough that the lines at the corners of his mouth soften.

“Good,” he says quietly. “The realm is fragile enough without us murdering our guests, however accidentally.”

Behind him, Myriah lets out a breath she’s been holding since he spoke.

“Thank the gods,” she murmurs in her lilting accent. She rises from her chair with the easy grace that never quite left her, even as the years piled their small indignities onto her joints. Crossing the room, she reaches Baelor in a rustle of silk.

Up close, she smells of sun-warmed fruit and smoke from the fire. Her hands come up to his face without hesitation, thumbs brushing the edge of the dried blood at Baelor’s jaw, as if reassuring herself that it is not his.

“My son,” she says softly, Dornish vowels smoothing the words. “You are whole.”

“For now,” he echoes, and tries to smile for her.

Myriah’s mouth trembles. She leans in and kisses his cheek, just below the smear of red, as if staking her own claim over the mark. Her fingers rest a moment against his jaw, warm and firm.

“I have sent prayers for her every hour,” she tells him. “For the wolf-girl. The one who dragged you out of the path.” There is a fierce gratitude in her eyes now, brightening the tiredness. “I will send more.”

“Thank you, Mother. Lady Stark will appreciate all the help she can get,” Baelor says, and his voice comes out rougher than he meant.

Myriah’s gaze lingers on him, searching, weighing. She has always been better than his father at seeing the spaces between what he says. Daeron clears his throat lightly.

“Myriah,” he prompts gently. “Baelor and I need a moment.”

She glances over her shoulder at him, one brow lifting.

“Alone?” she asks. There is a wry aside in it: as if the last time she left the two of them alone, they were boys with stolen lemons.

“This time, yes,” Daeron answers. “We won’t be long.”

She looks back at Baelor. “Then I will go and sit with the girl’s father,” she decides. “He looks like a man who might snap if left alone too long with his thoughts. I know something of those.”

Her hand squeezes Baelor’s cheek once more before she lets him go.

“Do not stay on your feet all night,” she chides gently. “You walk like your grandfather when the rains come. Rest when you can. She will not wake faster for you wearing yourself to bone.”

“Yes, Mother,” Baelor says, because it is easier than promising anything else.

Myriah smiles, small and sharp and achingly fond. Then she pivots on bare, ring-gleaming feet and crosses back to the door, gathering her shawl from the back of a chair as she goes. The white cloaks outside straighten as she passes; she nods to them as if they are old acquaintances.

The door closes behind her with a soft thud. The room feels different without her—the warmth she carries gone in an instant, leaving ink and wax and dragonstone chill. 

Daeron gestures toward the table.

“Sit, if you can stand to,” he says. “You look like a man who’s been dragged behind a horse all day.”

Baelor almost laughs at that. Almost. Instead, he stays where he is, just inside the room, fingers flexing once at his sides, as if testing whether they will obey him.

“There is something I need to ask you,” he says tightly.

Daeron’s brows lift a fraction. “Only one thing? Either you are merciful, or you are very focused.”

“I’m trying to be,” Baelor answers. He draws in a breath that tastes of old smoke and wine. “What are your intentions toward House Stark?”

The question hangs in the air, blunt as a hammer. Daeron regards him for a long, silent moment.

“Specific,” he hums thoughtfully. “You must be very tired indeed.”

Baelor doesn’t look away. “Father.”

“Very well.”

Daeron exhales and pushes away from the window. He moves with that deliberate, unhurried gait that always makes courtiers forget how quickly he can strike if he chooses. The hem of his robe whispers over the stone. He comes to a halt on the far side of the table, resting his hands against the scarred wood where a hundred other arguments have been fought and settled.

“You are not a fool,” he begins. “You have seen the talk circling. You can likely recite by rote half the arguments I would make about glaciers and dragonfire and what it means, symbolically, to yoke North and South in marriage rather than war.”

“I have,” Baelor admits. His voice feels thick in his throat. “I would rather hear you say it plainly.”

Daeron inclines his head, the motion small, the chain at his throat catching the light.

“Plainly, then,” he says. “I have proposed a match between our houses. A formal alliance. Blood for blood. Wolf and dragon, bound by law and gods both.”

Baelor’s heart beats once, hard, like a fist against his ribs. Heat and cold wash through him in the same breath.

“And the match is?” he asks. The words feel strange in his mouth, as if his tongue has forgotten the shape of them.

Daeron’s gaze sharpens, weighing him with new care.

“To Maekar,” he answers calmly. “Stark’s girl for my youngest son. The North for the steel in our hand, not the quill in it.”

Everything inside Baelor goes very, very quiet.

The solar doesn’t spin, the floor doesn’t drop; there is no shock like an arrow’s impact. It is slower than that. A steady, inexorable tipping somewhere deep behind his breastbone, as if someone has taken the board of his life and leaned it, letting all the neat, ordered pieces tumble into a new pattern he doesn’t recognise.

He feels the words hit, one after another.

To Maekar.

Stark’s girl.

Not you.

The dragon in him—coiled so long under iron discipline it has almost forgotten its own name—unfurls in a sudden, searing lash of instinct.

Mine, something in his blood whispers, hot and ugly and very old. She stood between us and death. She bled for us. She walked into our fire and did not flinch. Ours.

He clamps his teeth on it, jaw aching. Across the table, Daeron is still speaking. The words come from a long way off, as if through water.

“—a practical match,” his father is saying. “Maekar is a soldier; the North understands that kind of strength. They will trust him to hold a line with them, to bleed with them if need be. It gives him a power-base that is his, not mine, which he will need when you wear the crown, and he has to reconcile himself to standing a step below you. It tells the realm that we value the North for more than its spears—that we are willing to give them a prince and not some third cousin with a dragon on his cloak and nothing behind it.”

He’s thought this through. Of course, he has. Baelor can see every tidy line of logic, laid out like a game of cyvasse already half-won. Black and white, glacier and dragonfire, all in their proper places.

Under it, his own need prowls, furious and bewildered.

He thinks of Maekar, broad-shouldered and blunt, sitting at your bedside trying not to look worried. Maekar, who grumbled and swore and then called you brave, as if the word had been dragged out of him with tongs. Maekar, who has never wanted the crown and would take the North with grim, competent hands and never think twice about the girl at the centre of the bargain, except to be loyal in the way Baelor already knows he would.

It should comfort him. It doesn’t.

The dragon in his chest snarls again, quieter but more persistent now, pressing hot against his ribs.

He will take what you want and not even know he holds it. He will have her laugh, and her temper, and the way she looks at a man whose word she trusts. He will have the right to stand beside her when the snows come. And you will have a story about peace to tell yourself in the dark.

“And now,” Daeron goes on, oblivious to the stillness forming on Baelor’s side of the table, “this attack sharpens it. She has bled to keep the crown prince safe. You could not ask the gods for a more potent argument. We can take this… outrage, and turn it. Show the realm that such loyalty—standing between dragon and arrow—is honoured. We marry her into our blood, lend Stark our name, make it clear that we value this kind of courage above all else. It strengthens the story, Baelor. It strengthens us.”

He looks up, eyes bright with a tired, grim sort of conviction. He believes this. He has held this realm together with stories like this—hurt turned to heraldry, wounds turned to warnings.

Baelor hears his own voice break the air.

“No,” he says.

The word falls into the room like a dropped blade. Baelor doesn’t recognise the sound. It is too flat. Too hard. There is none of his usual careful tempering in it. No softening for his father’s sake, no instinctive bend toward compromise. Daeron blinks, the flow of his reasoning checked as cleanly as if someone had knocked over all his little carved dragons.

“Baelor—”

“No,” Baelor repeats. The second time, it comes easier, pulled up from deeper. “You cannot use this.”

His father’s mouth tightens. “Use—?” There’s a flash of real offence there, under the exhaustion. “Gods, boy, I am trying to make it matter. To ensure this is not just another pointless hurt. We were struck through her. We answer by raising her. That is not exploitation; it is—”

“No,” Baelor says again, and it costs him more than any order he has ever given men in the field. “You will not bind her to Maekar. Not for this.”

The ringing in his ears is louder now than the crackle of the fire. He can feel his pulse in his fingertips, his throat. His hands are shaking. He curls them into fists until the leather of his gloves creaks in protest. Every lesson of his life screams at him to stand down. To soften. To turn the word into something more palatable—perhaps, Father, or we should consider other options. To swallow the raw edge and offer it back in a shape Daeron can take without cutting his hands.

The dragon in him bares its teeth and refuses.

She is not a piece for you to move, it hisses. She is the hand that knocked the arrow aside. She is the one who bit a man’s hand to keep breathing. She is ours.

Daeron straightens fully, the years falling from him in an instant. The king is there suddenly, not just the worn man staring down an ungrateful realm. His presence fills the solar the way heat fills a forge; the air feels thinner, tighter around the edges.

“Be careful,” he says softly. “You have never spoken to me this way before.”

“I know,” Baelor answers, and that, too, is true. Every syllable feels like treason against habit, against love.

He loves this man. Loves him in that endless, bone-deep way that comes from watching him hold a shattered kingdom together for years. Baelor has built half his life on being the son Daeron can lean on without having to look, the one who does not make trouble, who smooths and soothes and mends.

And still.

“I cannot allow this match,” he forces out.

The words fall between them and stay there, heavy and undeniable. Silence stretches, taut as a drawn bowstring. In the hearth, a log settles with a soft sigh and a flurry of sparks. Daeron’s eyes narrow—not with immediate anger, but with something more dangerous: dawning comprehension. He has always been quick at reading the currents under men’s words; he would not be the king he is otherwise.

“And why is that?” The question is soft, almost gentle; the steel is all underneath. “You have spoken at length, these past years, about the value of Northern steel and the need to bring the Starks closer. You have argued for marriages with less enthusiasm than this house deserves. Now, when the alliance is all but offered, you balk. Why?”

Baelor looks away.

His gaze finds the window, the dark smear of the city beyond. The glass gives him back a ghost of himself: hollow-eyed, jaw clenched, a smear of someone else’s blood at his throat. Behind that reflection, faint and doubled, his father waits.

Say it, the dragon in him urges savagely. Tell him she is yours. Tell him you will not see her in another man’s arms while you still draw breath, even if it’s your blood.

Baelor’s tongue sticks to the roof of his mouth.

“Do not make me say it,” he manages.

“A king,” Daeron replies coolly, and there is no give in him now, “does not build on what his sons cannot bear to name. You want to stand at my right hand and at my place when I am gone, you will speak plain. I will not be led by stammers and silences. Not in this.”

It is unfair. It is entirely, precisely fair.

Baelor’s breath comes shorter. The room feels too small; the walls too close. He pushes away from the patch of stone where he had unconsciously braced himself, crossing the solar in three quick strides. The map-strewn table stands between them like a painted battlefield. Little carved dragons and wolves dot its surface, marking supply lines and winter stores and levy strengths. It looks, suddenly, obscene.

He sets his hands on the wood, fingers splaying against the old cuts and ink stains. The urge to sweep it all onto the floor—to send their tidy plans flying—is a hot flash in his muscles. He masters it, straightening instead, drawing himself up as if he were armoured.

His heart is beating too fast; he can hear it in his ears, feel it in his neck and in his teeth.

“If you wish,” he says, each word chosen and placed like a stone, “to wed Lady Stark to anyone in this house…”

He steps around the edge of the table, closing the last of the distance. Now there is nothing between them but air, and blood, and the weight of the day—the memory of you crumpling in the leaves, the taste of your name in his prayers.

The dragon in him lifts its head, eyes bright, teeth bared.

“... then it will be me.”

Jake’s eyes snap up to your face, wide now. He’s still holding his nose, blood trickling down his cheek, still lying on the sticky hardwood floor. 

“Shit, Hangman, are you—” Mickey stops dead when his gaze lands on you, lips curving into that bright, boyish smile. “Oh. Hi.” 

You tip your head, smirking. “Hi.” Then you nod down at Jake. “This belong to you?” 

“I don’t belong to anyone,” Jake mutters, reaching a hand up for help. 

Javy appears beside Mickey and grabs Jake’s hand, hauling him up so fast his head spins and he has to steady himself with a hand on his friend’s shoulder. 

“You alright, Seresin?” 

Jake whips around too fast, making his head throb—but the pain is nothing compared to the confusion. 

How the hell do you know his name? 

“Wow,” you mutter, eyeing his service khakis up and down. “Military suits you.” 

He drops his chin to his chest and spots his name badge, then glances back up with a smirk beneath his still-bleeding nose. “Nice trick.” 

You lift a brow. “Trick?” 

“My name badge.” 

You tilt your head. “You really don’t remember me, do you?” Your eyes narrow, lips curling into an amused grin. “Jake.” 

His eyes widen and his hand drops from his face, a fresh drop of blood dripping onto his upper lip. 

Something about you is familiar, he can’t deny. Your smirk, the little sparkle in your eye, the way you say his name. You know him—that’s for sure. But does he know you? 

His first thought—fear, really—is that you’re a bitter one-night stand he never called back. But usually those women have slapped him by now. And he’s been good lately—he hasn’t broken a heart in at least a year. He’s turned a new leaf. He’s the new and improved, sensitive, understanding Jake Seresin now. 

So why can’t he remember you? 

Then his eyes drop to the boots—your boots. The ones you begged your parents for as a graduation present. The ones you wore everywhere from the day you got them. The ones that sat beside his bed that night—the night you both crossed the line. 

“Holy shit,” he mutters. “I—It’s you. I mean, you’re—oh my God, you’ve changed—you—you’re really—holy shit.” 

You bite your lip, cheeks flushing pink—and that’s when Jake really recognises you. Because he knows what you look like when you blush. God knows he made you blush enough growing up. 

But holy shit, have you changed. No more awkward acne, no more uneasy smile, no more terrible haircut. You stand taller now, more confident, like you finally know exactly who you are. It’s magnetic. Jake can’t look away—and neither can anyone else. 

“Come on,” you giggle softly. “Let’s get you cleaned up.” 

You grab his arm, nod at his friends, and start dragging him toward the bar. He doesn’t even spare Javy or Mickey a glance—because he can’t stop looking at you. The curve of your neck, the slope of your shoulder, the way your fingers fit so perfectly around his wrist. 

He knows you. Knows everything about you. He once mapped every inch of your skin with his mouth. You’re familiar to him, but somehow—right now—completely different. 

“You’ve changed,” he says again. 

You stop at the bar and shove him toward a stool, ignoring the comment as you turn to face Penny. “Could I get some ice, please? And—” 

Penny drops a box of tissues on the bar with a small smile before turning to fetch the ice. 

“Didn’t think it was proper for naval officers to get into bar fights,” you say, handing him a wad of tissues. 

He presses them beneath his nose, wincing. “I was trying to deescalate the situation.” 

You snort. “Oh, really? And how’d that work out for you?” 

He tries to smirk beneath the clump of bloody tissues. “Well, now I’m being taken care of by a pretty girl, so you tell me.” 

Your brows lift. “Wow. No preamble, just straight into it, huh?” 

He tips his head back, feeling another drop of blood slide down his nose. “Does there need to be preamble between two friends who’ve known each other for literal decades?” 

“When they haven’t seen each other for one of those literal decades? Yes,” you say, before softly thanking Penny as she hands over a towel full of ice. 

“That’s a lie, I saw you on a video call two Christmases ago.” 

You huff a short laugh and step closer, sliding between his knees, one hand cupping the back of his head. 

So much for preamble, he thinks—before scrambling to think of the grossest things he can imagine. Because you’re too pretty, too close. You smell too good, and you’re too you. It’s dangerous for you to be standing between his legs right now. Or at all. 

Even if you are just trying to play nurse. 

Oh, God. Now he’s picturing you in a skimpy nurse costume. 

“Have you stopped bleeding?” you ask, urging his head forward again. 

He slowly pulls the tissues away, eyes locked on yours. He’s been closer to you before—obviously—but not in years. Ten years, to be exact. Sure, there have been the occasional calls, texts, and family video chats. But he hasn’t seen you. Not in person. Not like this. 

Not since he broke your heart. 

“I think you’re good, cowboy,” you murmur, pressing the makeshift icepack into his hand. 

Jake lifts it slowly to his nose, hesitating when you hold your hand out for the bloody tissues. The way you arch your brows is impatient, though, and he caves—dropping them into your palm. You scrunch them into a ball and head toward the back of the bar. He watches you disappear into the women’s bathroom, then reappear a minute later and make your way back to him. All the while his heart is thumping too hard and he’s still trying to reroute his blood flow. 

“So, Seresin,” you say, sliding onto the stool beside him. “What’s it like being an American hero?” 

He chuckles. “I don’t know about hero.” 

You roll your eyes. “Please. Your mom hasn’t stopped bragging about you since you graduated the academy.” 

“Of course she hasn’t,” he sighs, trying to ignore the heat creeping into his cheeks. 

“Come on, then,” you press. “What’s it like?” 

He takes a slow breath and sets the icepack in his lap. “It’s good,” he mutters, green eyes flicking up to meet yours. “Hard work, but… fulfilling. I love it.” 

Your lips twitch as if you’re trying to bite back a smile. “And those other men in khakis—you work with them?” 

“Yeah,” Jake nods, swivelling slightly to glance at his friends across the bar. “And the rest of ‘em over there, pretending they’re not staring right at you.” 

You laugh softly. “So you’re all pretty close, then?” 

Jake huffs. “Almost too close.” He turns back to you, and—for some stupid reason—it feels like he can breathe again. Like looking at you is all he’s ever needed to really feel alive. He clears his throat. “We make up an elite mission unit.” 

Your brows lift. “So you’re like… a top-secret government spy?”  

“More like a top-secret government pilot.”  

“Wow,” you laugh again—but there’s a little bite in it this time. “That must work fantastically for getting you laid. Or—sorry, should I not assume? Is there a Mrs. Seresin I haven’t heard about?” 

Jake hesitates, narrowing his eyes. “Are you trying to figure out if I’m single?” 

The faintest shade of pink creeps into your cheeks. “I’m not trying to figure out anything,” you say, squaring your shoulders. “I’m asking.” 

The confidence in your voice isn’t forced. You know exactly what you’re asking—no hesitation—and it’s just another reminder of how you’ve changed. Not completely, but enough to make Jake feel like he’s the one playing catch up. 

So he does what he always does when he feels a little off-balance—he smirks. His head tilts just enough to catch the light in his eyes, and one brow lifts, deliberate, as though he’s daring you to rise to the bait. His gaze lingers a fraction too long, and when his jaw ticks, the smirk tugs wider—lazy, practiced, dangerous. 

“I’m single,” he says, his voice lower now. 

You hesitate. Jake can almost swear you’ve stopped breathing. Your eyes are locked on his face, your cheeks slowly getting redder by the second. 

After a beat—a very smug, loaded beat—he asks, “And you?” 

You blink, a small frown pulling between your brows. “We’re not talking about me. We’re talking about you.” 

“That so?” Jake leans back a little, studying you. “So I can’t ask why you’re here in North Island?” 

Your frown deepens. “You don’t know?” 

“I’m supposed to know?” 

You shrug. “I just figured my mom would’ve told your mom and—well, she would’ve told you.” 

Jake’s smirk slips, eyes narrowing as he thinks back to his last phone call with his mother. It was only a week ago—and her voice had sounded a little smug. A little secretive. Bubbling with something she clearly wasn’t saying. Something he should’ve caught. 

“Actually,” he says slowly, “now that you mention it, she was kind of giggly on our last call.” 

“Oh.” You nod once, lips twitching. “So she wanted it to be a surprise.” 

Jake chuckles under his breath. “Well... it was.” 

You let out a quick half-laugh, but your eyes flick past him, fixing on a safe spot in the corner of the room. He notices. Of course he notices. Because every time your shoulders start to ease, you look away—like you’re reminding yourself to stay guarded. To keep the mask in place. And that hits harder than he’d like to admit. 

“So.” He clears his throat. “Why are you here?” 

“I transferred,” you say simply. 

Jake tilts his head. “You’re... Navy?” 

You shake your head. “No—civilian contractor. My company landed a contract here and I went for a promotion.” You pause, searching his face, like you’re testing the weight of your words. “And I got it. Senior analyst. Leading a whole team, and everything.” 

Jake blinks. “Wow. That’s... impressive.” His chest tightens. “How long’s the contract?” 

“Three years.” 

His heart gives a sharp, heavy thud—like it’s reminding him it’s still there. Still feeling. Still tangled up in you. 

“So you’re here for a while?” he asks, voice quieter now. 

You draw a deep breath and nod. “Yeah. That’s why I figured we should make amends... since we’ll probably be seeing each other around.” 

Jake flinches. “Okay. Ouch.” 

You blink. “What?”  

“Well, first of all,” he says, squaring his shoulders, “I didn’t realise we still had amends to make. And second—” he pauses, watching the way you hold yourself so carefully, that calm expression you’ve practiced to perfection “—‘see each other around’? Like we’re not going to actually hang out. Catch up. Be friends?” 

There’s a long beat. The air grows heavier, pressing close, and the look in your eyes sharpens. You’re still wearing that mask, but it doesn’t reach your eyes—and in them, Jake can see almost every turbulent emotion clawing for release.  

“I don’t think I can be friends with you, Jake.” 

The words hit like a punch to the gut—but he doesn’t let it show. 

“Come on,” he sighs, “it’s been over a decade.” 

You swallow hard, your gaze flicking back to that corner of the bar—the safe spot you keep retreating to. “Yeah, but… the first person to break your heart always leaves the deepest scar. You know?” You pause, blinking fast before your eyes meet his again. “Anyway,” you add with a soft sigh, “I should call an Uber. I have an entire apartment to unpack and only two days to do it.”  

“Don’t call an Uber,” Jake says quickly, pulse pounding in his ears. “Let me drive you home.” 

The deepest scar. How could you say that so casually? As if you don’t realise it kills him to know he broke your heart at all—let alone left the kind of wound that never healed. 

Your brows pinch. “What about your friends?” 

“They’ll be fine.” He waves a hand, aiming for casual even though his chest feels like it’s splintering apart. “Besides, I’m exhausted—I could use an excuse to go home.” 

You study him for a moment, eyes betraying the quiet battle you’re fighting inside. Jake can see it. Then a long breath escapes you, and your shoulders drop—not in surrender, but in something close to it. 

“Okay,” you say, sliding off the stool. “I’ll wait outside while you say goodbye.” 

“You don’t want to meet them?” he asks. 

“Not today.” 

“But someday, right?” 

You give him a flat look. “Don’t push your luck, cowboy.” 

Then you turn on your heel and disappear, weaving through the crowd, leaving Jake with reeling thoughts, an aching chest—and the quiet awakening of something he thought he’d lost forever. 

After a good minute of staring at absolutely nothing, replaying the last half hour in his head, Jake finally slides off the stool and makes his way toward his friends. He’s barely reached them when Javy dramatically shoots to his feet, eyes wide as saucers. 

“Is that really her?” he asks. 

Jake blinks slowly, then nods. 

“Oh my God, she’s—” 

“Wait,” Bradley cuts in, “she’s the one that—” 

“Yeah,” Jake mutters. 

Natasha frowns. “The one that what?” 

Javy lets out a low chuckle, shaking his head in disbelief. “She’s so—” 

“Different,” Jake interrupts quickly. 

Bradley smirks into his beer bottle. “She’s hot.” 

“Who’s hot?” Natasha demands, her patience thinning by the second. 

“Hangman’s friend,” Mickey offers, as if he’s being helpful. 

She shoots him a sideways look—sharp enough to wipe the grin from his face. 

Javy tilts his head. “I thought you said she wasn’t—” 

“She wasn’t,” Jake says fast. “I mean—on the inside, she’s always been—” He hesitates, the words sticking in his throat. “But she’s different now. She’s—” 

“Gorgeous,” Bradley says, earning himself a scathing glare from Jake. 

Natasha slaps both hands flat on the table. “If someone doesn’t tell me who this woman is right now, I swear to God I will flip this table.” 

“It’s bolted down,” Bob mutters. 

Her head whips toward him. “Then I’ll rip it out of the goddamn floorboards.” 

Bob leans back, both hands raised in surrender. 

Natasha turns back to Jake. “Who is she?” 

Jake exhales slowly. “She’s my—” 

“The one that got away,” Bradley interrupts with a grin. 

Natasha shoots him a look. “And you know this how?” 

Bradley shrugs. “Hangman told me the whole story one night when he was really drunk. I saw a photo of her on his dresser and—” 

“You have a photo of her on your dresser?” Natasha’s brows shoot up as her gaze swings back to Jake. 

“It’s not weird,” Jake insists quickly. “We’ve known each other forever. We grew up together.” 

Bob leans in, brow furrowed. “Then why haven’t the rest of us heard about her before?” 

Jake swallows hard. “Because I’m pretty sure she’s spent the last decade hating me.” 

Natasha frowns. “Why?” 

“Isn’t she waiting outside right now?” Micky cuts in before Jake can answer. 

“Shit,” Jake mutters. “Yeah—uh, I gotta go. I’ll see you guys tomorrow night.” 

“Wait,” Natasha says quickly, eyes wide. “I need to know what happened.” 

“Coyote can fill you in.” Jake turns to his best friend with a grimace. “Just… try not to make me sound like too much of an asshole.” 

Bradley snorts. “That’s gonna be tough.” 

Jake shoots him a flat look before giving the rest of them a half-hearted wave and disappearing back into the crowd, praying to any god who might be listening that you haven’t already changed your mind and called an Uber. 

But sure enough, when he bursts through the doors into the cool night air, there you are—leaning against the front of his truck, arms crossed, head tipped back, eyes lost somewhere in the stars. 

Jake’s gaze drags over you like a man starved. The column of your throat, the slope of your collarbone, the way your crossed arms press against your chest—every detail carves itself into him like it hasn’t a hundred times before. He tells himself to stop, to focus on your face—your gorgeous face—and not drink in your skin like he’s been dying of thirst. But he can’t. Not when he still remembers your taste. Not when the ghost of you has been haunting him for so many years. 

And before he can force himself to move closer, to speak, he just stands there for a beat too long—wanting you more than he ever has, and hating himself more than he ever thought possible. 

“Good to know your taste in vehicles hasn’t improved since high school,” you say, snapping him out of whatever trance you’d put him in. 

Jake clears his throat, glancing toward the truck. “That’s because it can’t improve,” he says with a small smirk. “Doesn’t get much better than this.” 

You roll your eyes and push off the fender. “Actually, it does. Believe it or not, they’ve invented these things called safety features now. You know—air bags, emergency brakes, power steering.” 

Jake snorts. “Power steering? You saying you don’t enjoy watching me flex every time I turn a corner?” 

You huff a laugh and circle around the front of the truck, but Jake catches the small smile tugging at your lips before you turn away. 

He climbs into the driver’s seat, jams the key in the ignition, and the truck shudders awake with a growl that rattles the cab. 

Your eyes go wide. “Jesus Christ, Seresin. You’re basically driving a tin can on wheels.” 

He chuckles. “A tin can with character.” 

You roll your eyes again as you buckle your seatbelt, tugging it sharply a few times to make sure it locks. Jake watches you, chest tightening. He still can’t quite reconcile it—how you’re both exactly the same and yet entirely different. You’ve always been beautiful to him. Always. But now the rest of the world can see it too, and he hates that he never said it back when it mattered. Back when it was just the two of you, before life sharpened your edges and forced you to build walls. 

Because now? Now it’ll look like he only wants you after the ‘glow-up’. Like he’s the asshole who broke your heart, left you scarred, and came crawling back once you’d turned into the kind of woman who could turn every head in the room. 

And nothing could be further from the truth. 

Because the truth is, there hasn’t been a single day in Jake Seresin’s life where he hasn’t thought about you. Loved you. Wanted you to know just how much you mean to him. 

“Just head toward Ocean Boulevard,” you say, pulling him out of his spiralling thoughts. 

Jake clears his throat, fixes his eyes out the windshield, and shifts into first. The truck rolls forward, gravel crunching under the tires, and soon enough he’s driving out through the base gates, hitting the gas down Ocean Boulevard. 

“Turn down F Avenue and keep going until you hit ninth,” you instruct. “Then turn—” 

A loud pop cuts you off. The steering wheel jerks violently, rattling the cab, and both of you flinch as the truck lurches. Jake grips hard, steering it toward the side of the road until he manages to edge it right up against the curb.  

Then he yanks the handbrake, kills the engine—and his head whips toward you, eyes wide. “You okay?” 

You blink once, twice, a small frown creasing your brow. “Well… yeah. It’s just a blowout.” 

He lets go of a breath he hadn’t realised he was holding and nods, dragging a hand through his hair. “I know. Just… scared me.” 

“Scared you?” you echo, lips twitching. 

He nods again, voice dropping low. “Yeah. You being in the car. If something had happened—” His throat works, and for a second he can’t look at you. “I’d never forgive myself.” 

Before you can answer, he shoves the door open and climbs out. His heart is beating too hard, too loud, and he’s starting to feel lightheaded. He needs air. Space. Because sitting there with you so close, your perfume clouding the cab, he felt like he was seconds away from blacking out. 

He circles the back of the truck until he spots the damage—the rear wheel on the curb side, rubber shredded in strips. 

“Got a spare?” you ask, climbing out of the passenger seat. 

“Yeah, but—” 

“Great. Where’s the jack and wrench?” 

When he looks at you—hands on your hips, brows pinched, lips pressed into a determined line—he can’t help the smirk tugging at his mouth. “As much as I’d love to watch you change the tire on my truck,” he says, “I’m pretty sure the spare’s either missing or older than we are.” 

Your brows shoot up. “You don’t have a spare tire?” 

Jake shrugs. “Not sure. Didn’t check when I bought it.” 

“From a dealer?” 

“Nope,” he chuckles. “Some guy on Facebook.” 

“Jake!” 

“What?” He throws his hands up, still laughing. “I didn’t need a fancy car. I barely drive it. Pretty sure this is the second, maybe third time it’s left base since I bought it.” 

You fold your arms and glare at him. “Seriously?” 

“Seriously,” he says with a shrug. “I’m still in the barracks. Don’t need to go anywhere else.” 

You tilt your head. “What about hookups?” 

He scoffs. “What hookups?” 

“Oh, come on. You’re Jake Seresin. Don’t act like you’re not—” 

“I’m not,” he cuts in, a little too fast, stepping toward you like he needs you to believe it. 

You go rigid, shoulders tensing, walls snapping back into place so visibly it makes his stomach sink. 

“I’m sorry,” he says, stepping back again. “I’ll call Rooster and see if he can still drive.” 

Your brows knit, arms dropping to your sides. “Sorry for what?” 

Jake hesitates, phone halfway out of his pocket. “For… making you uncomfortable.” 

“You don’t make me uncomfortable, Jake.” 

He frowns. “Then why are you so guarded?” He knows he shouldn’t ask—he should just let it go and be grateful for even a small piece of you back in his life—but he can’t. “Why are you holding back? Why does it feel like we’re strangers when I’ve known you your whole life?” 

You blink slowly, the crease between your brows deepening. He can feel your gaze tracing his skin like fire—studying him, measuring, keeping that practiced calm in place. 

“We are strangers, Jake,” you finally say, voice steady despite the way your eyes glimmer under the streetlight. “We haven’t really spoken in ten years—and yes, I know that was my choice, but—” You stop yourself and draw a deep, shaky breath. “But do you have any idea what you did to me?” 

Jake’s chest tightens. “I know I fucked up, okay? I know I hurt you. I know—” 

“No. You don’t,” you cut in sharply. “You have no idea. You didn’t just hurt me, Jake. You fucking destroyed me. You ruined me. You broke pieces of me I didn’t even know existed. You ripped me apart in ways I’m still putting back together. And I know—” You let out a bitter laugh, edged with tears. “—I know it was over a decade ago. I get it. But do you have any idea the kind of damage you have to do for it to take ten fucking years to heal?” 

Jake’s eyes sting. His pulse is pounding in his ears. Words scream inside his head, but none make it out. He’s frozen. Paralysed. His chest aches—and his heart is breaking. 

You take a deep breath and blink hard, tipping your head back. “I was in love with you, Jake,” you say, voice lower now. “Even after you said what you said, I—I still loved you. I still wanted you. God. I fucking want you now—do you know how sick that makes me feel?” 

His chest tightens like he’s pulling ten Gs, heart hammering so loud he can barely hear his own ragged breaths. 

“Sick?” he echoes, voice distant, hollow in his ears. 

“Yes, sick,” you snap. “Because you were everything to me. Not just then, not just after we—after we fucked.” You almost choke on the word as a single tear slips down your cheek. “For as long as I can remember, you were the most important thing in the world to me. It was always you. It was always about you. Everything I did was for you. I mean—fuck—I pretended we didn’t even know each other in school because you asked me to. I didn’t come over when your friends were over because you asked me to. I didn’t talk to you at your goddamn birthday parties because you asked me to!” Your voice rises, raw and fraying at the edges. “I did everything you asked me to just so you’d still be my friend. And I thought—” you close your eyes, more tears slipping free, “I thought college would’ve been different. I thought you’d matured—at least, that’s what Mom told me. But—but then we—” You stop short, hand pressed to your chest as if something heavy is pressing down too hard for the words to escape. 

Jake blinks fast, fighting to keep his own emotions from spilling. “Please,” he rasps, “please stop.” 

Your eyes narrow at him, red-rimmed and glinting with unshed tears. “You want me to stop? You want me to stop reminding you of what you did? How you treated me?” You swipe angrily at your cheek with the back of your hand. “Well, too bad. Because maybe you’ve managed to repress the memories, but I haven’t. It wasn’t just that final moment that hurt me, Jake. It was every fucking year leading up to it. It was every single moment you treated me like I was less than just because I wasn’t pretty.” You let out another bitter, almost incredulous, laugh. “God, do you know how insane that sounds? Do you know how stupid it feels to admit that the crux of my childhood trauma is a stupid boy not thinking I’m pretty enough to be seen with him in public?” 

Jake swallows hard on the lump in his throat. “That’s not—” 

“This is why I haven’t spoken to you in over a decade,” you snap. “Not because I’m not over what happened that day. I am. And not because I hate you. I really don’t.” Your gaze pins him, sharp and unyielding. “But I will never forgive you for what you did to that little girl. To me. For making me feel like I wasn’t worth shit.” 

You stand frozen for a beat, chest barely moving, the weight of your words settling between you. Then, with a breath that feels too heavy, you turn on your heel and start walking away. 

“Wait,” Jake calls, voice cracking. “Where are you going?” 

You don’t answer. 

“You can’t walk home in the dark,” he says, jogging to catch up with you. 

“It’s not far,” you throw over your shoulder, keeping your pace steady. 

Jake lets out a sharp breath. “It’s still dark.” 

“Then follow me,” you snap, voice low and tense. “I don’t care. Just don’t talk to me, I—I'm tired.” 

And so he does. A few steps behind, careful not to crowd you, probably looking like a shadow under the dark of night. He doesn’t speak—not because you told him not to, but because he can’t. His chest feels tight, his heart hammering in a way that makes each step heavier, each breath a little harder to draw. He can’t even pretend to know the depth of your pain—only that he caused it. 

All he wants is to reach out, to say the words he should have said a decade ago, to beg for forgiveness and make you understand that he isn’t that boy anymore. That he knows now—truly knows—that everything he said, everything he did, was wrong. That if there’s even the tiniest chance to make it right, he’d take it. He needs you to know that he did love you—that he still does. But he was young, reckless, cruel in ways he didn’t understand, a kid blind to the damage his words and actions could leave behind. 

And now he sees it. All of it. The little cuts, the dismissals, the moments that seemed meaningless to him but defined years of your life. It wasn’t just that final night in college that broke you—it was everything before it, piling up silently while he had no idea. 

He’s carried guilt for years, but only tonight does it hit him in full—the scale of what he’s done. Ever since losing you, he’s wanted to know how to fix it, how to reach you, how to make you see the truth of what he’s felt all along. But now, following you through the dark, heart hammering, thoughts splintering, he isn’t sure there’s a single thing he could do to repair the damage. Or if he even deserves to try. 

- Ten Years Ago - 

The sun cuts across your face—a single, blinding line of gold splitting through the gap in the curtains. You blink awake, slow and heavy, shifting under the soft sheets and—an arm. The solid weight of an arm wrapped tight around your waist. 

For a split second, panic slams into you. The memories of last night flash through your mind in jagged, breathless bursts—his hands gripping your skin, the press of his mouth, the way your body gave itself over to him in ways you’d only ever dreamed of. Your heart stutters, pounding loud in your ears, and then— 

Your gaze lands on him. 

Jake Seresin. 

He’s right there, inches away, his face bathed in pale morning light. Long lashes fan over his cheeks. His lips part softly with each steady breath. He looks nothing like the golden boy who ruled every room—he looks younger, softer, like someone only you were ever meant to see. 

And it wrecks you. 

Your heart lurches high in your throat, choking you with the force of it. You’d pictured this so many times—fantasised about it, begged for it in the quiet corners of your mind—but the reality is overwhelming. Dizzying. Too much. Too real. 

You shift onto your side, body aching with reminders of every place he touched you, every line you swore you’d never cross until you crossed them all with him. 

Your fingers twitch against the sheet, and before you can stop yourself you’re reaching out—tracing the hard angle of his jaw, the curve of his cheekbone. Memorising him like proof this actually happened. His skin is warm under your touch. He stirs but doesn’t wake. 

And that’s when it hits you, knocking the breath from your lungs. 

You lost your virginity to Jake fucking Seresin. The boy who never felt like he could be yours. The boy who could undo you with one look. The boy you’ve loved all your life, even when you wished you didn’t. 

And now you’re lying in his bed. And he’s holding you like you’re his. 

“Stop staring,” he mumbles, voice thick with sleep. 

Your cheeks flush, hand still hovering at his jaw. “I’m not.” 

The corner of his mouth curves. “Liar.” 

Your heart stumbles. “Go back to sleep.” 

“Can’t,” he murmurs, finally cracking one eye open to look at you. “Not with you right here.” 

His arm tightens, pulling you closer as he shifts to tuck the other beneath your body, pressing you right up against him. He brushes his lips against yours, soft and fleeting, before sinking back into his pillow. His eyes flutter shut, a contented sigh slipping out like this moment is the most perfect he’s ever known. 

You want to relax with him, to nuzzle into his chest and breathe him in, to forget about every anxious thought spinning in your mind. But you can’t. Because this is real, and what happened last night has changed everything. 

“I can hear you overthinking,” he mutters, eyes still closed. 

Your eyes linger on his mouth, and warmth rushes through you at the memory of everywhere it was last night. 

“Can you blame me?” you whisper. “Last night was—” 

“Perfect.” His eyes open fast, worry clouding them. “Right? You’re not regretting—” 

“No,” you cut in quickly. “Of course not. I don’t regret anything.” Your gaze falls to his chest. “Unless you regret—” 

“Never.” 

He tilts your chin up with gentle fingers, green eyes searching yours as if to be sure. Then he kisses you—soft, slow, reverent. Everything he couldn’t say, everything he showed you last night, pressed into the shape of your mouth. 

You want to be cautious, to protect yourself, but you can’t. Not with Jake. He’s everything you’ve ever wanted, and being here with him feels inevitable—like this was always where the two of you were meant to end up. 

Sure, it’s been complicated. Nothing about Jake has ever been simple. But when it’s just the two of you, all the noise disappears. Alone with him, you’ve always felt like you mattered. Like he loves you just as much as you love him—maybe even needs you in ways he can’t show anyone else. 

You know what people think. That you should hate him for keeping you a secret, for pretending you weren’t important when others were around. You’ve heard it enough times—from friends, even family. But you never could hate him. How could you? He’s Jake Seresin—the golden boy, the one everyone wants a piece of. You never blamed him for holding one piece back for himself. The piece that was you. Because with you, he’s real. And you’ve always known him better than anyone. 

Maybe you were naive to accept the way things were, to let him look right through you in public just because you didn’t fit into his world. But that was then. He’s not that boy anymore. He’s grown. Changed. You can’t hold the mistakes of a kid against the man he’s becoming. 

Deep down, you’ve always known he cared. Even when he didn’t show it the right way, he was still there. Last night only proved it. Proved that what you’ve always felt—that you were more than a secret—was real. That he sees you. All of you. 

And even if everything changes after last night, you know you’ll never regret Jake Seresin being your first. And you know you’ll never stop loving him. 

“Coffee?” Jake offers, snapping you out of your spiralling thoughts. 

His eyes are open now, wide and soft, full of something you can’t quite place. 

You hum. “Yeah, but does that mean I have to get out of bed?” 

He chuckles. “Nope. Just me. I’ll run down to the café.” 

He kisses you again—firmer this time—before slipping out of bed and grabbing his clothes off the floor. The same ones you’d tossed there last night, after undressing each other. Because last night you had sex with Jake Seresin. And that’s not something you’re ever going to be sick of reminding yourself. 

“What’s that grin for?” he asks as he pulls his shirt over his head. 

You tug the covers up to your chin. “Nothing. It’s just—” 

“We had sex last night?” 

You roll your eyes, hiding your stupid smile beneath his duvet. “Yeah. Something like that.” 

He laughs softly as he leans down and presses his lips to your forehead—a simple gesture, but one that makes your chest ache with fondness. 

“I won’t be long,” he says, swiping his wallet and keys off the bedside table. 

Then with a crooked grin and a cheeky wink, he’s out the door. Leaving you in his bed, staring up at the ceiling of his dorm, replaying every moment of last night like you’re trying to catalogue every touch, every look, every feeling. 

You lie there for a good five minutes, reminding yourself that this is real. That Jake is going to walk back through that door soon. And when he does, he’s going to touch you again, kiss you again—be with you in ways you’ve dreamt about for most of your life. 

With a soft, almost dreamy sigh, you slip out from beneath the covers and start gathering your things. You know Jake has class sometime this morning, so you don’t plan on lingering like some clingy girl who doesn’t know when to leave. You pull on your clothes from last night and grab the sweatshirt draped over the back of his desk chair—the weather’s turned colder overnight, and you know you’ll need the extra layer. 

You tidy the few things that got knocked over last night and loosely make his bed before settling at the foot of it, phone in hand. You scroll through a few missed notifications and quickly reply to your friend, the one who had so reluctantly left you in Jake’s care last night. 

It’s not that she doesn’t trust him—she just doesn’t like him. None of your friends do. They think he’s cruel, shallow, all ego and no care. But they don’t know him the way you do. They don’t see the sweet side—the quieter, insecure parts of him that you’ve always believed were yours alone. They don’t know how much he really does care. 

After about fifteen minutes of scrolling through your phone, you realise that Jake is taking a little too long. You know the café he likes, and you know it wouldn’t be busy at this time on a Thursday—most students are either in class or studying at the library by now. 

You wait two more minutes before pushing off the bed and heading for the door. You yank it open and stick your head into the hallway, like maybe checking will magically make him appear. For a moment you just stand there, listening to the distant shuffle of feet and scattered voices. You’re about to give up and step back inside when— 

“Seresin! Where you off to in such a rush?” 

“Hey, McNeil.” Jake’s voice echoes down the corridor. “What’s up?” 

You twist your head both ways, but you can’t see anyone. You can’t even tell which direction the voices are coming from—but the hallway is carrying them straight to you, loud and clear, like it wants you to hear. 

“Not much, man,” McNeil—whoever that is—says. “Thirsty this morning?” 

Jake laughs, but it’s off, forced. “Oh. Yeah—uh, this one’s for a friend.” 

“A friend?” McNeil presses. “Wait... don’t tell me you had a sleepover with that freshman four I saw you bring back last night?” 

Your chest tightens. Your breath comes sharp and shallow, panic pressing down on your ribs. 

“Yeah… I mean, she’s a family friend,” Jake says, letting out another awkward laugh. “I was just trying to be nice. My mom would kill me if she found out I left her drunk and alone at some frat house.” 

Your stomach drops. Heat prickles up the back of your neck, humiliation burning hot and mean behind your ribs. 

McNeil snorts. “You’re a saint, Seresin. I bet she was all over you too.” 

“Oh, yeah,” Jake says, voice deeper now, slipping into that fake bravado that makes him sound like the worst kind of asshole. “She was drunk off her ass, a little desperate. I just didn’t have the heart to toss her out.” 

McNeil laughs. Loudly. Like Jake is hilarious, and not breaking you apart with every word. 

Tears sting your eyes, falling fast and hot down your cheeks. Your stomach twists, nausea clawing at you, but you don’t have time to let it take over. You let the door fall shut with a thud loud enough that you know they’d have heard it, then scramble to gather your things, slip into your shoes, and yank the door open again. 

You turn sharply into the hall, swiping furiously at the tears blurring your vision. Your whole body is shaking—trembling—with a mix of anger, embarrassment, pain. You never imagined anything could hurt this much, but hearing him say that after you gave him everything? It’s unbearable. 

You can’t breathe. Can’t think. Your chest aches, your limbs feel like lead, and nausea presses against the back of your throat. You’re not sure you’ll even make it out of the building without collapsing or throwing up. 

You reach the end of the hall, swing around the corner—and freeze. 

“Wait,” Jake says, eyes wide, coffees in hand. “Let me—” 

“Fuck you,” you snap, voice sharp. “Get out of my way.” 

“Please, just listen. I—” 

“You what?” you cut him off, wiping more tears from your face. “You’re sorry? You didn’t mean it? How the fuck do you even start to fix this, Jake?” 

His mouth opens, then closes. No words come out. He’s frozen, eyes wide and glossy, as if they might fill with tears too. 

“I know I’m not very pretty,” you breathe, voice breaking. “I know I’m not like the other girls you’ve dated. I know you were embarrassed of me when we were kids—but that was then, Jake. Back when you were too young to understand, and I was too naive to know how much it hurt. But this? This is now.” You swallow hard, blinking fast to try and clear your tears. “We’re done. I don’t want anything to do with you. I don’t want to be your dirty little secret. I don’t want to be the girl you’re ashamed to be seen with. I don’t want you in my life. Ever.” 

“No,” he whispers, desperate, almost pleading. “Please… don’t say that.” 

You hold his gaze for a moment, letting it hurt, letting him feel the weight of what he’s done. Then you drop your eyes and shoulder past him. 

“Bye Jake.” 

- Present - 

For some reason, living close to the beach makes you want to be the kind of girl who owns matching workout sets and jogs at sunrise on a Sunday morning. But after digging through your suitcase—still not unpacked—at ten a.m., which is obviously well past sunrise, and finding nothing but a pair of black leggings and a threadbare Dallas Cowboys sweatshirt, you have to admit you’re not that kind of girl. 

Still, you force yourself to get dressed, lace up your shoes, and leave the apartment. You’ve been unpacking boxes for over twenty-four hours now, after giving up on sleep Friday night and needing the distraction all day yesterday. Your hands are covered in little cuts from the carboard edges, the floor is littered with packing paper, and your back is aching from hauling overstuffed boxes. 

You need air. Sunlight. Maybe even human interaction. 

And you need to text Jake. 

You need to apologise, because freaking out on him Friday night was totally uncalled for. Sure, you hadn’t seen him in person for more than ten years, but that doesn’t give you the right to let every feeling you’ve ever had boil over all at once. He was right—it’s been over a decade. You should be over it. You are. You just… felt a lot of feelings when you saw him again for the first time. 

And you want to explain that to him. Tell him that you really don’t hate him, you really are over it. That maybe, you even want to be friends again. 

You’d be lying if you said you didn’t still have feelings for him. Feelings like that don’t just disappear, no matter how badly someone has hurt you. And it isn’t even that night, or the morning after, that lingers the most—like you told him last night—it's everything else. Every year leading up to it. As a kid, you had no idea how much it hurt until you grew up and looked back. Until you realised that the way he treated you is the reason you’ve never felt worth anything. 

That kind of mould doesn’t break easily. 

Even now, you’re still unsure of yourself. Nervous. Self-conscious. Always worrying about what others think. 

But you can’t blame Jake. You can’t hold it against him. He was just a kid too, and he didn’t know any better. His dad was barely around—too busy being an admiral to bother actually fathering his son. And his mom? She was kind but soft. Oblivious to the way her husband cared only about Jake becoming a military man, never about teaching him right from wrong. Jake had to figure that out on his own. 

And you know he was always desperate for his father’s approval. He couldn’t be weak, he couldn’t be truant, he couldn’t fall short. He had to be perfect. With perfect grades and perfect friends. You just didn’t fit in that perfect picture. 

In a twisted kind of way, Jake was almost protecting you. He knew his father didn’t like you—you knew it too. To him, you were a rambunctious child, given too much free will and not enough military discipline. He never said it to your parents—wouldn't dare—but you’d overheard him say it to his wife once or twice. Jake’s mom still loved you, though. 

It’s complicated. Almost too complicated. And that’s why you can’t blame Jake for everything. Yes, he hurt you, and you’ve always needed him to take responsibility for that. But you’ll never blame him. Not completely. 

You can’t. 

You still love him. 

“Watch it,” someone snaps, yanking you out of your thoughts. 

You stumble to the side of the path. “Sorry,” you mutter, breathless. 

A woman jogs past with a small curly white dog that looks like it would rather be anywhere else but tethered to her leash. Her face is twisted into a scowl, eyes flicking over your well-worn sweater like it personally offends her. 

Maybe she’s not a Cowboys fan. 

You shake your head, take a deep breath, and turn to continue your walk. Not jog—because jogging is hard. You could barely breathe after running to the end of your block. 

You’re just about to pull your phone out and start drafting a text to Jake when— 

“Hey.” 

You glance up, and your heart lurches. “Jake?” 

There he is. In all his sweaty glory. Jake Seresin, looking like absolute sin in a pair of gym shorts that would make a nun blush and a tight-fitting t-shirt that makes your fingertips itch to touch it. 

Yeah. Even after all these years, Jake still has the same effect on you. Breathless, frustrated, and a little horny. 

“What—uh, what are you up to this morning?” he asks with a tentative smile. 

“Just thought I’d come out for a jog on the beach,” you say—and immediately regret it. 

Jake knows you. He’s not stupid. You’ve never gone for a jog in your life, and in the decade you spent apart, that hasn’t changed one bit. 

He smirks. “A jog?” 

You tilt your head. “Okay. More of a walk.” 

He nods, eyes dropping to your sweater. “Is... is that mine?” 

You glance down, face burning. “Uh, maybe.” 

There’s a pause. Not awkward, but charged. He keeps staring at the sweatshirt like it’s trying to tell him something, whispering a secret he’s been desperate to hear. A confession. It’s almost unnerving. And the old woman walking past definitely thinks he’s just staring at your tits. 

“Listen, Jake,” you say finally, shifting awkwardly to the side of the path. “I want to say sorry.” 

He blinks, lips twitching. “Sorry for what?” he asks, echoing the words you said to him two nights ago. 

You give him a flat look. “I’m serious. I need to apologise. I shouldn’t have freaked out on you like that.” You pause, clearing your throat. “I know it might not seem like it, but I really am over it. It was just... a lot, seeing you again for the first time.” 

His expression softens, his eyes tracing your face like he’s afraid to miss a single detail. “You don’t need to apologise.” His voice is low, steady. “And you don’t need to be over it. What I did was... horrible. Unforgivable. Not just that morning, but our whole lives.” 

“You were just a kid, Jake.” 

“A kid that should have known better,” he says, brows pinching. “And... a man that should have learnt how to apologise properly and take accountability.” 

You shrug, lips tugging into a small sheepish smile. “I didn’t really give you a chance.” 

“I should have tried harder,” he insists. “I should have slept on your doorstep telling you how sorry I was, how much I needed you. But...” he takes a deep breath, jaw tight, “I’m trying now. And I swear, I’m going to do everything I can to fix this. To make you know how much I care. How much I missed you.” 

His eyes are wide, pleading, overflowing with that emotion you know but still can’t name. The noise of the beach—the gulls, the waves, the chatter—falls away. All you can hear is the pounding of your heart and the echo of his words ringing through your head. 

“Okay,” you mutter, blinking up at him. “So, what now?” 

“Friends,” he says, smiling now. “And promise me you won’t disappear again.” 

“Disappear?” you echo. “Jake, you always knew where I was.” 

He frowns. “What do you mean?” 

“Well, for starters, you texted me at least once a month.” 

“But you didn’t always reply.” 

You roll your eyes. “Okay, but you saw me on those stupid family video calls our parents make us do.” 

“That’s true,” he admits, “but you never spoke.” 

“Alright.” You cross your arms, lips tugging into a small smirk. “I also know you used to call my mom every few months to make sure I was alive. Ask if I was engaged or dating anyone or—God forbid—married.” 

Jake’s eyes go wide. “She told you?” 

“Of course she told me, she’s my mom.” 

He pouts—actually pouts. “She said it was our little secret.” 

You snort. “Yeah, no. Nothing is a secret when it comes to you, Seresin. If Mom had her way, I’d have been walking down the aisle to you the minute I turned eighteen. Pretty sure she’s still holding out hope.” 

Jake’s eyes narrow. “Hope for what?” 

You laugh softly, shaking your head. “Us, idiot. You and me, together. God, if we ever told either of our moms that we slept together, they’d have the glory box out and the wedding planner booked in seconds.” 

Jake hesitates, then frowns. “You didn’t—you didn’t tell your mom?” 

“Tell her what?” 

“That we... you know—” He winces. “I just thought that was the kind of thing moms and daughters talked about.” 

“About losing my virginity?!” you hiss, horrified. 

A few passersby glance your way—some curious, some disgusted. One teenage boy—seventeen, maybe—bursts out laughing until his mother swats him on the arm. 

Jake chuckles. “I know it was good, but I’d rather not broadcast it to all of North Island, if that’s okay with you.” 

You freeze—cheeks burning, heart pounding. Good? He thought it was good? For you, of course it was, but for him? You’d expected... mediocre at best. You never imagined he’d still think it was good ten years later. Surely he’s had better sex since then. Surely you don’t even measure up to what he’s experienced since then. 

“Good? It... it was good?” 

His smile falters. “I mean—yeah. It was... really good. Was it not good for you?” 

Your pulse thrums in your throat—and lower. Heat crawls across your skin. How are you having this conversation in the middle of Coronado a decade later? And why is it making your entire body blush? 

“Yeah—of course it was good for me,” you mutter, eyes dropping all the way down to your shoes. “I just didn’t think it would’ve been... for you.” 

He scoffs. “Are you kidding? I still think about that night.” 

The words hit like a spark in dry grass. Your head jerks up, your breath catching, and suddenly all you can hear is your heartbeat. He’s staring at you like he can’t believe what he just admitted, like he’s waiting—pleading—for you to answer. 

But you can’t. How could you? 

It feels like the entire world has narrowed down to the space between your bodies, your chests rising and falling in the same jagged rhythm. Every thought, every impulse, every memory of that night is screaming behind your eyes, but all you can do is hold his gaze. 

He leans in—just a fraction—but it’s enough, and it’s too much. Too close. Too raw. Your stomach twists, your pulse races, and the seconds stretch out into something heavy and electric, until the air between you feels like it could ignite. 

You blink and force an awkward laugh. “Okay, I—uh... we probably shouldn’t talk about this.” 

He laughs too, strained and uncomfortable. “You’re right. We shouldn’t.” 

You hesitate for a moment, then hike your thumb over your shoulder. “Well, I should get back to unpacking.” 

“Of course,” he says, a little too quickly. “I told my friends I’d meet them for coffee so...” 

You step back, as if a few feet of space might stop you from wanting him so badly. “Right, well—um, see you around, I guess.” 

“Yeah,” he says softly. “See you... around.” 

He starts to move past you with a tight smile—but stops. Mid-step, mid-thought. Then he turns to you with an unreadable expression tugging at his features. Something between a frown and a grimace, like he’s physically holding himself back. 

“Come to the bar tonight,” he blurts. 

You lift a brow. “The Hard Deck?” 

“Yeah. It’s trivia night. First Sunday of the month. My squad and I always go. They’re all really competitive, but... it’s fun.” 

“Your whole squad?” 

He nods. “I promise they don’t bite.” 

Your lips twitch. “Not even the tall one with the moustache?” 

His eyes widen just slightly, his jaw tightening. “Don’t even joke.” 

“About what?” you ask, all faux innocence. 

“Flirting with—or, I don’t know, hitting on my friends.” 

His shoulders go rigid, his whole body tense. He looks genuinely annoyed. Whether it’s because he doesn’t want to share his friends—or doesn’t want to share you—you’re not sure. All you know is that you hope it’s the latter. 

You decide to push it. “What if they flirt with me?” 

“They won’t,” he snaps—not harsh, just quick. 

You huff a laugh. “Okay, ouch.” 

“I didn’t mean it like that,” he sighs. “I mean, they probably will flirt with you, but—” He stops himself, brow furrowing, throat working on a swallow. “They’ll like you. Trust me.” 

He looks frustrated, conflicted. Like there’s something he wants to say—something burning to be said—but it’s stuck somewhere in his chest, and he just can’t get it out. 

“Like me?” you echo. 

He nods. “Will you come—please?” 

You hesitate, blinking up at him with a small frown. “Huh. I think this is the first time you’ve asked me to hang out with your friends.” 

“Shit,” Jake mutters, rubbing the back of his neck, “I… guess it is.” 

He looks bashful, boyish. Like the kid who used to stay up with you until midnight the night before your birthday, waiting to hand you the most thoughtful present you’d get that year. 

“I’ll come,” you decide. 

His face lights up. “Really?” 

“Really.” 

“Okay, good. It starts at seven. Do you need a lift?” 

You snort. “I’m not getting back in that truck. Ever.” 

Jake slaps a hand to his chest in mock-hurt. “Don’t hate the truck.” 

You roll your eyes despite the smile tugging at your lips. “I’ll meet you there. Now aren’t you late for coffee with your friends or something?” 

“Yeah, I am,” he says, his voice lower, almost disappointed—as if he doesn’t really want to leave. “I’ll see you tonight.” 

You nod. “See you tonight, cowboy.” 

He gives you one last, tight-lipped smile, full of something he isn’t saying, then nods and continues down the path. After a few steps, he breaks into a jog. He risks a glance over his shoulder and almost trips—which makes you giggle. And when he turns his head back around, you shamelessly watch his ass in those criminal little shorts until he’s too far away to see. 

- 

You spend the rest of the day unpacking. And ignoring the growing weight in your chest at the thought of meeting Jake’s squad. 

Because what if they don’t like you? 

Just because you’re older now doesn’t mean you’ve miraculously gained confidence. Sure, you’re a little more self-assured, but most of the time you’re just faking it. Deep down, you still feel like that awkward, unconventional little girl who was never pretty enough to stand in the middle of the class picture. Or make it into the yearbook. Or get asked to prom. 

Well, technically, Jake did ask you to prom. He’d already graduated, but he offered to take you to yours. You were flattered—of course you were—and you wanted to say yes, but you knew it was just out of pity. You knew he didn’t really want to take you. That he wouldn’t know how to explain to his friends why he was taking his weird little family friend to prom. 

So you told him it was fine. That you had a date already. 

You lied. 

Jake only found out that you’d gone alone years later, when you told him in college—the night everything changed. The night you lost your virginity. 

You were at a frat party, overwhelmed and uncomfortable, when Jake texted you to meet him in the quad by his dorm. So you went. Talked. Laughed. Reminisced. Slipped back into the easy rhythm of sharing secrets the way you used to when you were kids. When you’d build blanket forts and whisper to each other past bedtime. 

You don’t remember exactly how it came up, but somehow you ended up talking about prom. Jake was telling you some ridiculous story about one of his friends—the last in the group to lose his virginity—who was determined to make prom night his big moment. And that’s when you decided to tell him two of your own secrets. 

The first was that you’d gone to prom alone, and you apologised for lying to him about it. He was a little upset that you'd had to spend prom night all by yourself, but he didn’t hold the lie against you. 

And the second? You admitted that you were still a virgin. And while it wasn’t all that unusual for a college freshman not to have lost their virginity yet, you were still aching to know what it would feel like. 

The air shifted then—suddenly charged, crackling like static before a storm. You could feel the way his body moved even though he wasn’t touching you. Your pulse was too fast, your skin too warm, every nerve on high alert. 

The memory of that night is a blur now, more feeling than detail. What you do remember is Jake kissing you. Touching you. Taking you up to his dorm and making you see stars. 

Then... the morning after. And heartbreak. 

Even though it hurts to think about it, you still do. Often. Because even though you’ve slept with other people since then—good, attractive people—Jake is the best you’ve ever had. And you worry that he always will be. There was something deeper about that connection, something woven into your souls. Like he knew your body better than you did. Like you just fit together. Every touch was electric, every breath magnified. He was gentle but commanding, coaxing and generous. God, you think about that night way more than you should. 

And sometimes you wish you hadn’t done it—because maybe then you wouldn’t still be tethered to him, even now. Maybe you’d have a chance at moving on. But the truth is, you can’t bring yourself to regret it. Because no matter what came after, despite all the fallout and all the ache… it’s still the best night of your life. 

The sharp ping of your phone bounces off the tiled bathroom walls. Your thoughts scatter, memories dissolving, and you inhale too fast, too shallow. It’s almost time to leave, but you’ve been frozen in the mirror for at least five minutes now, still debating whether to put lip gloss on. 

Your phone pings again, and you glance down. 

JAKE: Let me know when you’re here. 

JAKE: We’re at a table just inside the main doors, to the left. 

You draw another deep breath, longer this time, and tuck your phone into the pocket of your jeans. You smooth your palms down your thighs, give your reflection one last searching look, then grab your jacket, slip on your shoes, and force yourself out the door. 

The Uber ride to the bar is too quick. There’s hardly enough time to quiet your nerves or breathe through the knot in your chest. And before you’re ready, you’re walking up the sandy steps to The Hard Deck’s front doors. 

You hesitate before pushing them open, hand hovering, and tell yourself to keep it together. It’s just Jake. Just Jake’s friends. Just a bunch of incredibly skilled, ridiculously smart, and unfairly attractive fighter pilots. Not intimidating at all. Right? 

“Hey!” Jake calls the second you step through the door, like he’d been waiting all day just to see you. 

His friends, all crowded around the table, snicker and exchange knowing glances. 

“Hey,” you greet, reaching them in only a few strides. 

Jake pushes to his feet. “Guys, this is—” 

“We know,” the moustached one cuts in with a grin. “You’ve been talking about her nonstop for the past fifteen minutes.” 

Jake shoots him a flat look. “Thanks, Rooster.” 

You laugh softly, eyes darting around the group of—quite honestly—obnoxiously attractive people. 

“That’s Bradley,” Jake tells you, “or Rooster. Then there’s Mickey—Fanboy—Reuben, or Payback, Javy, also known as Coyote, Natasha, who’s also Phoenix, and Bob.” 

You blink. “Bob?” 

Bob smiles softly. “Just Bob.” 

You turn back to Jake. “What’s your nickname again? I can’t remember.” 

“Bagman,” Natasha answers before he can, smirking. 

You press your lips together to keep from laughing. 

“It’s Hangman,” Jake says, narrowing his eyes at her. 

You grimace. “Yeah, that’s not much better.” Then you pull out the empty chair beside Bradley. “But it’s fitting, at least.” 

There’s a chorus of oohs and muffled laughter from the table as Jake’s jaw tightens, his cheeks flushing the faintest shade of pink. You bite back a smile and settle into your seat, trying not to look at him as he drops into the chair on your other side. 

“So, let me get this straight,” Natasha says, leaning forward. “You’ve known Bagman for… how long?” 

 “Met him before I was even an hour old,” you reply. 

“Oh, you poor thing,” Bradley mutters into his beer. 

Natasha’s eyes widen. “I have so many questions.” 

You risk a glance at Jake—and heat rushes to your cheeks when you catch his eyes already on you. “And I have answers.”  

“No you don’t,” he says firmly, pinning you with his gaze. 

“Yes, she does,” Bradley cuts in, draping his arm across the back of your chair. “And I, for one, can’t wait to hear them.” 

You turn toward Bradley, eyes tracing the sharp lines of his profile. He’s handsome—that’s for sure—and the moustache is criminally hot, even though it shouldn’t be. He could be your type, if you had a type that existed outside of Jake Seresin. And he gives off that flirty, fun, no-strings-attached kind of energy that most people probably mistake for genuine interest. But the only thing you’re genuinely interested in is getting under Jake’s skin, and if the look he’s giving Bradley for draping his arm over the back of your chair is any indication, this is the perfect target to flirt with. 

Not that you’re trying to cause any real drama. You would never. You’re just… testing the boundaries of this new dynamic. Seeing if Jake really means it when he says he wants to be friends again. Making sure his words weren’t empty, and that he genuinely wants to fix things between you. 

And okay—maybe you have a little something to prove. Maybe you want to prove that you are desirable. Flirty. Fun. That you can hold your own with someone as charming and attractive as Bradley. It’s not even about Jake—well, not entirely. It’s about proving it to yourself. About believing it. 

“Our team’s called The Wingmen,” Bradley says, nodding toward the papers in the middle of the table. 

You squint to see the team name written at the top of each sheet. One sheet per round, ten questions—ten answers. And since Natasha is the only one with a pen in front of her, you’re guessing she’s the scribe. 

“The Wingmen?” you echo. 

“Yeah.” He tilts his head toward you. “When we fly, whoever’s second in formation is called the wingman. They cover our six, make sure no one gets in trouble.” 

“Oh.” You nod slowly, lips twitching. “So, nothing to do with helping each other get laid or anything like that.” 

Bradley’s lips curl into a smirk, his mahogany eyes sparkling under the dim bar lights. “No,” he chuckles, “nothing like that. But something tells me you don’t need much help in that department.” 

You arch a brow. “That so?” 

He nods. “In fact, I don’t think you’d have to do much more than flash that pretty smile to get me into—” 

“All right, North Island!” Penny’s voice crackles through the mic. “Welcome to The Hard Deck’s trivia night. We’ve got teams all over the place tonight—and some new faces—but I’m assuming you all know the rules.” 

There’s a soft round of applause, and you swivel in your seat to see her standing in front of the bar.  

“No phones, or your team will be penalised,” she goes on. “Write your answers on the answer sheets, then bring them up at the end of the round. My lovely assistants Amelia and Pete will be marking and tallying scores.” 

Across the table from you, Mickey whistles, and the rest of the squad whoop and clap. 

Bradley leans in again. “That’s Maverick. Our CO. He’s dating Penny—and that’s her daughter.” 

You raise your brows. “Go Penny.” 

Bradley’s eyes widen, a grin tugging at his lips. “Did you just call my godfather hot?” 

“Godfather?” you echo. 

He nods. 

“Guess it runs in the family, then,” you say with a small smirk. 

He chuckles, colour blooming across his cheeks. “Smooth. But we’re not technically related.” 

“It worked, though,” you point out. “You’re blushing.” 

He shakes his head, laughing under his breath again as Penny rattles off all the categories for the night—movies, music, geography, history, science, literature, and pop culture. Then she tells everyone they’ve got five minutes to grab a drink, put their phones away, and get ready for round one. 

When you turn back to the table, you can feel Jake’s stare burning into the side of your face. 

You glance at him, brows raised. “What?” 

His shoulders are tight, jaw set, brow furrowed. “Nothing,” he mutters through his teeth. 

You tilt your head. “Doesn’t look like nothing.” 

His eyes flick past you, just for a second—toward Bradley—and they narrow slightly before snapping back to yours. 

“It’s nothing,” he insists, even though he sounds anything but convincing. 

“Okay,” Natasha cuts in before you can push further. “You all know the rules. Use your inside voices. Don’t yell out the answers—I’m looking at you, Fanboy. If you’re certain you’re right but someone disagrees, swear on Bob’s life. If you think you’re right but not totally sure, swear on Hangman’s life. And if you need to check your phone, take it outside, but don’t bother coming back until the round’s over. I’m not getting penalised because of you idiots.” 

“Wow,” you murmur, leaning just slightly toward Bradley. “She’s competitive.” 

“You have no idea,” he says quietly, his arm brushing yours as he leans closer. 

On your other side, Jake clears his throat—loudly. 

Natasha’s eyes cut toward him. “Something to add, Bagman?” 

He straightens quickly. “No—sorry. Just… something stuck in my throat.” 

She frowns, sceptical, but doesn’t push it—she just launches back into her speech about why everyone needs to focus tonight. Apparently, they broke their winning streak last month, and second place isn’t good enough. According to Natasha, second place is just the first to lose. 

It isn’t long before Penny returns to the mic to kick off the first round, and the buzz of conversation dulls to a low hum. Even the patrons not playing seem invested as she starts reading out questions. 

“Which 2005 sci-fi thriller directed by Steven Spielberg grossed over six hundred million worldwide?” 

“Ooh,” Mickey says, leaning across the table. “War of the Worlds.” 

“You sure?” Natasha asks. 

He nods vigorously. 

“Wasn’t it like… a Star Wars movie or something?” Reuben pipes up. 

Mickey’s head snaps toward him, eyes wide. “Spielberg didn’t direct a fucking Star Wars movie, you idiot.” 

Reuben just shrugs. “Yeah, but War of The Worlds kinda sucked.” 

“Just because you didn’t like it doesn’t mean it bombed,” Bob mutters. “It’s a sci-fi classic.” 

“I’m with Payback,” Javy chimes in. “I didn’t really like that main guy—what’s his name again?” 

“Oh my God,” Natasha hisses, smacking both hands on the table. “This isn’t a film critique. Fanboy—are you sure that’s the right answer?” 

Mickey nods again, and Natasha scribbles it down on the sheet. 

“Okay,” Penny calls over the chatter, “question number two: which actor played Jack Dawson in the 1997 film Titanic?” 

Beside you, Bradley scoffs. “Way too easy.” 

You glance at him, lips twitching. “Familiar with your heartthrob actors, are you?” 

“I had to learn from somewhere,” he shoots back with a smirk. 

Your eyes narrow. “Did you just call yourself a heartthrob?” 

He opens his mouth to retort, eyes sparkling, when— 

“Can you two shut up?” Jake hisses, leaning forward with a glare. 

Your brows pinch, indignation rising in your chest, but before you can fire back Penny is already on the mic with question number three. 

The rest of round one passes in a blur. Mickey and Bob field most of the answers—apparently the group’s film buffs—while you sit and quietly overanalyse every detail of Jake’s body language. Every muttered word. Every sidelong glance. He hasn’t smiled once since you sat down. Not since you slid into the seat beside Bradley and started innocently chatting. 

When round two begins, you quickly realise that Javy and Reuben are the squad’s main music enthusiasts—because they’re already whispering answers to Natasha before Penny even finishes the question. 

“Which song by American singer-songwriter Kenny Loggins was made famous by the 1986 film—” 

“Danger Zone,” Reuben cuts in under his breath, and Javy nods 

Natasha writes it down without hesitation and then slides the answer sheet toward Mickey—who is apparently the volunteer runner for the night. And just like that, round two is over. 

“So,” you say, glancing at Bradley, “what happens if we lose?” 

His eyes go wide as he drops his empty beer bottle on the table. “Don’t say that too loudly, or Phoenix will kick you out just for jinxing us.” 

Heat creeps into your cheeks, and you glance across the table to make sure she didn’t hear. 

“We came second last month—by one point,” Bradley explains, lowering his voice. “She blamed Bob because he swore on his life that orcas are whales. They’re called killer whales, right? But Nix knew it had to be a trick. She still wrote down whale anyway… and turns out, they’re dolphins.” 

Your brows lift. “Dolphins?” 

He nods. “Yep. She didn’t speak to him for a week—and he’s her back-seater. They literally have to fly together every day.” 

You huff a laugh. “That’s actually kind of impressive.” 

“Incredibly impressive,” Bradley agrees with a smirk. 

You open your mouth to press him further about Natasha’s competitive streak when the loud scrape of chair legs on hardwood cuts you off. You whip around to face Jake, who’s now standing with his chair shoved roughly back. 

“Anyone want a drink?” he asks, his voice clipped. 

Bradley, Javy, and Mickey all take him up on the offer, and just as he’s about to walk away, you reach out and grab his hand. 

He freezes mid-step, turning back slowly. 

“Could you get me one too, please?” you ask. 

His gaze drops to your hand curled around his, and his expression softens. “Yeah,” he mutters, “of course.” 

He clears his throat, but doesn’t let go right away. He lets his hand linger in yours for as long as both your arms will allow, and when he finally lets go, your skin burns with the memory of his warmth. 

“Wow,” Javy chuckles. 

You turn back to face the table. “What?” 

The whole table looks like they’re holding back a smile or a laugh, each one of them eyeing you carefully—like they’ve been warned to keep their mouths shut. 

“Nothing,” Natasha says before anyone else can crack. “It’s just—he’s different with you.” 

Your cheeks burn. “Oh.” 

“Not in a bad way,” she adds quickly. “Just... softer.” 

You open your mouth to ask what the hell that’s supposed to mean when Penny’s suddenly back on the mic, announcing the start of round three. Jake returns a minute later with a tray full of drinks and sets it in the middle of the table, completely oblivious to the way you can’t take your eyes off the strain of his t-shirt sleeves around his biceps.  

“Alright, geography time,” Penny says into the mic. “First question: what is the highest mountain peak in North America?” 

“Denali,” Mickey replies almost too quickly. 

Natasha narrows her eyes. “I don’t trust you. How do you know that?” 

His cheeks flush the faintest shade of pink. “I just do.” 

Reuben leans forward. “You sure, man? Geography isn’t your strongest—” 

“Yes,” Mickey snaps. “I’m sure. Swear on Bob’s life.” 

Natasha’s brows shoot up. “Bob’s life—you sure about that?” 

“You better be sure,” Bob mutters. “I’m not dying just because—” 

“It’s in Twilight, okay?” Mickey hisses through his teeth. “There’s a vampire coven in Denali, Alaska—also known as Mount McKinley. Highest point in North America.” 

Bob’s eyes widen. “You’re gambling my life on Twilight knowledge?” 

Reuben snorts. “You’ve watched Twilight?” 

“I read them, actually,” Mickey mutters, sinking lower in his chair. 

“Oh my God,” Natasha sighs. “Does anyone have a credible answer for this?” 

The table falls quiet, the mic crackling softly as Penny lifts it to her chin again. 

“Fuck it,” Natasha mutters. “You better be right, Garcia.” 

She scribbles it down and shoots Mickey a pointed look—one that says if this loses us the game, you’re dead. 

“Okay, question number two,” Penny announces. “What is the capital of Australia?” 

“Sydney,” Javy says immediately. 

You lean forward. “Actually, it’s Canberra.” 

Natasha frowns, pen hovering. “You sure?” 

You nod. “It’s one of the most commonly mistaken trivia questions. I got it wrong once, and now I’ll never forget it.”  

“Nice,” she says, flashing you a smile before writing it down. 

You lean back, taking a long sip of your drink to hide your smile—because of course you’re a little smug about finally getting to answer a question. 

“Not bad,” Bradley murmurs, leaning in just a little. “Didn’t have you pegged as a geography nerd.” 

You roll your eyes, a smirk tugging at your lips. “I’m not. But at least I’m contributing. You haven’t answered a single one yet.” 

He shrugs. “Trivia’s not my strong suit.” 

“Then what is?” 

His grin spreads slow, all confidence and ridiculous sex appeal. “Charisma. Good looks.” 

“Ohhh.” You nod with mock seriousness. “So you’re the hot but incredibly unhelpful friend?” 

His brows lift. “You think I’m hot?” 

You meet his gaze, unflinching, voice dropping lower. “You know you’re hot.” 

“But you just admitted it.” 

“Must be all that charisma of yours working.” 

For a beat, you just stare at each other. Both smirking, both daring. It isn’t charged the way things with Jake are—not even close. Those moments are heavy, weighted with everything unsaid. This is lighter. Just fun. Just banter between friends—or potential friends. And Bradley is charismatic, it’s hard not to flirt a little. 

Then— 

The harsh scrape of chair legs on hardwood—again. 

You whip around, startled, but this time Jake’s already gone. And when you spin toward the door, you only just catch the back of him as he stalks out into the night. 

“Uh oh,” Javy mutters. 

Bradley winces. “Shit.” 

“I’ll—um—” you push your chair back gently, “I’ll go make sure he’s—yeah.” 

You slip away as quietly as you can, ducking your head to avoid everyone’s eyes as you follow the same path as Jake out the doors. 

The night air hits cooler than you expect. The sun’s almost gone now, and the sky is a swirl of deep blue and fading orange that’s getting darker by the second, making the poorly lit car park feel a lot sketchier than it had an hour ago. 

Jake is only a few feet ahead, his head bowed and hands shoved as deep into his pockets as they’ll go.  

“Hey,” you call, lengthening your stride to catch up with him. “Jake.” 

He slips between two cars, and you can hear the jingle of keys. 

“Jake,” you try again, louder this time. 

He ignores you. 

“Jake!” you all but shout, trailing him until he finally stops—until he has no choice but to acknowledge you. “What the fuck are you doing?” 

He spins around, jaw set, brow furrowed. “What the fuck am I doing? What are you doing?” 

You rear back, stunned. “I—I’m… playing trivia and talking to your friends.” 

He scoffs. “You’re not talking. You’re flirting.” 

Your brows shoot up. “Seriously?” 

He doesn’t flinch, doesn’t soften. He just pins you in place with those green eyes—so clouded with emotion they almost look black in the dim light.  

“Okay, firstly,” you say, folding your arms, “that was barely flirting. And secondly, who are you to tell me who I can and can’t flirt with?” 

He blinks, almost like he’s buffering. “I’m not—I just… they’re my friends.” 

You snort. “Right. They’re your friends, so they can’t be my friends.” 

“What? No—no, that’s not what I’m saying. They can be your friends, they just—” he hesitates, drawing in a sharp breath, “they can’t be your… boyfriends.” 

“Boyfriends?” you echo, incredulous. “I mean, I don’t usually juggle more than one at a time, but…” You trail off, the words catching in your throat as you stare up at his stupidly perfect face—then you shake your head hard. “Look, if you’re trying to look out for me, or whatever—I’m sorry, you missed out on the whole protective older brother act when you ignored me for most of my teenage years.” 

His expression falters, eyes going wide. “Brother act?” 

“Yes.” You huff. “And I get it—you’ve known me since we were kids, and maybe you think you need to protect me. But we’re adults now, Jake. I can flirt with who I want, date who I want, without needing anyone’s permission or approval.” 

The air hangs thick between you, your chest is rising and falling faster than it should beneath your tightly crossed arms. Jake just stares, brow furrowed, jaw clenched like he’s physically biting back the words he really wants to say. 

“You think I’m being… protective?” he says finally. 

“Well, obviously.” You drop your arms. “If your friends are off-limits, just say that. But for the record, that was barely flirting. It was friendly banter.” 

His brows shoot up, and he takes a half-step back like you’ve knocked the breath out of him. “Banter?” he echoes. “If that’s not flirting, then you are way more dangerous than you realise. You just—” He cuts himself off, eyes squeezing shut as he sucks in another sharp breath. “You don’t get it, do you?” 

“Get what?” 

“Come on,” he sighs, raking a hand through his hair. “You’re smart. You can figure it out.” 

“Figure out what?” You throw your hands up in frustration. “Why are you being so weird and cryptic?”  

“Because I’m jealous!” he blurts, his voice sharp, almost desperate. “I’m not being protective, or trying to keep you away from my friends… I—I’m jealous.” He drags a hand down his face. “I’m jealous of every single person you look at that isn’t me. I’m jealous of everyone you’ve been with since me. I’m jealous of all the people who got to know you in the last ten years while I—while I did nothing but miss you. While I wished I had the balls to tell you back then that I—I’m… that I’m in love with you. And no amount of distance or time is ever going to change that.” 

You’re almost sure your heart stops—if it weren’t for the deafening pound of your pulse in your ears. Your chest tightens, breath catching. All you can do is stare at him, his words stretching taut between you, heavy with everything unsaid and far too much that was said. 

“Jake…” you whisper, voice barely audible. “You’re not—” 

“Don’t—” He steps closer, eyes burning. “Don’t tell me how I feel. Because I have always known that I would love you forever—I just didn’t know how much until it was too late.” 

Heat crawls up your neck, nerves prickling every inch of skin. Your limbs feel weightless, numb—you don’t even know how you’re still standing. But you are. 

“Okay.” You nod slowly, pulling in a shaky breath. “I’m not trying to invalidate how you think you feel, but Jake… I’m not stupid. I know I’ve changed—I worked really hard to change, to feel better about myself. But just because I look better now doesn’t mean—” 

“Not better,” he cuts in, quick and firm. “Just… different. But you’re still the same girl I grew up with. The same girl I’ve always loved. And it’s never been about how you look—God, I wish I never let it be about that. Because I—I’ve always thought you were beautiful. Always. I was just too chickenshit to tell you. To tell anyone. Except—” he huffs a broken laugh, running his hand through his hair again, “I think I told my mom one Christmas when I got drunk and started rambling about how much I missed you. And maybe I wrote it in a journal once, because I read somewhere that journalling helps—but, fuck, please don’t tell anyone about that.” His voice cracks. “I just… I don’t know what to do.” 

When his gaze finally finds yours again, his eyes are shining—brimming with sincerity, with emotion threatening to spill over. 

“I’ve only had you back for a few days, but I can’t lose you again,” he murmurs, voice low and breaking. “Not because you hate me. Not to anyone else. I—I feel like I’m going insane. I can’t just be your friend. I can try, but I can’t lie. I can’t pretend I’m not in love with you, that I haven’t been for most of my life.” 

Your breath catches, your chest heaving, and for a long, trembling moment you just stare at him. Everything he’s said, everything you’ve felt but buried, it’s too much. Too heavy. Too dangerous to keep shoving down. It slams into you all at once, leaving you reeling, until standing still feels impossible. 

Your hands move before your brain can catch up—fisting in the collar of his shirt, yanking him down until his mouth crashes against yours. The kiss isn’t gentle. It’s a collision, sharp and searing, years of silence and longing tearing wide open in the span of a heartbeat. 

He gasps against you, as if this—finally kissing you again—was more than he ever allowed himself to hope for. 

And then he’s devouring you—hands clutching your waist as you surge forward, pressing flush against his chest, arms locking around his neck. He’s solid, warm, unrelenting, his lips claiming yours with a desperation you’ve never known—but that you answer in kind, matching him with every ounce of ferocity you’ve held back for far too long. 

The taste of him is dizzying. Familiar, foreign, forbidden. Like a drug you swore off years ago but were never truly free of—one hit and you know you’ll never stop craving. 

His tongue grazes your bottom lip—hesitant, pleading—before slipping past your lips as you part them for him, and the sound he makes deep in his chest has heat flooding your veins. His grip is bruising, desperate, like if he lets go for even a second, you’ll vanish. 

You want everything. All of him. Every piece he’s kept hidden. You want to take until there’s nothing left, until he’s burned into you so deep you’ll never know where you end and he begins. It feels ridiculous to admit while making out in the middle of a half-lit car park, but it’s truer than anything you’ve ever known. 

“Need you,” you breathe against his mouth, your lips brushing his with every word. “Jake, I need you.” 

His hands slide higher, spanning your ribs, pulling you tight against him like he could weld you together. “‘M so sorry,” he murmurs raggedly. “You have—you have no idea how sorry—” 

You catch his bottom lip between your teeth, silencing him with a sharp tug that rips a groan from his throat. “Stop apologising,” you whisper, forehead pressed to his. “It was over a decade ago.” 

He pulls back suddenly, brows pinched, lips swollen and kiss-bruised. “Don’t say that. I was... I was horrible. You deserve so much better than me. I don’t even know why you just kissed—” 

“Because I love you too.” 

He gasps—literally gasps—green eyes wide as they search your face for any trace of insincerity. 

“I mean,” you sigh, eyes dropping to where your fingers are twisted in his shirt, “you have no idea how much I’ve wished I didn’t over the past ten years, but...” you meet his gaze again, “I do.” 

His lips twitch. “You love me?” 

You nod. “You, cowboy.” 

You only catch a glimpse of the breathtaking grin that splits across his face before he’s kissing you again. Hot and urgent, every apology and unspoken word pouring out in the way his mouth moves against yours. 

One arm bands tight around your waist while the other slides up your side—over the swell of your breast, your chest, until his fingers settle at the base of your neck. And the lightest curl of pressure there makes a breathy moan break from your throat. 

He smiles against your lips, tightening his hold until your body is crushed against his, your lungs fighting for air. You can feel every line of him—solid muscle and heat—and the rigid press of his cock straining against your hip. 

You can’t help but roll your hips into him, drawing a groan from his throat. 

“Careful, darlin’,” he murmurs, that country drawl thick and low. “Or we won’t make it home.” 

Your lips drag across his jaw, down the curve of his neck, leaving wet, open-mouthed kisses against hot skin. 

“I don’t wanna wait anymore,” you whisper. 

His breath stutters. “What d’you mean?” 

You pull back and meet his eyes. “Get in the truck.” 

He just stares, stunned, eyes wide and unreadable. 

“What?” you ask, frowning. 

He shakes his head quickly. “Nothing, I—” He scans your face again, like he’s half-convinced this is some kind of cruel joke. “I thought you hated the truck.” 

You roll your eyes as you slip your hand into his pocket, fingers moving deliberately slow. He gasps again, startled, and you can’t help but laugh softly as you fish out his keys and turn toward the truck. 

“Why don’t you give me a reason to love the truck, then?” 

He hesitates for a moment, like his brain short-circuited and needs to reboot—but then he snatches the keys from your hand and quickly unlocks the door. 

You’re giggling again when he spins back around, arms wrapping tight as his lips find yours without hesitation. He pulls you close, stumbling backward until the backs of his legs hit the rocker panel. Then, lips never leaving yours, he pivots you both until you've got your back to the truck. 

“Ready?” he murmurs, his hands clamped at your waist. 

You barely have time to nod before he lifts you, setting you inside—and only then do his lips leave yours. You scoot back across the bench until you’re nearly against the passenger door, and Jake reaches down to jerk the seat lever, shoving it as far back as it will go—before climbing in after you. 

You bite your lip, sliding down until your elbows sink into the cracked leather seat. Jake crawls forward, yanking the door shut behind him. His broad frame devouring the space you thought would be enough—but still, it’s perfect. 

The cramped cab forces every inch of him against you. One knee slips between your thighs, the other planted at the edge of the seat as he hovers over you. Instinctively, your body arches to meet his. You wind your arms around his neck and fall back until you’re lying flat, dragging him with you. His hands brace on either side of you, arms taut and trembling with the effort of holding himself up in the tight space. 

His lips meet yours slower this time, gentler, like he's trying to memorise the taste of you. Trying to burn the shape of your mouth into his with every slow brush and lazy flick of his tongue. His weight sinks heavier with each breathless whimper you give, like your voice alone is enough to undo him. 

One hand glides down your side, curling beneath your lower back and pressing you closer, moulding you to him. Your fingers tangle in his hair, tugging lightly as he exhales against your lips. 

“God, I’ve thought about this,” he murmurs, mouth trailing across your jaw, “every day,” his lips ghost your skin, “for the past decade.” 

You tilt your head as he works lower, his mouth hot and insistent against your throat, heat coiling deep in your belly. 

“Making out in your truck?” you manage, the words faltering when his teeth catch at your collarbone. 

“No.” His voice roughens, vibrating against your skin. “You.” 

His hips grind forward, the solid line of him hard beneath denim, pulling a desperate arch from your body—seeking more friction, more heat, more him. Your hands roam his shoulders, down his arms, feeling the tension ripple in his muscles as he moves against you, each motion frantic and aching. 

His arm slips out from beneath you, hand trailing down the curve of your hip, dragging over your thigh as you rock into him, chasing every scrap of pressure. Breathless, your mouths crash together again—teeth clashing, tongues tangling, daring each other closer. 

“Fuck, you’re… perfect,” he murmurs against your lips, voice rough, low, heavy. 

You arch harder, hands sliding down his chest until your fingers hook into the waistband of his jeans. “Jake… I wanna—” Your words break on a gasp when his hips grind down again. 

He groans, deep and raw, his grip locking on your waist to pull you flush as he rolls into you, slow and deliberate. Every drag, every shift leaves you unravelling, thoughts dissolving in the haze of touch. 

“Tell me what you want, darlin’.” His accent thickens with heat, each word heavy, edged. 

“Don’t… stop,” you breathe, lips brushing his jaw, voice caught between plea and command. 

“I’m not,” he rasps, eyes locked to yours with an intensity that makes your knees tremble. “Never stopping.” 

Your hand drifts lower, cupping the length of him through the denim, and his groan breaks rough, forehead dropping against yours. You tilt your head to catch his mouth, nipping at his lower lip as your fingers tighten around his shape of him through his jeans. 

“Fuck,” he chokes. 

His hips jerk forward, chasing your hand, chasing friction. You drag your palm over him again before fumbling with his belt, yanking it free of the loops. 

“I thought we were just making out,” he mutters, breath harsh, voice thick. 

“And I thought you said you weren’t stopping,” you counter, your lips grazing the line of his jaw. 

His breath falters as you finally work his belt loose, fingers moving quick over the button and zipper before shoving his jeans down his hips. Then your palm finds him again—this time only thin cotton in the way—and his head drops to your shoulder on a ragged exhale. 

“We should be quick,” you whisper. “Before we get caught.” 

He lifts his head, eyes glazed, cheeks flushed. “Trust me, baby. ‘M not gonna last long.” 

You grin up at him—dopey, lovesick, and not caring in the slightest. Because you’ve thought about this man every day for the last decade. You’ve missed him, loved him, cursed yourself for it. And now? Now you know you’ll never want anyone the way you want him. 

And you believe him when he says he loves you—how could you not, when he’s looking at you like this? Lips bitten, eyes glassy, devotion and sin bound together in one. 

“Then what are we waiting for?” you ask, your hands already at your own jeans. 

You fumble the button and zip, then lift yourself just enough to shimmy them down. Jake shifts above you, trying to give you space even as he shoves his own pants down to his ankles. Both of you are panting, breath fogging the warm cab, condensation gathering at the windows. 

You kick one foot free, leaving your jeans tangled around the other leg—just enough to move, just enough to hook your thighs around his hips and drag him down to you. His briefs are still on, straining painfully tight over the thick line of his cock. 

Your arms lock around his neck as his lips crash back onto yours. Urgent now, rushed, but still reverent—like he’s trying to worship even in the hunger. His teeth catch your lower lip as his hips grind into yours, the heat of him pressed hard against your bare core. 

You gasp at the friction, dizzy with it. You shouldn’t be this far gone after a handful of desperate kisses, but you are—soaked and aching, sprawled in the cab of Jake’s old truck, seconds away from begging him to fuck you. 

“Do you need—” His words cut off the moment his hand slips between your thighs, fingers dragging through your slick. 

You gasp at his touch, back arching, eyes fluttering shut. “No,” you pant. “Just—just need you.” 

He groans into your mouth, the kiss hot and desperate—searing, then gone too soon. You chase his lips as he pulls back, earning a low, rough chuckle that vibrates in his chest. Through half-lidded eyes, you watch him shove his briefs down and wrap his hand around himself—thick, aching, already slick at the tip. 

You’ve seen him before—of course—but it still knocks the breath from you. Still makes your mouth water. Still makes your body clench and flutter, helpless in its need for him. 

You whine—actually whine. “Jake—” 

“I know, baby,” he coos, eyes flicking up to catch yours. 

His face is flushed, lips red and swollen, pupils blown so wide the green is barely there. You drink him in, your gaze darting over every detail, before dropping lower—down to where his hand is wrapped around himself, poised just above you. He strokes once, slow. Twice, sharper. Then his hips dip, lining himself up. 

“You ready?” he murmurs. 

You tighten your leg around his waist, pulling him closer, urging him in. His breath stutters as he presses forward, the swollen tip sliding against your slick heat. 

“So fucking wet,” he groans, eyes falling shut. 

He sinks into you in one steady thrust, and both of you gasp at the stretch—the closeness—the way want crashes hot and heavy between you. Your pulse hammers in your ears, the dizzy edge of fear and urgency tangling together until all you can think is him, here, now, inside. 

For a moment, you just breathe—pant, really. Eyes squeezed shut, hands locked on his shoulders, clenching around him like you’re trying to hold him there forever. He buries his face in your neck, breath hot against your damp skin. 

Then he shifts above you, hips rocking back, his cock dragging against your walls, making your stomach coil and electricity spark across your skin. You draw a sharp, shaky breath—and before you can brace yourself, he snaps forward, thrusting deep. 

“Fuck—” you cry out. “Jake.” 

“Shh,” he murmurs, lips grazing your ear. “Don’t want anyone to hear us, darlin’.” 

“What if I don’t wanna be quiet?” you whisper. 

His hips roll back with a controlled slowness, his head lifting to meet your gaze. “Then ‘m gonna have to make you be quiet.” 

Anticipation coils tight in your chest, a dangerous current coursing through your veins, lighting every nerve ending on fire. 

Then his hips slam forward again—and again—rougher now, losing restraint. Your whole body jolts with each thrust, and you moan—loud, too loud. The sound bounces around the small cab, a filthy echo that anyone passing by could hear. 

“Darlin’,” he growls, warning thick in his tone. 

You can’t help but grin, dizzy and cock-drunk, bouncing beneath him as his hips piston into you, finding that perfect spot every damn time. 

The sound is obscene—skin on skin, slick and messy, perfect. His pelvis smacks yours in a brutal, intoxicating rhythm. Your arousal coats him, dripping down your thighs and onto the leather seat—but still, it’s not enough. You want more. You want everything. 

“Jake,” you pant, “touch me.” 

A guttural sound rips from his chest. His arms shake as he shifts his weight, one hand slipping between your bodies to find your clit. The pressure is immediate, devastating, and your vision whites out as a sound bordering on a scream tears free. 

“Baby,” he chokes, thrusts faltering as you clamp down around him, “you gotta keep it down.” 

His words are useless. You moan again, clawing at his back, dragging his shirt up so you can feel his skin, the roll of muscle as he drives into you. The friction is perfect, the heat unbearable—building fast, sharp and coiled, like lightning in your spine. 

His name spills from your lips in broken gasps, tangled with raw cries. He grunts against your shoulder, biting back his own noises, panting as his hips slam into you at a punishing pace. Your head bumps the passenger door with each thrust—just barely—but you’ll worry about the concussion tomorrow. 

The weight of his body on yours is perfect—too much, and not nearly enough. You wish there were no clothes between you, that you could strip him slowly, taking your time to worship every inch of his skin—but there’ll be time for that later. 

Right now, you just need to come before trivia ends. 

“Jake—fuck—” you choke as his fingers press down on your clit. 

Your hips buck up to meet his, chasing the friction, the pressure, the rhythm he’s setting. His touch doesn’t falter—circling, pressing, coaxing that little bundle of nerves with almost cruel precision. Every movement sends jolts of pleasure ricocheting up your spine. The knot in your belly pulls tight, your arousal making a mess between your bodies, your orgasm rushing in hot and fast.  

“Jake, ‘m gonna—” 

“I know, baby,” he mutters against your neck, voice rough and wrecked. “Come on my cock, yeah?” 

That’s all it takes. Your body locks up, back arching, legs trembling, hips grinding desperately to meet his thrusts. He slams into that spot over and over again, relentless, while his fingers work your clit—slick, practiced, merciless. You cry out, the sound strangled and raw. 

Your orgasm tears through you like a live wire, white-hot and all-consuming. Your walls flutter and clench around his cock, dragging a hoarse, broken moan from him as his thrusts falter. He spills inside you, shuddering, his whole body seizing above yours. 

The two of you pant through it, chests heaving, grinding lazily to ride out every last wave. Clinging, shaking, sweat-slicked and breathless and undone. 

Eventually, he collapses fully, face buried against your shoulder. The weight of him presses down heavy, making it hard to breathe—but you don’t mind, not when you can feel his heartbeat thundering against your chest, steady and real.  

“Sorry,” he mutters, shifting slightly. “You okay?” 

You blink up at the windshield—completely fogged, opaque. You couldn’t see out even if you wanted to. 

“Yeah,” you breathe. “I’m okay. You?” 

He sits up, bowing his head—thanks to the low roof—as he tucks himself back into his briefs.  

“I’m more than okay,” he says with that signature little smirk. 

Heat floods your cheeks, your face burning impossibly hot in the sauna you’ve both created in the cab.  

“Good,” you say, smiling like a lovesick idiot as you prop yourself up on your elbows. 

Jake somehow wrestles his jeans back up his legs and then moves to help with yours. He catches your ankle and guides your foot through the loose pant leg before shimmying them higher, both of you dissolving into giggles as you writhe on the bench until you can finally button them at your waist.  

“You look a little...” His eyes gleam wickedly. “Freshly fucked.” 

You snort. “Funny that.” 

You shift until you’re side by side, neither of you ready to leave the hot box of sex and condensation you’ve created.  

“Do you want to go back in or just go home?” he asks. “I can just tell them we fought and I drove you home, or something.” 

You frown. “Why would you tell them we fought?” 

“Because we did,” he says, brows knitting. “And they probably wouldn’t be too happy if I said we fought, made up, and then went home to fuck.” 

Your lips twitch. “Leaving a few details out of the ‘made up’ part of that story.” 

He chuckles, leaning in until his nose bumps yours. “You want to tell my squad we fucked while they potentially tanked trivia?” 

“Phoenix would be so mad,” you giggle—even though the thought of her wrath makes your stomach flip. 

“Exactly.” He kisses you quick, then again, lingering this time. “So either we go back in there, risk them realising what just happened—and also face Phoenix’s fury when she finds out we ditched the team. Or...” He kisses you again, slower, hungrier. “We go home and do what we just did a few more times—at least until you can’t walk.” 

Your cheeks blaze, but you bite down on the grin threatening to break loose. “Who says I’m going home with you?” 

He shrugs, smug. “Or we can go to yours.”  

“So, you think a love confession and the best orgasm I’ve had in ten years is enough of an apology?” you tease, brow arched. 

His eyes go wide. “Best orgasm since—” 

“Don’t get cocky.” 

He smirks anyway. “Darlin’, if that was the best orgasm you’ve had in ten years, I’m about to blow your mind. And for the record—” He kisses the tip of your nose before settling back in the driver’s seat. “—I plan on apologising a lot more than that. Repeatedly. With my mouth, my fingers, my cock. Baby, when I’m done apologising, you’re not even gonna remember your own na—” 

Knock, knock, knock. 

You both freeze, heads whipping toward the driver’s side window. Silence hangs for a heartbeat—then a faint giggle breaks it from outside.  

“Hangman,” Bradley calls, voice dripping with laughter. “You in there?”  

“No,” Jake blurts instantly. 

You swat his bicep, eyes wide. “What the fuck?” 

He shrugs helplessly, panic and amusement twisting across his face.  

“We can’t exactly drive away,” he hisses, jerking his chin toward the fogged-up windows.  

“Open up, Bagman!” Natasha shouts, punctuating it with a sharp bang on the door. 

Your fingers clamp around Jake’s forearm, nails digging in as mortification floods your chest. God, if the seat could just open up and swallow you whole, you’d gladly go. Because of course you’d get caught fucking—or freshly finished fucking—in Jake’s truck by his squad on the very first night you met them. 

Slowly, Jake leans toward the driver’s side window, dragging his palm through the condensation. A clear streak forms—just enough to reveal them. All six of them. Standing there, staring in with varying degrees of amusement—Bradley barely holding it together, Javy giggling behind his hand, Mickey grinning, Bob’s ears turning red, Reuben trying not to smirk. And Natasha. Arms folded, glaring like she’s two seconds away from murder.  

“Do either of you know which colour pill Neo takes in The Matrix to discover the real world?” Natasha’s voice cuts through the door, sharp and unshakeable. 

Jake glances at you, brows raised in question. 

“Um... red,” you whisper, praying she can’t read lips.  

“She knew!” Mickey shouts triumphantly. 

Natasha’s arms drop, her jaw slack. “We lost by one point!” 

“Okay, time to go,” Jake mutters, snapping the lock down with a decisive click. 

Then he yanks his shirt over his head and starts wiping down the windshield. You whip around, lock your own door, and scramble to clear the window. Natasha rattles the driver’s side handle with a sharp yank, then storms around the front of the truck and starts pounding on your side instead. 

“Bagman!” she growls, rattling the handle. “I’m not mad at you, I swear,” she says, softer now, eyes cutting to you. “But I’m gonna fucking kill Bagman.” 

You can’t stop the laugh that bubbles out of you as she continues to yank at the door, rocking the truck with her effort. The rest of the squad are doubled over, wheezing and cackling, tears streaming down their faces while Natasha keeps trying to break in. 

You do your best not to ogle Jake—shirtless, muscles flexing, biceps straining as he clears the fog from the glass.. Instead, you lean over and twist the key, letting the engine roar to life. The whole cab shudders with the obnoxious growl, but this time, you don’t mind. For some reason, you kind of like his stupid old truck now. 

“Don’t you dare drive away,” Natasha warns. “I swear to God, Seresin. I will find you and I will make you pay.”  

“Bye, Phoenix!” Jake calls sweetly, tugging his shirt back on and flashing the rest of the squad a shit-eating grin. “See y’all at work tomorrow!” 

Then he turns to you, the bravado melting off his face. His eyes catch yours, warm and unguarded, and before you can breathe, he leans in to kiss you—soft at first, then with a playful nip to your bottom lip that makes your stomach flip.  

“God, I love you,” he sighs as he shifts the truck into gear. 

Your heart swells, aching with the weight of it, because God—you love him too. You always have. Always will. And there isn’t a shred of hesitation this time. Jake loves you, wholly and fiercely. You know he’ll never hurt you again—not on purpose. There’s still stuff to work through, sure. But you’ll face it together. Heal together. Be together. 

Because that’s all that’s ever really mattered—that despite everything, you found each other again. Waited for each other. Needed each other more than anything.  

“This is definitely going to come up in a wedding speech,” Jake mutters, almost to himself. 

“Wedding?” you echo, breath catching. 

“Oh yeah.” He glances at you, that ridiculous smirk stretching across his face. “I’m marrying you. And unfortunately, those idiots are probably going to be the entire bridal party.” 

Your stomach twists, not with dread, but with anticipation—warm and electric. Because yeah, you’re going to marry him. The certainty of it surges through you, fierce and undeniable, stealing the breath from your lungs. 

You can’t fucking wait to marry Jake Seresin. 

The couple had made the rounds in the moments after. Maverick and Penny were the first to congratulate them both, and Bob could’ve sworn he saw tears in their Team Leader’s eyes as he hugged Rooster. Hangman had a snide remark under his breath, but gave the couple both his heartfelt congratulations, followed by Fanboy and Payback.

“Couldn’t have done this without you, Bobby boy,” Rooster clapped his best friend on the back, bringing him into a tight hug before letting Natasha hug her back seater. “Bob’s been helping me plan this for weeks, making sure everyone would be here tonight for the engagement party. The greatest future best man a guy could ask for!”

“Bradley, it can’t be an engagement party without our families,” Natasha had quickly argued back, shooting Bob a bright smile. “But thank you, Bob. It means the world to both of us.”

“It’s what you both deserve,” he’d told them wholeheartedly. “Seeing my best friends happy is all I want.”

“Going back to your engagement party comment,” Bradley cut in, shooting his now-fiancée a cheeky grin as he gestured behind her. “Don’t think I didn’t think of everything.”

Bob laughed along with Rooster the second Natasha turned around, shouting in glee at her family standing directly behind her. She’d thrown herself into her mother and father’s arms, given her sister a tight hug, and a whole new round of tears had sprung as they admired the ring on her finger. Bob nudged his best friend with a grin.

“You did good, Rooster,”

“Oh, this is just the beginning,” Natasha’s attention was turned back to Bradley the second she heard him say that, raising an eyebrow as she missed the sneaky smiles on her family’s faces.

“What else could you have possibly pulled off tonight-”

“Give your man props, Nattie. He knew if he proposed to you without me in attendance, one of us would likely kill him,”

It wasn’t the first time Bob had ever seen you, but it was the first time he’d ever seen you in person. Natasha had shown him many photos of herself and her childhood best friend, the girl she considered more of a sister than anything else, many times before in all their time knowing each other and working together. He’d seen the elementary photos, the awkward middle school photos, the prom photos, and the intermittent photos taken throughout adulthood, anytime the pair of you could find time to see one another.

He hated that, based solely on photos and stories of you, he’d grown the most schoolboy crush in the world on you. He wasn’t sure if there was an “unspoken” code about crushing on the childhood best friend of one of your own best friends, but he felt like it definitely crossed a line.

Rooster was laughing from Bob’s side as you and Natasha practically bounced around in circles together, talking a mile a minute as you admired the ring sitting snugly on her left hand now. With arms wrapped around one another, you’d both turned back to the boys as Bob watched you flash a smile in Rooster’s direction.

“Bradley, nice to finally see you outside of FaceTime screens. And nicely done with the ring, I’m glad you took my advice,”

“Who was I to question the advice of the master?”

Bob felt his breath catch for a moment as your gaze finally turned to him, and he could see you fully for the first time in front of him.

God, you were even prettier up close than in your photos. 

“You must be the infamous Bob that I’ve heard so much about,” Bob wanted to melt under your smile as you flashed your attention toward him. “Thanks for keeping my girl safe in the skies.”

“Well- I’d say she keeps me safe more…”

“Team effort, at least take half the credit,” you’d joked to him, before Natasha had quickly pulled you into conversation once more.

It was stupid, Bob thought, to have a crush on a woman he’d never even met before. He couldn’t help it the entire night as he watched you talk and joke with Natasha’s family, the way you so effortlessly made conversation with the entire Dagger Squad, even though it was the first time you’d met them all. Through photos, videos, and stories alone, Bob had gained a schoolboy crush. But now, as you animatedly explained a story of you and Phoenix from your childhood, he could feel his crush growing from seeing your personality shine.

Thankfully for Bob, he’d barely have to see you. You’d fly home most likely the next day, and the next time he’d see you would be for wedding preparations. That’d be plenty of time to get over his dumb little crush on his best friend’s childhood best friend.

“I’m telling you, it was the funniest night of our entire lives!” Natasha was practically in tears, and so were the rest of the Dagger Squad members as you choked out your words through your own laughter. Bob had a hard time looking away from you as you spoke. “I’m up there on that stage, sold out high school theater guys, ready to give my really intense monologue, and suddenly the set wall just comes CRASHING down with Nattie here clinging onto it!”

“I warned them during set construction that the wall was just begging to fall down!” Natasha laughed, leaning back against Rooster with a shake of her head. “That was immediately the last time I let this one here talk me into helping with the school musicals. Never signed up again, no matter how much she begged.”

“And wait, this was opening night too?” Fanboy chimed in from his space beside Bob as both women gave him a nod. “That somehow makes it even funnier. I can’t thank you enough for bestowing us with the gift of these stories tonight.”

“Yes, yes, consider them a tiny gift for all of Nattie’s friends here tonight,” you turned away from the rest of the squad to look at your best friend, though. “It’s your engagement party, though, so I think it’s time that I gave you your gift.”

Bob could see the smirk on Rooster’s lips as he watched the pair. Bob, along with the ret of their friends, watched intently as well as you dug a key out of your back pocket, dropping it into Natasha’s hand without another word. Bob’s front seater cocked an eyebrow, examining the key in confusion.

“A key…how…nice?”

“Well, I have to make sure someone in this city has a spare key to my place,” Bob felt his breath catch for a second, catching onto your words before Natasha did, as you beamed at your best friend. “To my apartment, over in Logan Heights! If I’m going to be the newest Professor at UC San Diego, I’m going to need a place to live-”

If there was a contest for trying to break the sound barrier with a scream, or even how much one person could cry in a single night, Natasha Trace was pretty close to winning them both. Between her shouts of “YOU’RE MOVING TO SAN DIEGO?” and a lot of loud crying, as Rooster smirked, letting his friends know he knew about this surprise, Bob knew this night had quickly become absolute perfection in both of his friends’ eyes.

Bob also knew that now, his plan to squash his little crush on you had failed before it even had the chance to begin.

He’d managed to avoid seeing you for a few days, but that didn’t mean that Natasha had shut up about you. Every day, while thousands of feet in the air, he’d listened to her ramble on and on about how the pair of you had always wanted to live in the same city together once you were settled in your careers, and she was finally getting her wish. She’d also run about a thousand ideas for how to help you decorate your apartment by him, and somewhere in there had tricked him into agreeing to help herself and Rooster set up your apartment.

“I can’t thank you all enough for the help,” you’d told the three standing in front of you one early Saturday morning, giving them all thankful smiles, before turning to the multitudes of boxes stacked around your living room. “I…frankly have no idea where to start. The boxes are all stacked in their corresponding rooms, and there are a ton of IKEA boxes that need to be assembled in just about every room.”

Rooster clapped a hand on Bob’s shoulder, bringing the attention of both women back to the two of them.

“Good thing Bob and I are masters of IKEA furniture,” Bradley put on an air of confidence as he said it. “When Payback and Fanboy got their apartment a few months ago, we were in charge of all the furniture assembly.”

“And given that we managed to build a bedframe upside down, I wouldn’t call us masters,”

It was the giggle you let out at Bob’s comment that brought his attention back to you, an involuntary flush spreading across his cheeks. You gave a mock salute to the pair.

“Well, how nice it is to know I have such capable young men on my side,” you gestured with your head toward the hallway behind you. “I’ll steal Bob for help with the dining room if Natasha, you and your man can handle my bedroom without putting my bedframe together upside down.”

With another laugh shared, Rooster and Phoenix were quickly moving down the hallway toward your bedroom, but Bob caught the over-exaggerated wink that Rooster sent his way before disappearing into what he assumed was your bedroom.

Trying to calm the blush evident on his cheeks, Bob joined you in the dining room directly off your kitchen. You’d already set yourself down on the floor, breaking into the IKEA box laid before you.

“Can you take that so I don’t lose it while getting all these pieces out?” you’d laughed, handing Bob the instruction manual. He took it from you with a nod, quickly flipping through the packet in his hands.

“A ‘GRÖNSTA’, because that’s not a mouthful,” Bob commented under his breath, but loud enough for you to hear as you laughed again. He took a seat on the ground opposite of you,, placing the packet off to the side and helping you take pieces out of the box, while also trying to calm the heat still prevalent in his cheeks. “Doesn’t help that the instructions don’t make any sense.”

“Right? You’d think the Swedes would learn that their pictures aren’t very helpful,” you both shared a laugh as Bob watched you flip open the instructions, grabbing the pieces needed for the very first leg of the table.

It was torture, almost, being around you with a crush that felt so middle school being harbored inside of him. He barely knew you, but every time you talked and joked, he knew he was already digging himself deeper and deeper into a hole.

“You said the other night you’re a professor?” Bob had settled on asking you about yourself. You were Natasha’s best friend, and now you lived here; getting to know you was going to be inevitable. You gave him a slight hum as an answer, intent on screwing in the leg of the table to the tabletop that Bob was holding in place. “What uh, what will you be teaching?”

“I’m a professor in the art department, there’s like a whole slew of classes I’ll be teaching,” you explained to him as Bob held the table steady so that you could screw in another leg. “Music, theatre, dance, and probably whatever else they throw my way.”

You passed the tools off to Bob as you stood, holding the table upright on it’s two legs so that he could screw in the last two from the ground below you. Truthfully, Bob was thankful for the table between you two, because the more he looked at you, the more he couldn’t stop thinking about just how gorgeous you were in person.

“Take it you’re a creative person, then?”

“After some lead roles in high school musicals, followed by a stint on Broadway fresh out of college…yeah I’d say creative is a good word to use,” Bob laughed, moving out from under the table slightly to grab the final leg from just a few feet away, glancing up at you.

“Broadway? My older sister is a big musical fan, she’d go nuts knowing I know someone who was on Broadway, now,”

“Well, you can tell her that I’d be happy to tell her all about it sometime. I’ve got a whole slew of fun stories from different shows,” you gave him another grin, still holding up the unbalanced table. “I’m surprised Nattie didn’t tell anyone about my Broadway stint; she talks about it like a proud mother to whoever will listen.”

Bob found himself locked in place as he laughed at your comment, fidgeting with the last table leg in his hands as he smiled up at you, finding himself locked in conversation easily. Despite his raging social anxiety that Rooster and Hangman desperately wanted to fix, Bob found it entirely too easy to talk to you.

“To be fair, when we’re thousands of feet in the air, we have a few things to focus on for the sake of our lives,” both of you shared a laugh at his comment. “She’d told plenty of stories about you, though. Showed a lot of photos and videos, too.”

“Good, because she’s told me plenty about you,” Bob could see your grin widen, no doubt because of the red flush overtaking his skin at your comment. “Her incredibly smart and kind WSO with raging social anxiety. Not sure I believe that last part, you seem to be doing just fine.”

“On the outside, maybe. Typically, on the outside and inside, I’m about as useful as a newborn baby deer,”

The laughter that you let out as his joke, Bob decided, was now one of his favorite things. He was so entranced by it that he hadn’t noticed you’d accidentally let go of the table until it had fallen back on him.

The gasp you’d let out rang through the room, but it was broken apart by the laughter that seemed to be flowing out of you even harder now. Bob took a second to adjust his glasses on the bridge of his nose before shoving the table off of him. Your laughter paused for a moment as soon as the two of you locked eyes, before you both devolved into a fit of laughter that had Bob almost curled in on himself.

“I’m so sorry!” you had finally managed to get out words after a solid few moments, wiping tears from your eyes as laughter still broke through your words. “I didn’t mean to do that!”

“Good, because I don’t want to explain to Maverick that I died because of a ‘GRÖNSTA’,” the pair of you devolved into laughter again as you held out your hand for him. Bob took it, despite the full-body flush he felt at simply touching your skin, and let you hoist him back up to his feet.

“Alright, next time I see you, I’m buying you a drink as an apology,” you told him with a pointed look as you moved past him to grab the instruction book.

“Yeah, yeah, whatever you say, Ikea,”

“Hey!” Bob laughed as you gasped at his comment, whacking him lightly with the instruction booklet as you grinned at him. “There’s no way we’re making that my nickname!”

“I promise it’s better than any call-sign Hangman will come up with for you-”

“What the hell is happening out here?”

Bob turned on his heel to face the hallway just as you did. Rooster looked lost at what was happening outside the bedroom, as did Natasha, but Bob could see the slightest hint of a smirk on his friend’s face as she looked at him. Bob turned to look at you, just as you looked at him, and you both devolved into another round of laughter that had Rooster even more confused.

Bob Floyd hadn’t stopped thinking about you after that night. He thought about you constantly, how your hand fit and felt in his own, about your laughter, and about that beautiful smile on your face. He was in deep, and he knew it. You never left his mind until he saw you again at the weekly Hard Deck hangout with the rest of the Dagger Squad.

“Well, well, well,” Hangman’s Texan accent was heavy tonight as he turned his gaze away from the pool table before him, and the meaningless game he was playing against Coyote. “Phoenix brought her shadow along tonight!”

Bob turned his head, a smile crossing his lips at the sight of you walking up with Phoenix, two beer bottles in your hands as you rolled your eyes at Hangman’s comments, but Natasha was the one who spoke first.

“I was more so her shadow growing up, followed this one everywhere,” she nudged your shoulder before taking a seat at one of the high tops next to Bradley, smiling widely as he leaned in to kiss her cheek. “Figured, now that she’s settled in, it was time to start bringing her around to the weekly night out.”

The conversation continued, but Bob’s eyes and grin were glued to you. You made a beeline for his side, leaning against the high-top chair he was seated on and passing him one of the beers in your hand.

“Nice to see you, Lieutenant,” you teased him, clinking the top of your bottle to his own. “I did say I owed you a beer next time I saw you.”

“Thanks, Ikea, I’m sure it will numb the pain of that table falling on me,” Bob threw back, laughing as you lightly hit him on the shoulder the second he said that nickname. “Settled in well?”

“All thanks to you guys and that entire day full of furniture building,” you shot back at him, taking a swig of your drink as you turned to watch the pool game in front of you, still leaning against Bob’s chair. It had you close enough that Bob was overwhelmed by the scent of your perfume, and he decided in that moment it might be his new favorite scent.

He then scolded himself in his head for how weird that sounded. This crush was getting out of hand.

Coyote let out a groan as Hangman beat him once again, the latter letting out a loud whoop that had the rest of the Dagger Squad laughing. The pilot’s attention turned immediately to you, a frown appearing on Bob’s lips immediately as he recognized the flirty grin on Jake’s face.

“What do you say, little lady?” Hangman emphasized his accent even more, making a show of gesturing you toward the pool table with the pool cue in his hands. “Want to play a round?”

You hummed from beside Bob, leaning over him to place your own drink on the table as his face immediately flushed at the action. You didn’t seem to notice, stalking toward the pool table and picking up Coyote’s previous pool cue.

“8 ball or 9 ball?”

“9 ball, I’m all about making shots,” Hangman called back, gesturing toward his side of the table. “Payback can rack ‘em for us. What do you say, sweetheart? Ready to be partners with the greatest pool player Miramar’s ever had the pleasure of hosting?”

“Absolutely,” you shock back, and Bob paused in his sip of his beer as your gaze shot back toward him. “Let’s go, Lieutenant. You’re my partner.”

There was a collective laugh through the entire squad at the look of shock on Hangman’s face, that he quickly tried to wipe away and pretend as if your comment hadn’t affected him. Bob froze for a moment, but the inviting smile on your face drew him to your side within a heartbeat.

Hangman and Coyote were a good pairing, but somehow you and Bob managed to be just slightly better than them both. Bob let out a cheer as you sunk the final ball of the game, happily accepting the high five you sent his way as Coyote and Hangman groaned, having come so close yet so far from winning out.

“Nice shots there, Bob,” you shot at him, nudging his shoulder with your own as you placed your cue down on the table. Bob could feel the confidence he’d been feeling the last hour slightly fade at the close proximity to you, at the sweet smile you were sending up at him from your place next to him.

“Yeah uh- yeah, you too, Ikea-”

“Ikea?” Payback questioned as he and Fanboy hopped up to sit on the table next to the dejected Jake Seresin. He pointed between Bob and their newest friend. “Like…the Swedish furniture place?”

You laughed, your hand coming to rest on Bob’s forearm with a squeeze that had his heart fluttering in his chest.

“Inside joke, Payback, and it’s going to stay that way,”

Bob’s friend went to counter them with another comment when Natasha and Bradley returned to the group, an entire tray of beers in hand as Natasha whistled to get everyone’s attention.

“Alright guys, we’ve got another round of beers for the group,” most of them whooped and hollered as Bradley passed them all out, before Natasha turned to Bob and her best friend to hand them the two in her hands with a wide grin. “And two very special ones for our best friends.”

There was a beat of silence as Bob took his drink from Natasha, taking a swig before he felt something on the outside of the bottle. He turned it over in his hands, seeing a piece of paper barely attached by a thin strip of tape, Rooster’s handwriting scrawled across it:

You might be Phoenix’s back seater, but I want you to be my wingman this time: be my Best Man?

Bob almost felt tears in his eyes as he looked up at Bradley, who was waiting with a grin on his face. Overwhelmed with emotion, Bob simply nodded, standing up as he brought Bradley into a tight hug as the rest of the group realized what was happening before them and began cheering.

“OH MY GOD! OH MY GOD, YES!”

Bob and Bradley both turned to see you flinging yourself into Natasha’s arms, the pair of you jumping and crying together. His eyes trailed to your bottle, long forgotten on the side of the pool table, with a piece of paper bearing Nat’s handwriting taped to the neck:

It was always going to be you: be my Maid of Honor?”

“You know what they say about the Best Man and the Maid of Honor, right Bob?” It was Bradley’s voice mumbled into his ear with a hint of teasing laced through it, his best friend’s hand clamped down on his shoulder with a squeeze. “It’s almost inevitable that they fall in love.”

Bob never had a second to truly process Bradley’s words before Natasha was getting the attention of the entire group once again, with you still glued to her side.

“It might also be a good time to tell you guys we picked a wedding date…we’re getting married in six months!”

The cheering of the entire group ceased for a moment before everyone seemed to shout all at once.

“WHAT?”

Planning a wedding was hard enough on the Bride and the Groom, and it was hard on the Best Man and the Maid of Honor as well. But to somehow turn it around in only six months, especially when almost everyone involved was a Navy fighter pilot who spent most of their time thousands of feet in the air, it made it even harder.

It was even harder for Bob, as he accepted his ‘schoolboy crush’ had grown into a full-blown crush on you, maybe even borderline infatuation, not even a month later than that night at the Hard Deck.

Bob had been a stumbling, blushing mess when you’d given him your number that night after the announcement. It made sense, given that it was going to be up to the two of you to plan most of the festivities leading up to the wedding. It was hard because, besides Bob’s growing affection for you, he couldn’t get the thought of what Rooster had mumbled to him out of his head.

He’d yet, though, worked up the courage to text you regarding ANYTHING other than wedding festivities planning…which were all conversations you had started first.

“Hard Deck, 6 p.m., don’t be late!” Phoenix called out to Bob as she walked away, tucked under Bradley’s arm as they made their way toward the latter's truck. “Hangman insists on that pool rematch tonight!”

“Let a guy shower first!” Bob called back, waving goodbye to his friends as he climbed up into his truck, wiping sweat from his brow. Another day that ended with over 200 push-ups from Maverick, and he refused to show up to the Hard Deck without showering first. Before he could put his car in drive, his phone went off, and his heart skipped a beat as he read your name across the screen.

Soooooooooo, huge favor to ask you here, Bobby…

Bob did his best to calm the hammering that his heart was doing inside of his ribcage. It was just a simple text, that’s all, asking for a favor. He’d texted you before, and while this potentially may not be wedding-related, he could certainly text you again.

Anything, what’s up?

Anything? God, could he make his pining any more obvious? He didn’t get long to mull over his own words before you’d already typed back to him.

My car is in the shop, and a coworker gave me a ride in today, but she had to leave early. I know I promised Jake that pool rematch tonight…any way you could swing by and pick me up from campus?

I know campus is WAY in the opposite direction from the Hard Deck, it’s totally okay if you can’t!

Was Bob freaking out inside? Absolutely. He knew you worked on UCSD’s campus, but he’d never been to your office; he had no need to go there. The last time he’d also been fully alone with you was building furniture and dropping tables in your apartment, and picking you up meant being alone with you…plus, it wouldn’t give him time to go home and shower, and the last thing he wanted to do was put you off potentially because he was sweating buckets in the San Diego sun all day.

Before he could psych himself out, as if there was a little Rooster on his shoulder coercing him, Bob replied.

Of course, send me your office address.

About a half hour later, Bob was forcing himself out of his truck and up to the doors of the building housing the Department of Theater and Dance, frantically trying to fix his hair so he looked semi-acceptable. He’d already had to convince himself that a fifth layer of deodorant was not needed, nor was a second spray of the spare cologne he kept in his car.

Walking through the doors and into the building you’d given him directions to, Bob realized fairly quickly that he was absolutely lost and had no idea how to get to your office. Spotting a receptionist off to the side, Bob made his way over to her and cleared his throat, asking politely for directions to your office.

“I didn’t think Siren had any meetings on the schedule for today…” the receptionist trailed off as she raised an eyebrow at him. Bob let out an awkward laugh, glancing to her nametag and making a mental note that her name was ‘Sydney’, before answering her.

“Uh, no ma’am, sorry for the confusion. I’m a uh…friend of hers. She asked me to pick her up,”

Sydney’s eyes seemed to widen as she smiled, happily sitting up now in the chair once he’d explained himself.

“Oh! You must be the Lieutenant. Bob, right?” he gave her a nod as she typed something at her laptop before turning back to him. “Siren told me you’d be dropping by and would probably need directions- oh, and don’t mind the nickname, it’s just kind of a little inside joke around here that stuck. Take those stairs up to the second floor, the right side is dance studios, and her office is at the end of the hall to the left!”

With a quiet thank you, Bob followed her directions up the stairs and down to the left, though he could hear the music blasting from the dance studios down the hallway. At the very end of the hall, he saw your name on the plaque outside the one door ajar in the hallway.

With a light push to the door, so as not to freak you out, Bob leaned against the doorframe as he saw you working away at your laptop, singing softly to yourself as your own music played. He smiled softly to himself at the sight, even though inside he was still freaking out over the entire situation.

“So…Siren, huh?”

You jumped slightly at the voice until you turned, seeing that it was just Bob standing in the doorway of the office. He watched as you gave a slight laugh, beginning the process of packing your things up as you explained.

“God, of course, Sydney used that in front of you,” you turned, shooting him another smile as you packed your laptop away. “Context to this stupid inside joke probably helps, doesn’t it? I taught a salsa class my first week here, and this one student of mine thought I was such a good dancer she explained that my ‘dancing was so captivating, like a Siren’s song,’ and the next thing I knew the entire staff was calling me that.”

“Not a bad nickname,” Bob tried to reassure you as you joined him at the doorway with your things. “Better than your callsign being your name…or Hangman turning it into baby-on-board instead.”

You rolled your eyes, taking hold of his arm in your hand and dragging him lightly from the office doorway to lock up behind you, hopefully unaware of the frantic beating of his heart at even the slight contact.

“I’d rather get called that than get named after leaving my wingmen out to dry,” you gave him a pointed look that he laughed at before your features softened into something genuine again. “Thank you for being my hero today.”

“Anytime, Ikea,”

It was only halfway through the night at the Hard Deck when you’d let slip to Penny your nickname at work, and like vultures, the rest of the squad was dying to hear the story.

It was that night that, after living in San Diego for a month and a half, Bob watched the rest of his team officially induct you as an honorary member of the Dagger Squad with your very own callsign: Siren. You were officially one of them, even though you basically had been since the moment you’d arrived in the city.

From that day on, something shifted for Bob. He’d chalked it up to the ease he felt around you, the way you made him feel like he didn’t need to be flashy like Hangman to be liked, and he’d found it easier to finally branch out and text you about things NOT related to the wedding. And slowly, but surely, he was stopping by the campus on his very few rare off days from work to bring you lunch, simply talk to you in your office, or offer you a ride to the Hard Deck, knowing full well your car was parked in the campus lot. 

Bob spent the next weeks slowly, but surely, falling in love with you in every way imaginable, and he knew it. It terrified him how easily you’d secured a place in his heart, and you weren’t even aware you had. Phoenix and Rooster had tried to pry the information out of him many times, wondering why he was so engrossed in his phone all the time or why he was suddenly so smiley, but he kept his lips sealed.

Besides, how was he supposed to tell the woman controlling the fighter jet that could kill him that he was kind of falling in love with her best friend?

It was one of those very rare off days that Bob found himself cleaning out his truck in his driveway, knowing that there were a few jackets and extra pairs of shirts, and pants to change into after leaving base that needed to come out of the car and into the wash. What he hadn’t expected was to find your jacket.

You’d worn it the night before to the Hard Deck, actually needing Bob to pick you up since your car was once again in the shop. The temperature was predicted to drop drastically that night, and since Payback and Fanboy had the bright idea to do ‘late night dogfight football,’ you’d told him that you wanted to ensure you were warm. You must have left it in his car when he’d dropped you off that night.

Bob hesitated for half a second before climbing into the driver’s seat of his truck. What if you needed your jacket? It totally wasn’t an excuse to see you.

Sydney knew him well at this point, simply waving hi to him as he entered the familiar campus building. He’d waved back, giving his thanks as she called out that you may not be in your office at this hour.

She’d been correct, but Bob had been by enough to know you had your class schedule written out on the board by the door of your office.

Contemporary Dance, 11:30 a.m. Room 149

The signs were easy enough to follow, leading him down the hallway toward the area he knew held the multiple dance studios. Your voice was easy enough to pick out as he stepped inside the room, catching you leading your class in front of the full wall of mirrors. He’d never seen you dance until now, but it only took a second to see why they all called you Siren.

You moved in a way that was graceful yet powerful, commanding and yet gentle all the same. Bob had to adjust the way he was leaning against the doorway, cursing himself for the fact that he was enjoying your dancing way too much, and the dirty thoughts in his head were fighting to come to the surface. You deserved more than being thought of in that way. You deserved a proper date, maybe over a nice meal with a walk along the beach. You deserved chivalry, for him to always open every door and walk on the outer edge of the sidewalk to keep you safe. You deserved more than his boyish, improper thoughts. What you deserved was the world, and Bob would give it to you if you just said the word.

You’d locked eyes with him in the mirror as the song and dance with your students came to an end, and his heart soared at the way it seemed your face lit up simply at seeing him. You bid a quick goodbye to your students, ushering them out of the room and onto their next class, before it was just the pair of you left as music still played over the room’s speakers.

“You didn’t text me and tell me you were coming?” you questioned the man, moving through the room to fix things up and put away anything your students had managed to move in the process of the class.

“You forgot this last night,” he held up your jacket. “Just figured I’d bring it back, sorry, I should’ve texted-”

“Bob, you’re more than welcome here whenever you want to come,” you cut in quickly, gesturing toward the far wall where your purse lay. “Thank you, just toss it over with the rest of my stuff.”

Bob did as you asked, now fully in the room with you, as he watched you fiddle with things around the room, moving them back to where he assumed they were before class had started. His hands found their way into the pockets of his jeans, keeping himself from wringing his hands together or from fiddling with the rolled-up sleeves of his flannel over and over again.

“I’ve never gotten to see you dance before…I get why they call you Siren,” he swallowed the small lump that seemed to form in his throat, slowly losing his nerve around you like he typically did. “Wish I knew how to do…all that.”

“Well, thank you, contemporary was one of the dance forms I primarily trained in during college,” you shot back at him, spinning on your heel to face him now as you tilted your head. “And come on, anyone can dance, it’s not that complicated.”

“That’s because you’ve never seen me try,” Bob laughed at himself, sheepishly rubbing at the skin on the back of his neck as he looked away from you. “I look like I have two left feet when dancing. Who knows how I’m going to survive this wedding in a few months.”

There was silence in the room before Bob heard you move. His eyes trailed back to you, watching as you grabbed your phone for just a moment, before the sweet sound of Kina Grannis’ voice overtook the room. His eyes stayed glued to you as you came to stand in front of him, holding out your hand with your palm facing the sky as you wore the prettiest, softest smile he’d ever seen.

“Dance with me?”

Bob thought surely that was the moment his heart was going to decide to give out on him, but in gazing at your kind eyes and smile full of affection, he placed his hand in your own and let you lead him.

God, your hand fit in his like it was made to be there.

He silently watched you, allowing you to wrap his one hand around your waist, giving it a squeeze before trailing your other hand to rest on top of his shoulder.

“Take a deep breath,” he followed your instructions as you gave a squeeze to his hand, still wrapped in your own. “Just follow me, I promise it’s not hard.”

Bob found his eyes glued to your feet as you slowly moved him around the room together, mumbling apologies every now and again as he stumbled or stepped on your toes, but you only ever gave him a comforting squeeze to his hand or shoulder. He never dared look up at you, afraid he’d lose all his cool if he had to look you in the eyes in this close proximity.

When he stumbled once more, you gave a small laugh, hand moving from his shoulder to his neck, gently tilting his jaw upwards to look at you.

“I promise it’s much easier if you don’t watch your feet,”

His eyes met yours, and it was like the entire world went silent in that moment, but the music playing through the sound system seemed to get louder.

But I can’t help, falling in love with you.

“There are those pretty blue eyes,” you teased as a blush coated his cheeks in seconds. It brought on another smile to see a similar one on your own, though. “Did Bradley tell you about their bachelor and bachelorette party idea?”

“He said they had an idea, just hadn’t told me yet,”

“Nat told me they thought a big combined party would be best, given that this friend group is just one giant pile of pilots,” Bob laughed, missing the feel of your hand on his jaw as it moved back to his shoulder. “Guess you and I have to get planning.”

“Maverick said Cyclone made it work so that we can all have a week off for it, just have to let them know when,”

“Perfect. Know what else is perfect?” Bob shook his head as your grin widened. “You are dancing perfectly since you stopped looking at your feet!”

Bob’s eyes widened as he looked down at his feet for just a moment, realizing you were right, before looking back up at you. It was like the world was throwing every sign in the world at him as the music seemed to feel louder once again.

For I can’t help, falling in love with you.

Swallowing the lump that had formed in his throat once again, Bob mustered the softest smile for you he could.

“Guess I just have a great teacher,”

The weeks passed, and the wedding was only a month and a half out. You’d flown home with Natasha to your hometown in order to wedding dress shop with Nat’s sister and mother, and every detail had been meticulously planned out for the wedding. The venue had been chosen, a gorgeous little venue in the heart of San Diego just big enough to house the 150 or so guests that had been invited, and just a few blocks walk for the wedding party and family members who would be staying at the Lafayette Hotel San Diego.

The Best Man and the Maid of Honor had finalized the plans for the joint bachelor/bachelorette trip: a week stay in a gorgeous home by the Colorado River and just an hour’s drive from Lake Mead and Las Vegas, plenty of options for relaxing and true partying, just as Bradley and Natasha wanted. It had taken a while for Bob and you to hammer out the details, many dinners had been held in your office after stopping by, and many phone calls that managed to devolve into late-night conversations having nothing to do with the party planning. But Bob wouldn’t have it any other way.

He was hopelessly in love, and he knew it. Unfortunately for him, Bradley had caught on, too.

“Let’s go!” Natasha called out to the boys as they hopped out of Bradley’s truck, already running through the parking lot toward the campus building housing your office. “I want to get on the road before Hangman and the others beat us there. I want the best pick of the bedrooms!”

“Sweetheart, we’re the Bride and Groom, I’m pretty sure we automatically get best pick,” Nat flipped off her fiancé as the boys both laughed. The second she’d turned around, Bradley threw his arm over Bob’s shoulder and tugged him in. “So…want to finally tell me what’s up with you and little Miss Siren?”

Bob shook his head, trying to fight off the flush on his cheeks. The questions from Bradley on the topic had increased tenfold over the last few weeks, and it was getting harder to lie to him.

“We’re in charge of handling a bunch of the backend shit of your wedding, Rooster,” Bob managed to remind his friend as they reached the doors of the campus building. “We spend a lot of time together, that’s all.”

“But you’re in love with her, are you not?” Bob groaned, opening the glass doors and letting Bradley walk ahead of him. “I’m just asking! We can all see it, the entire squad has money in the betting pool for when you two will finally buck up and figure it out. Phoenix has interrogated her so many times and gets nowhere on it.”

“We’re about to leave on your joint bachelor/bachelorette trip, there’s enough love in the air with the two of you. Don’t worry about me and my non-existent love life,”

Bradley made another comment under his breath, but Bob didn’t catch it. His gaze quickly found Natasha at the receptionist's desk, talking to Sydney.

“I’ve been here once, but the building still confuses me. I can’t remember how to get to her office,” Natasha explained to the girl as Sydney simply laughed, waving it off.

“I understand. I used to get confused here all the time. It’s just up those stairs-” she cut herself off as she saw Bob and Bradley approach, her face brightening up at the sight of the former. “Oh, Lieutenant! You guys don’t need directions, he knows where he’s going. I think she canceled her last class of the day, so she should be up in her office!”

Bob felt that flush return in full force as Bradley clapped him on the shoulder.

“Not in love with her my ass,” he gave his shoulder a squeeze after mumbling the words before moving to his fiancée's side, and Natasha was just watching Bob with a cocked head.

“How often are you here, Floyd?”

Bob stumbled for a moment, his hand immediately coming to rub the back of his neck as he tried to find the words. He wanted to say he wasn’t here THAT often…but he knew that was a lie.

Like always, you somehow managed to save the day.

“Oh! I told you guys you could’ve waited in the car!” you’d called out, descending the stairs from your office with your suitcase for the week in hand. You bid your goodbyes to the two students walking at your sides, coming to stand beside Bob as you glanced around the small group with a questioning eyebrow. “I could cut the tension with a knife here. What did I miss?”

“Just…learning some new information,” Natasha settled on, a grin lighting up her face as she hooked her arm through your own, dragging you away from the two boys who could only laugh. “IT’S PARTY TIME!”

An almost 6 hours drive to the booked AirBNB for the week was a slight pain in the ass, but the four of you managed as you all continuously joked that you hadn’t ended up delegated to ride in Hangman’s truck with him. Bob couldn’t help the fact that every so often, his gaze drifted to the backseat in the rearview mirror, to where you and Nat were engrossed in a thousand different conversations that differed from his own and Rooster’s. 

Without fail, you seemed to be looking back at him every time with a small smile that he treasured as if it were the sun itself.

Hangman, Payback, Coyote, and Fanboy had, sadly, beaten the Bride and Groom’s group to the house, but any bitter feelings surrounding it were forgotten as they’d gotten a look at the gorgeous home in person. Nestled in an area of the desert with barely any neighbors and gorgeous views for miles, including the Colorado River just down the hill from the long driveway, no one could harbor any ill feelings about anything as the sun was setting over the mountains and bathing the entire home in red, oranges, and pinks.

Bob had taken his own suitcase and yours, ignoring your protests, and brought them into the house. Everyone seemed to be running about, checking out the amenities, as some people put their claims on the bedrooms already. Natasha had dragged you off in the direction of the game room when Bob caught sight of Rooster whispering to Hangman and Fanboy, all three men watching him with a smirk.

“Hey, baby-on-board,” Hangman called out for him, smirk growing ever cockier by the second. “The rest of us have already staked claim on rooms, and of course, the couple has to share. Only room left is the sofa bed room in the back of the house…think Siren would mind sharing with you?”

If Bob’s eyes could pop out of his head, they would’ve. He shook his head, already knowing by the smirks on all three boys’ lips that this was planned well in advance.

“Guys-”

“Hey, Siren!” Fanboy called out just as you’d reentered the room. You stopped dead in your tracks, cocking an eyebrow at the guys as you waited. “Claims have already been staked on most of the bedrooms, perks of being the first ones here. You don’t mind sharing with Bobby boy, do you?”

“Guys, really-”

“I don’t mind,” you’d cut off Bob’s comment as he turned to you, eyes wide. He wasn’t sure if it was his mind playing tricks on him, but he could’ve sworn he saw a flush cross your own skin as you looked at him. “Really, as long as it’s okay with you, I don’t mind.”

Bob looked back at the boys and their expectant smirks, then back to you, before finally taking a deep breath.

“Yeah…yeah, that’s fine with me,”

The truth was, Bob could barely focus on the entirety of dinner with the squad. He laughed, made jokes, and participated in conversations across the entire table the entire night, but his mind was stuck on the fact that he had to share a bed…with you.

Those nerves didn’t rest even as you both retired to your room for the night. The sofa bed had already been pulled out and made for the two of you. Bob had simply crawled into bed in silence, situating himself under the covers.

You entered the room moments later, having changed in the bathroom down the hall, and sent him a sweet smile as you crawled into your own side of the bed. Lying side by side, heads on their respective pillows, you both simply lay there and smiled toward one another.

“Sorry you got stuck with me,”

“I didn’t get stuck with you,” you’d rolled your eyes at his comment. “I’d take sharing with you over any of those Neanderthals any day.”

“Just promise not to drop any tables on me this trip, okay, Ikea?”

You’d laughed, even as you’d reached your foot out under the covers and kicked him lightly on the shin.

“If I managed to do that, I think I should get an award,” it was his turn to laugh as you flipped over, turning the bedside lamp off before tucking yourself into the covers. “Night, Bob.”

“Night, Ikea-”

“We’ve got to STOP with that nickname,”

He’d fallen asleep comfortably that night at your side, still laughing lightly to himself over that dumb little nickname he had for you that had found a way to stick. He wished his sleep had lasted longer, but it was quite the sight to see you leaning over him and shaking his shoulder with a grin.

“Get up!”

Bob groaned as you moved back to your side of the bed, reaching over to the nightstand to grab his glasses. The second his eyes focused, he checked the time on his phone. Slightly after 5:30 in the morning. Bob let out another groan when he saw the time.

“Why are you awake-”

“Just trust me and come on!”

He’d barely been out of bed and on his feet when you’d taken his hand in your own, dragging him down the dark hallways of the house. He wasn’t even fully awake enough to register your hand wrapped around his own.

The second you’d dragged him out onto the large patio deck of the home, he understood why you’d woken him up so early. If sunset had been pretty from this view, sunrise might’ve been even prettier.

The deep purple hues that crawled across the sky, blending into the fading night sky full of stars over the desert. The beginnings of reds and pink crawling out from the horizon, casting itself over the rolling desert hills and the Colorado River just barely in the distance, close enough he could see the colors reflecting off the water. He’d found himself leaning against the railing, gazing out at the colors for a moment before turning to you at his side, finding you already looking up at him.

“It’s gorgeous, isn’t it?”

You’d turned back to the view, but Bob’s eyes, full of wonder, stayed locked on you as he spoke.

“Prettier than anything I’ve ever seen,”

You’d stayed out there for awhile, small talk flowing through you, reminiscing on moments with the squad such as that terrible late night dogfight football, or the time you’d all watched on as Rooster handed Maverick’s ass to him in pool at the Hard Deck. Your hands sat on the railing next to one another, just barely touching, as your arms sat pressed up against one another. If Bob had more confidence, if he’d thought that maybe you felt the same for him, he might’ve taken the leap and reached out to take your hand in his own.

Neither of you had any clue how long you’d been out there admiring the view and simply talking. Bob heard a small noise behind you both after a while, glancing behind you both. Rooster simply stood in the patio doorway, a genuine grin on his face as he raised his coffee cup at his best friend with a wink, before leaving you alone together once more.

It was a week of memories that none of them would ever truly forget.

The entire day spent on the shores of Lake Mead was full of laughter, and what Fanboy had nicknamed ‘dogfight chicken’, though it didn’t have any different rules than a normal game of chicken did. You and Bob had reigned victorious through every single round, though Bob wasn’t sure how. His thoughts were flooded with you, and the impure thoughts he was having at the thought that his head was, quite literally, between your thighs as you sat on his shoulders, was driving him insane.

That next morning was worse for his thoughts, when he’d awoken early in the morning to you nestled in his arms, head resting against his chest, and his arms wrapped around you. He’d laid still like that for what felt like hours, both terrified of waking you up and freaking you out with the position you were in, while also savoring every second of it in fear it would never happen again. He’d pretended to be asleep when you finally woke up, letting you be the one to extricate yourself from his arms. Neither of you mentioned it to the other.

One full day and night had been dedicated to the Las Vegas strip and all it had to offer. Rooster was constantly nudging Bob in the side the entire day, reminding his friend that his eyes were supposed to remain on your face, not on the slit of the dress you wore running up and exposing your thigh.

No one knew who had drunkenly suggested it, but somehow they’d found themselves at a Magic Mike show. Plenty of videos had been taken as a form of blackmail as Hangman was subjected to a lap dance from the performers of the show, constantly telling Coyote to ‘piss off about it’ the rest of the night.

That next morning, Bob had woken up to you entangled in his arms once again. And the morning after that.

The Dagger Squad’s final day of the trip was spent together at the home, simply enjoying one another's company as more stories of everyone’s childhood had been shared across the board. Bob had even been roped into a story of him working on his parents' ranch back in Montana at one point, which prompted a whole discussion on whether Bob was technically considered a cowboy or not.

The WSO had found himself frozen in the kitchen that night, simply watching you from the window. You and Natasha sat on the patio together, pointing up at the light pollution-free sky as you seemed to be watching the stars, discussing what could be seen that night, hundreds of thousands of miles above your heads. He’d watched you throw your head back laughing, and that tug in his chest when he looked at you seemed to increase tenfold in that moment.

It wasn’t long later that Rooster was opening his bedroom door, coming to find that it was Bob standing on the other side of the door and knocking frantically.

“Bob-”

“You were right…I’m in love with her,”

“Well,” both boys turned, seeing Natasha had entered the hallway at just the right moment to join her future husband for bed and hear the conversation occurring. Bob’s blood ran cold, fearing the worst, but she simply smiled at him. “It’s nice to finally hear you admit the obvious.”

A long conversation with his best friends came with the feeling of a small weight being lifted off his shoulders, of finally having admitted his feelings out loud. They’d encouraged him to act on it, to tell you how he felt, but Bob couldn’t get rid of the nagging insecurity in the back of his head that he was never going to be good enough for you.

When he’d returned to your room that night and crawled into bed, you were still awake. You had both simply laid there in silence for a moment, staring at one another, and Bob could see the hesitation in your movements for just a moment. You seemed to throw your inhibitions out the window, moving across the bed and slotting yourself into Bob’s arms, curling yourself around him as you buried your head into the crook of his neck.

It threw Bob for a loop. Every night this week, you’d awoken like this, tangled together, but he’d assumed that it had just naturally happened in your sleep, that one of you reached out for the other. But you were awake, you were both aware of what you were doing, and yet you took the leap anyway. Bob chose not to push his luck, not to ask, and simply wrapped his arms around you, closing his eyes with you tucked right against him where he felt you belonged.

“Can I tell you something?” Bob whispered to you after moments of silence wrapped up together, neither of you addressing the compromising position you’d put yourself in.

“Always,”

“You…” Bob struggled for a moment, trying to find his words and the right thing to say. ‘Love’ was dancing on his lips, but his insecurities tugged it back in. When he spoke again, he knew he meant the words, even if it was not what he meant to say. “You’re my best friend. Don’t tell Rooster that.”

There was a pause, then a soft laugh, as you seemed to cling to him tighter, your words and breath ghosting over his skin.

“You’re my best friend, too. Just don’t tell Nat,”

There had been another shift in the relationship between you and Bob in those next few weeks leading to the wedding night, and everyone seemed to be able to see it. A simple confession, albeit not the confession Bob had wanted to say that night, seemed to change everything.

Anytime the group was out together, you both were glued to one another’s side. This time, unlike in the months prior, it was as if the pair of you had to be touching. If you were all walking somewhere, your arm was linked through his with your hand resting on his bicep. The entire group noticed the way that, as you all hugged one another goodbye at the end of a night, you and Bob seemed to linger in one another’s embraces longer than usual.

There was the night at the Hard Deck, laughing over some story Maverick was telling them from the glory days, that Bob felt your hand reach for his under the table, wordlessly slotting itself into his own. That moment replayed in his head every single day and night, even as he fell asleep late into the morning hours with you still on the phone with him.

They were the moments that he couldn’t help but replay constantly, even as he stood in the preparation room of the wedding venue, adjusting his dress whites to ensure that nothing was out of place.

“How are we looking over here, Rooster?” Hangman called out, moving through the room to check on the groom himself. 

“Ready to do this thing,” Rooster told him as Bob joined the pair across the room. Bradley placed a hand on each of their shoulders, his Best Man and his only other Groomsman, all standing together in their matching Navy dress whites, and gave them a thankful smile. “Thank you both for doing this. For being here with me.”

Bob grinned at his best friend as Rooster pulled them both into a hug, before it was go time.

Bradley was already stationed at the altar behind the double doors before them, leaving Bob to stand just behind the doors, ready to lead the charge down the aisle for his best friends to get married. He turned as he heard the voice of Natasha’s sister behind them, taking her place beside Hangman for the walk. His gaze then turned to you as you slotted yourself to his side, and it took everything in him not to whisk you off your feet the second he laid eyes on the form fitting, navy blue dress clung to your body, or the plunging neckline he was desperately trying to keep his eyes off of.

“She’s all set up with her dad back there,” you’d told him softly, winding your arm through his as your hand lay on his forearm, eyes never leaving his own. “We’re good to go the second the music kicks in. You ready?”

“Think Rooster would kill me if I wasn’t, he’s antsy down there,” you’d laughed, and Bob had smiled. His favorite sound in the world. “You…you look beautiful.”

“Right back at you, Lieutenant,”

There were smiles and tears throughout the crowd as you and Bob led the charge down the aisle, taking your places on either side of where Natasha and Bradley would stand. The second Natasha was escorted down the aisle by her father, there wasn’t a dry eye in the house, Rooster and you included. Bob found himself watching you, though, as you happily took Nat’s bouquet from her hands through your tears.

They recited after their Pastor, they exchanged their vows, but Bob found his eyes betraying him and glancing at you more often than at his best friends. Every time he looked to you, he found you were already looking at him.

He knew there was no going back the second Natasha Trace and Bradley Bradshaw were pronounced man and wife, that they’d pulled one another into their first kiss as a married couple, and his eyes had drifted to you in the celebration. All he could think in that moment was that he wanted that to be you and him, that he wanted to hold you and kiss you and call you his forever.

It felt like a blur to Bob what happened next. The entire Dagger Squad joined together to perform the Arch of Swords for their best friends, smiles never leaving anyone’s faces. Bob had sat right next to you during dinner, unable to keep his eyes off of you the entire time. Then, you’d rose to your feet and took hold of the microphone passed to you, preparing for the speech you’d spent your entire life writing.

“If you don’t know me, the truth is you probably indirectly do. Because any story that Natasha has told you from any point in her life? I was most likely at every single one of those,” you’d turned to Natasha the second you said that, and Bob could see the tears in both of your eyes. “Natasha, or as many in this room know you, Phoenix, you hit me on the head with a soccer ball in Kindergarten, and I knew from that moment on you would be my best friend. I watched you fall in and out of love with both soccer and softball growing up, witnessed you punch two middle schoolers who broke my heart, and watched you fall in love with the idea of someday flying F-18s for the rest of your life. I’m forever proud to say that I’ve watched you achieve everything you’ve ever wanted in life, and I’m so happy that I’ve gotten to be here for all of it. But most importantly, I’m glad your passion also brought you the love you have always deserved. Bradley, I’m proud to call you one of my best friends in life now, and I could not be happier to know that you two have found one another.”

You’d raised your champagne glass through your tears, as the room followed suit, even as Natasha silently sobbed from her place beside Bradley.

“They say that love is simply just a friendship that caught on fire,” Bob’s breath caught for just a moment, swearing that he saw your eyes flicker to him for just a moment, before you continued to talk. “May it burn bright for many years to come, and fly higher than you both do every day in the San Diego skies.”

There were still the remnants of tears streaming down your face as you took your place beside Bob once again, allowing Natasha’s sister to give her own speech. Bob watched you in silence before, in a leap of faith, reaching his hand out for your own. You took it without a word, squeezing onto it in a vice-like grip and refusing to let go.

The reception was in full swing, and everyone was in party mode. Natasha and Bradley were the stars of the show in their first dance, revealed in their speeches previously to have been taught by none other than you.

The bouquet toss had the entire Dagger Squad erupting into cheers, almost trying to carry you off the dance floor, the second Natasha’s bouquet seemed to find you among the young women in the crowd as if meant just for you.

You. God, you had consumed every ounce of Bob’s thoughts for weeks and months now, and tonight was no different. In the ever-changing landscape that was life, you were like the North Star in Bob’s eyes, his one constant since the moment you’d walked into the Hard Deck.

“As a wedding gift to us, could you just grow some balls and finally ask her out?”

Bob jumped, startled, as Bradley and Natasha appeared at his side from where he stood on the outside of the dance floor. He sighed, seeing the expectant looks on their faces, before glancing back to where you danced with the rest of the fighter pilots you’d grown so close to over the last few months.

“She’s, like, walking perfection on legs, guys. She could do better than the socially awkward fighter pilot that is…me,”

“Except she doesn’t want to,” Natasha cut in. She sighed, resting a hand on Bob’s shoulder before glancing out toward her best friend. “I’ve known her my entire life, Bob, and she doesn’t take to people the way she’s taken to you. She looks for you in every room, she talks about you constantly…she was dying to meet you just from the photos I’d shown you. I’ve never seen her act the way she does when she’s with you, Bob.”

The words sparked a small flame of hope in his chest, a flame just strong enough to push away the insecurities that begged to claw their way out. He looked back at his best friends, the glow of marriage surrounding them, with that flame of hope shining in his eyes.

“What if you’re wrong?”

“What if we’re right?” Rooster cut in, giving him a small shrug. “Maverick said it best to me months ago…don’t think, just do.”

Don’t think, just do. Maverick always knew what to say, didn’t he?

A slower song had begun on the dance floor, and Hangman could see Bob stalking their way. A smirk crossed the man’s face as he took hold of your hand, spinning you in Bob’s direction, before leading the rest of the Dagger Squad off the floor.

Bob stood in front of you, mustering every ounce of confidence he could find in him, as he held out his hand toward you, palm facing the sky.

“Dance with me?”

A smile might’ve been permanently etched into your lips as you took his hand in yours. Bob’s other hand immediately found your waist, his hand resting on your lower back as he tugged you into him as tightly as he could, your other hand resting on his shoulder as the iconic Berlin song played through the reception.

Watching in slow motion as you turn around and say…take my breath away.

Neither of you said a word for a minute, though your eyes never left one another as you simply swayed side to side across the dance floor, fully aware of the watchful eyes of your friends on you from the sidelines.

“You know…” you were the one to start the conversation, somehow managing to pull yourself even closer to Bob. There was a teasing tone to your voice, nose bumping against his for a moment. “I’ve been kind of waiting for you to ask me out for months.”

A weight seemed to leave Bob’s shoulders the second you spoke, his mind finally being calmed with the fact that you did, indeed, return his affections, that it wasn’t all a misunderstanding in his mind.

“Thought at first it broke some kind of friendship code to fall in love with your best friend’s childhood best friend. Then…I got scared you wouldn’t feel the same,” you laughed lightly at his comment, though Bob could see the way you brightened the second he’d said the word ‘love’ in his explanation. “How long…how long have you felt this way?”

“The schoolgirl crush started when I dropped that table on you, even though I thought you were plenty cute just based on the photos Nat had showed me before,” to was Bob’s turn to laugh as your hand traveled up to the nape of his neck, tangling gently in the hair now carded through your fingers. Somewhere behind them, he swears he could hear Fanboy cheer at the motion. “Somewhere in the midst of a bunch of mini lunch dates and dancing with you for the first time is when it changed.”

“I’ve got you beat there,” Bob countered with a laugh, looking down sheepishly. “After I picked you up from work that one time, when the rest of the guys started calling you Siren. It changed for me after that night.”

There was a slight tug on the hair threaded through your fingers, and Bob resisted everything in him not to let out a groan. His eyes flicked back up to you immediately, almost pleading with you not to do that again before he dragged you out of the reception, and he could see the amusement dancing in your eyes at the reaction you received.

“It's not a competition. We know now,” you slid the hand that rested in his own back up his arm, instead cupping his jaw in your hand as a shiver ran through his body. “Though, I thought I was being quite obvious with literally cuddling you in bed.”

Bob’s now freehand found your hip, eliminating any space between you both as if it were even possible. Given their surroundings, he wouldn’t be surprised if there were murmurs about how what was happening was far from appropriate for the setting they were in.

“It should’ve been. We can blame my insecurities for that one,”

He watched you in silence, still swaying to the beat of the song. Your eyes flickered, for the briefest of moments, down to his lips as Bob’s grip tightened from the sight.

Watching in slow motion as you turn my way and say…take my breath away. My love, take my breath away.

His eyes fluttered half shut, throwing caution to the wind now that he knew he had you, and leaned in. His lips were met with your finger pressed against them, though, and when he’d opened his eyes, your pupils may have been blown wider and your voice may have gained a slight rasp it didn’t have before, but there was clear amusement dancing across your features.

“Trying to kiss me at the wedding of our best friends? How scandalous, you know it’s their night to be the center of attention,” Bob groaned, even as his cheeks flushed, forehead falling to your shoulder. He felt your body shake with laughter before your lips ghosted over his ear. “We’ve waited this long, Lieutenant, what’s a little longer?”

Longer was torture, Bob had decided, but it was a torture spent with you still wrapped around his side. You’d danced the night away into the early hours of the morning with all of your friends, until it was finally time to end what was surely the best night of Natasha and Bradley’s lives.

The newly married couple had bid everyone goodbye before they were off to their own private villa for the night. The wedding party and family made the trek down the road together toward the Lafayette, Hangman and Coyote holding up a very drunk Payback who was belting Celine Dion down the sidewalk.

You’d thrown your head back laughing, hand intertwined with Bob’s as you brought up the rear of the pack.

The squad all said their goodbyes to Maverick and Penny, who’d essentially stood in as Rooster’s family, and to Natasha’s own family, before they’d made their way to the floor blocked off specifically for them. Everyone had thrown out goodnight, disappearing into the private rooms to sleep off their hangovers into the early hours of the morning.

Bob was the last the the Top Gun pilots to still be standing at his door. He’d fished out his own door key, before pausing before inserting it into the lock, glancing down the other end of the hallway.

There you stood, shoes in hand as you leaned against the doorway of your open hotel room. Your eyes never left his, and Bob’s room key found it’s way back into the pocket of his dress whites as he was across the entire hotel room floor in seconds.

Your eyes never seemed to leave one another as you both drifted into the room, Bob’s hand splayed across the edge of the room door, shutting it softly behind you both. The second it was closed, the room was only bathed in the soft, nighttime light of Dan Diego that poured through the curtains and the warm, yellowed glow of the single lamp lighting up the corner of the room.

Bob’s hands found your waist as yours found his neck, and he fell into you as if you were two atoms destined to collide with one another from the moment you met.

Your lips were soft against his, your lipstick already having been smudged off throughout the night from the many drinks passed between friends, but he could taste the cherry and vanilla Chapstick buried underneath. That simple taste elicited a groan from deep inside of him as his desire to simply feel you, to hold you, overtook Bob.

He backed you into the closest wall, right beside the door of the room, and your body immediately arched into him. His hand slid it’s way from your waist down to your thigh, digging into it as he hoisted it up around his own waist, the slit up the dress giving way to allow you to cling to him in earnest.

His hair was a mess as your hands moved into it, your lips never parting. He simply tilted his head, swallowing the moan you let out the second he gripped onto your waist tighter and tugged you impossible closer.

“Pretty sure Fanboy is right next door,” Bob had managed to mumble into your lips, unable to fully pull away from you. You nipped at his lower lip, this time a deep moan leaving him which had you giggling back into the kiss.

“I’ve waited long enough to kiss you, Bob Floyd. I don’t really give a damn if we keep him awake,”

Bob pulled back slightly in the dim lighting, hand leaving your thigh to instead cup your cheek, to simply observe and memorize everything about you. He loved you, he loved you more than he ever thought it was possible to love someone, and he never wanted to forget the look in your eyes right now as you looked at him through lust riddled eyes.

Your hand found his, removing it from your cheek and instead to your back. His breath caught for a second as it touched the zipper at the top, and one single look in your eyes had him tugging it down as slowly and sensually as possible.

Bob could feel your breath catch the second his lips found your neck, leaving a trail across your skin and down to your collarbone as the zipper finally came undone, the pool of navy colored fabric dropping into a heap on the floor.

You’d barely given him a second to truly admire the masterpiece he thought was you as a whole before you’d tugged him back into a kiss, your hands working overtime to gently undo the buttons holding his Navy dress whites together.

His hat was long gone on the floor, and soon every article of his dress whites joined it. He couldn’t help but smile as you laughed, watching him quickly lean down to grab the formal clothing of his and yours, folding it neatly into a pile in the corner. When he’d looked back up, you were standing just inches away, falling back into his arms without another word. His own breath caught, shiver running down his skin at the feeling of your soft, supple skin simply on his igniting a fire in him he’d never felt before.

Your hands came up, adjusting his glasses to sit on the bridge of his nose as they were meant to, and Bob wasted no time in pulling you back into a bruising kiss that had you falling back onto the lush, fancy bedspread behind you both.

As you’d crawled your way back up the bed, head hitting the pillows waiting by the ornate headboard, Bob simply hovered over you, taking you all in fully for the first time, memorizing every square inch of you that existed. He wanted it all committed to memory.

His eyes trailed back to yours finally, to the shining affection and adoration in them, and the words finally tumbled out of his mouth.

“I love you,”

Your hands cupped his jawline, bringing him back down to you to place a gentle, loving kiss on his lips that he sighed right into, leaning into the feel of you that he was already addicted to.

“I love you too,”

The pair of you stayed there for a moment, wrapped up in the sweetest and most loving of kisses that rivaled the passionate moment the moment you’d stepped into the room. Until Bob began to laugh lightly against your lips, the actions bringing a smile to your own face.

“What’s so funny, Lieutenant?”

He shook his head, backing up for just a moment to fully look down at you.

“It’s just uh…you know what they say about the Best Man and the Maid of Honor, don't you?”

Your laughter rang through the room immediately, and he knew Natasha must have said something to you along the same lines of what Bradley had whispered to him in the middle of the Hard Deck. Your hands ran down his shoulder, taking hold of his biceps with a small squeeze.

“Something about how they’re always destined to fall in love. God, how cliché of us,”

Every moment with you flooded Bob’s head in that moment as he looked down at you. From the moment you’d walked into the Hard Deck, to the moment he danced with you, to that fated trip where it all changed, and every moment in between. To now, as you laid almost bare before him, gazing up at him with love written across every inch of your features, as if you’d do just about anything he could’ve asked of you in that moment. And you would, just as he’d do the same for you.

So, his thumb ran across your lips for a moment, before he’d taken the back of your neck in his hand and tugged you upwards into another passionate kiss, pouring every ounce of love his body had into it.

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

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

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

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

There’s a beat of silence as Bob lets his eyes drift back to you, drinking in the way you’re leaning against the bar. Elbow propped, hip cocked, one boot crossed over the other, and your head tipped just slightly as you talk to the dark-haired stranger beside you. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Jake tips his beer toward her. “Anytime.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It shouldn’t matter. 

But it does. 

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

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

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

He lives for it. 

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

“Payback,” Natasha warns. “Don’t.” 

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

Bob’s eyes flick between you and Reuben, his brows furrowed slightly as his thoughts tug in opposite directions. On one hand, yeah, Reuben’s logic makes perfect sense. Bob’s not blind—he sees the way you look at him. The way your face lights up when you talk to him, the quiet smile you wear just for him, the blush you try to hide when he says something low and teasing. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

The way your hands move when you talk, how your dress sways as you shift your weight, the gentle curve of your smile. Even over the music and chatter, he swears he can hear your laughter—if he strains. 

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

- 

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

But not in a sexy way. Not in the way that sends goosebumps down your arms or makes your skin prickle with anticipation. It just makes you feel warm—too warm—in the packed, overheated bar. 

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

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

“Yeah,” he chuckles, scratching the back of his neck. “But I’ve got to be at work by six tomorrow morning, so I figured if we ducked out now, we could... you know, mess around a bit before bed.” 

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

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

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

You slip off the barstool with a clipped smile, wishing you looked more sincere, but your body is already moving toward where you really want to be—where your squad is. 

Where Bob is. 

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

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

You slip through the swinging wooden doors behind the bar and fall in beside Penny, listening closely to the man ordering drinks—his voice raised over the music and chatter. Without hesitation, you start grabbing clean glasses, catching Penny off guard as you begin pouring pints of golden beer. 

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

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

You give her a cheeky wink before lining up the beers on a tray for the man. Penny swipes his card, and he’s gone in half the time. Then the next patron steps up, and you keep working smoothly, moving effortlessly behind the bar and easing the pressure. 

Eventually, the line dies down, and Penny takes full advantage of your presence by sending Jimmy out back for more stock. You stay behind the bar while she ducks off to collect empties, keeping yourself busy wiping benches, refilling lime wedges, and unloading the freshly washed glasses. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Wow,” he chuckles softly. 

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

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

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

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

He blinks fast. “No.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You sigh heavily. “Men. Fucking impossible.” 

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

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

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

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

After all, why else bring a guy to the bar you knew your friends would be at—you knew he would be at? Why wear a dress this short? And why spend half the night with your eyes locked on him, just wishing he’d walk over and interrupt your lousy date? 

- 

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

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

It’s dark, it’s eerie, and your NVGs fog up if you so much as breathe wrong. Fatigue hits harder, the skeleton crew slows everything down, and visibility is shot—so you’re flying blind, trusting your radar and your WSO to keep you alive. 

“You know what’s great about night ops?” Mickey says, head tipped back in his chair. “Nothing. Not the dark, not the sleep deprivation, not the existential dread at two a.m. while staring into the black void wondering if your wingman ghosted you or just changed frequency.” 

You roll your eyes and take a sip of coffee. 

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

Mickey shrugs. “Yeah. Probably.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Natasha snorts and you quickly elbow her in the side. 

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

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

Your brows shoot up. “That so?” 

He nods. 

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

His eyes snap open. “Huh?” 

“Want to fuck me?” 

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

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

Well... almost everyone. 

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

Which means he’s definitely listening. 

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

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

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

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

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

“Isn’t he married?” Reuben asks. 

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

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

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

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

Out of the corner of your eye, you catch the way Bob shifts in his seat—just slightly, but it’s enough. He’s not looking at you, but the tips of his ears have turned pink, and his jaw is locked tight as he keeps his eyes on his phone. Still blank. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

The four of you ride in silence across the flight line, packed into one of the motorised carts as Maverick drives you from the squadron building to the hangar. There’s a low buzz of anticipation in the air, but no one says much. It’s late, and everyone is focusing on their own little preflight rituals. 

Once you reach the hangar, the ground crew directs you toward the night ops staging area where your NVGs and gear are laid out. You’ve done enough of these late-night flights to know the drill, so you join the others in wordlessly collecting your kit and starting to suit up. 

By the time you make it out onto the tarmac, your jets are already prepped and the crew chiefs are finishing up their walk-arounds. You head over to your jet, nodding to the plane captain before starting your own pre-flight check—walking the length of the fuselage, scanning for anything off, running a practiced eye over control surfaces, landing gear, intakes. It’s second nature by now, but you don’t cut corners. Especially not in the dark. 

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

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

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

You freeze instinctively as Bob steps in—right into your space, like you’re the only two souls on the glowing stretch of tarmac. His gloved hand finds the side of your helmet, fingers sliding into place with steady control. It should feel clinical—routine—but it doesn’t. It burns. Even through the goddamn helmet. 

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

You obey—barely—and he leans in, his body almost touching to yours. One hand on your cheek-plate now, the other carefully turning the tiny focus dial above your temple. You can feel his breath against your skin, warm and shallow, and it sends a pulse through your ribs that you’re trying desperately not to show. 

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

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

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

Your heart stutters. 

He adjusts something with a flick of his thumb—the pad of it grazing down along the side of your face, slow and careful. Like he's memorising the shape of you under the gear. Your jaw flexes. 

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

Bob stills for a beat. Just one. 

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

You swear your knees nearly give. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You shake your head, yank your helmet off, and join the others for a quick debrief before splitting up again and climbing into your jets. You settle in, strap your helmet back on, check your now perfectly focused NVGs, and run your usual internal systems check. 

Then—after the green light from ground crew—you’re in the sky. Squinting through your goggles, seeing the world saturated in green and grey, and wondering why the fuck no one has invented a better form of night vision yet. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes. Because they do it quietly.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Copy,” Jake replies. 

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

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

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

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

“Affirmative,” Jake replies before you can. 

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

You and Jake return to formation without issue. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You move through the post-flight motions with a frown on your face and your jaw locked tight. First, the ground crew helps you out of the jet and you do a quick walk-around. Then you ditch your night gear, knock out a maintenance report, and sit through a short debrief with Maverick before jumping in the cart back to the ready room. 

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

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

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

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

“I didn’t mean to undermine you.” 

“Sure felt like it,” you mutter. 

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

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

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

“That I’m a little kid?” you snap, spinning to face him again. “Because whatever issue you have with my age, I need you to remember that I got here the same way you did. I worked my ass off to be the pilot I am today, and I don’t need someone second-guessing me just because they’re a little older. Especially when I know what I’m capable of.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Trevor’s face lights up and he quickly launches into a long-winded explanation of his new role as a flight instructor. He walks toward her as he talks, inching closer to where Jake is seated not far from Natasha. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

- 

Unfortunately, later never comes. 

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

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

The rest of the week slips by the same way. Every little thing keeps getting in the way of you and Bob actually talking. Even Thursday night, after a routine hop, when you’re both finally in the ready room and the moment couldn’t be more perfect—Trevor bursts in again, and Bob shuts down. 

When you finally leave base on Friday morning—glaring at the well-rested day-shifters on your way out like it’s their fault you’re dead inside—you make a promise to yourself. You’re going to talk to him this weekend. It doesn’t matter when or how or if you have to fake an emergency just to get five uninterrupted minutes. You’re going to do it. Because whatever weird, half-finished thing is hanging between you and Bob has been living rent-free in your head all week—and honestly, it’s starting to redecorate. 

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

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

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

You shut your eyes and let out a deep sigh. When you open them again, Trevor is already sprawled across your three-seater couch like he owns the place. 

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

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

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

Trevor watches you, eyes narrowed slightly, expression unreadable. 

“Wow,” he mutters. 

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

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

You rear back, incredulous. “A quitter?” 

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

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

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

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

And God, you hate to admit it, but maybe he’s right. Maybe instead of teasing Bob, you just need to go for it. Cut through the hesitation, stop him from overthinking, and make the damn decision for him. 

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

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

“Trev!” 

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

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

Tonight, the squad has decided to go bowling. Everyone wanted to shake things up from the usual at The Hard Deck, and the only thing you could all agree on was bowling. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What am I?” she asks. 

“Phone,” Javy replies, deadpan. 

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

“Yep,” Bradley chuckles. 

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

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

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

You grab your shoes and rejoin the group, flopping down beside Bob just close enough to make him squirm. Then you lean forward, swapping your Converse for the white, red, and blue striped Velcro bowling shoes. 

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

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

You glance down at the man sitting beside you. The poor guy who’s basically eye-level—thanks to these ridiculously low seats—with your ass. The man whose glasses are just a little foggy by the bridge of his nose as he breathes a bit faster than usual. His cheeks are pink, lips parted, and his eyes are so wide—and so blatantly glued to your short, short skirt—that you can barely keep from laughing. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You resist the urge to look back—even with all the teasing going on behind you—as you browse the rack of bowling balls. You pick one, mostly for its colour rather than its weight, and carry it over to the ball return where the others have already placed theirs. 

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

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

“Rooster,” she calls, “you’re up.” 

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

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

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

Bradley flips them off before picking up the ball again, dialling in his focus and managing to knock over seven pins on his second try. 

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

Unfortunately for everyone, Jake is obnoxiously good at bowling and casually lands a spare without breaking a sweat. But then Reuben steps up and nails a strike, which earns him an impressive amount of booing. 

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

Next up is Mickey, who insists he has a ‘signature move that never fails’. He then immediately wipes himself out and lands on his ass as the ball rolls tragically slow down the lane. It takes everyone a solid few minutes to recover from laughing. 

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

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

Bob rolls his eyes and shrugs off Jake’s hand, the corner of his mouth twitching as he stands and heads for the ball return. You’re not sure if it’s intentional, but the jeans hugging his ass are outrageously distracting, and it takes a considerable amount of effort to look at the pins instead of his backside. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

There are a few murmured insults about your lack of bowling skill, but you barely hear them. Bob catches your eye, his lips parted like he’s about to say something—offer to help maybe—but then he just... doesn’t. 

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

Bending lower than strictly necessary, you wiggle your fingers into the ball’s grip and line up your shot with exaggerated focus. The hem of your dress shifts just enough to tease the tops of your thighs, and you don’t have to look to know Bob’s watching. You can feel it—the weight of his stare, the sudden shift in the air like gravity is a pressing down just little harder. 

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

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

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

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

Mickey snorts. “Somebody reboot him.” 

Bob blinks hard, still dazed, and mumbles something under his breath. The rest of the squad continue laughing quietly, their eyes flicking between you and the flustered lieutenant—who is now very interested in the floor.  

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

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

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

The squad bursts out laughing again while Bradley shoots you an unimpressed glare. Then he grabs his ball, turns toward the lane, and kicks off the next round. 

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

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

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

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

You’ve always had a thing for hands—especially Bob’s. They’re just... really nice hands. Big and steady, with long fingers that look like they could touch you in ways that would rewrite your entire understanding of pleasure. You’ve imagined those hands everywhere—ghosting over your skin, gripping your thighs, digging bruises into your hips, clawing down your back. 

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

And when those fingers sink into the bowling ball holes? 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Both you and Bob ignore them. You take the ball from his hand and move up to the lane, slipping your fingers into the holes and holding it at your chest. 

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

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

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

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

Your heart stutters. His hands are big—warm and rough in the best way—and they settle over yours like they were made to. When he steps closer to correct your stance, his chest brushes your back, and you feel everything. The press of him. The tension in his thighs. The tremble in his exhale. 

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

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

“That’s… yeah. Perfect.” 

He freezes. 

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

And then you feel it. 

Oh. 

Oh. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

You grin, still tingling from where his hands touched you, as you turn back toward the lane. You roll the ball and, somehow, end up getting a spare—despite your brain being completely stuck on Bob... and what exactly had made him bolt so fast. 

Bradley gets up for his turn as you move dazedly back to your seat, mind hazy with thoughts of how Bob had felt pressed against you. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

They all look at you, confused. 

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

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

You frown. “What?” 

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

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

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

“Yeah,” you add. “He’s gay.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Everyone falls silent. 

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

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

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

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

After two games of bowling, a round of hot dogs, and more shit-talking than could possibly be quantified, everyone decides to call it a night. It isn’t even that late, but with your wrecked sleep schedules, you’re all starting to feel a little loopy. 

You swap back into your own shoes, return the bowling pair, duck into the bathroom, and head for the door. Everyone but Bob is already outside, but like the gentleman he is, he’s still inside—waiting by the claw machine with his nose buried in his phone. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He hesitates for a beat, and you can feel his gaze sear into the exposed skin of your legs before he doubles his steps to catch up and walk beside you. 

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

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

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

There’s a pause. An awkward pause. 

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

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

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

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

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

Then you double your pace and slip out the doors, not bothering to hold it open. You cross the parking lot quickly, making a beeline for Natasha’s car without so much as a glance toward the others. You yank the passenger door open, slide in, and slam it shut. 

- Bob - 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You what?” Reuben asks, leaning in. 

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

“I know,” Bob huffs. 

He’s not sure why he couldn’t tell Natasha but has no issue telling the others. Maybe because Natasha was about to get in a car with you and hear the story anyway—so why bother? Or maybe it’s because he’s a little afraid of Nat. And he knows, deep down, that he messed up. He just didn’t feel like getting chewed out by his sharp-tongued pilot tonight. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

They all say their goodbyes and head for their cars, leaving Bob still leaning against the side of his own, a far-off look in his eyes and guilt twisting in his chest. 

He barely sleeps that night. 

Every time he closes his eyes, he sees the profile of your face after he said no—the way your eyes glossed over, your jaw clenched, and your lips pressed into a thin, unshakable line. The memory cuts through him like a blade. 

He hates the thought of hurting you. But more than that, he hates himself—because he knows he did. He knows you cried, whether it happened in the car or the moment you got home. Either way, the result is the same—he made you cry. And that thought alone makes him feel sick. 

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

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

An hour passes. Nothing. 

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

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

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

It’s worse—because it’s you. 

You’re his favourite person in the whole damn world. He can admit that now. You make him laugh. You make him feel like himself. And as much as he’s tried not to need you… he does. Desperately. 

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

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

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

Before Bob even knows exactly how he’s going to say everything that’s been spinning through his head, he’s already outside your apartment building. He knows where it is because he helped you move in after the Dagger Squad was made a permanent unit at North Island. 

He still thinks about that day, too. About the exercise tights you wore—how they clung to your ass like a second skin. About the loose tee you eventually peeled off because you were overheating, leaving you in nothing but a sports bra. And when you finally took a break, beer in hand on your new balcony, he watched you cool down… and watched your nipples pebble beneath the Lycra fabric. 

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

He shakes his head and forces his feet to move—into the building, into the elevator, and up to your floor. The hallway feels both way too long and not nearly long enough as he approaches your door. Then, with a deep breath, he raises his hand and knocks three times. 

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

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

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

His hair’s a mess, his cheeks are flushed, and his eyes are half-lidded. He looks like he either just woke up… or just got done doing something naked and personal with someone else. Which might explain why he’s shirtless, wearing nothing but a crooked pair of boxers that—at least in Bob’s opinion—aren’t leaving much to the imagination. 

“I—uh, Trevor?” 

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

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

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

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

Trevor smirks over his shoulder. “Floyd!” 

“What?” 

He nudges the door open a little wider, revealing you in nothing but an oversized U.S. Navy tee. Your hair is mussed, your cheeks are flushed, and your eyes are narrowed—definitely not surprised. Just… pissed. 

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

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

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

Then he turns on his heel and practically jogs down the hall, mashing the elevator button hard enough to hurt. He can hear your voice behind him, Trevor’s too, but he doesn’t care. He doesn’t want to care. He just wants to get the hell out of here before he goddamn cries over the fact that the woman he loves just jumped into bed with the next guy right after he turned her down. 

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

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

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

God, he should’ve known. He should have known it was too good to be true. Why would someone like you want someone like him? And why would you waste your time waiting—when you could have just about any man you wanted? 

- You - 

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

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

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

“You heard me.” 

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

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

Trevor gasps—loudly. 

“But he said no.” 

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

“Because he has laundry to do.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Trevor…” 

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

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

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

You barely hear him as he continues to rant about men and miscommunication. Instead, you flick on the TV, letting the background noise of old cartoon reruns wash over you while the memory of last night replays on loop. 

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

But deep down, you know the truth. 

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

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

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

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

Trevor is gone by the time your alarm goes off at eight p.m., giving you an hour to tidy the apartment before showering and heading off to base. You stopped living on base when the Dagger Squad was made permanent at North Island, same as most of the others. It’s nice not having to share bathrooms or constantly wonder whether you’re going to get all your socks back from the laundry room. But you’d be lying if you said you didn’t miss running into your friends all the time—running into Bob. 

The sky is dark and the base is quiet as you park your car and make your way to the squadron building. Your stomach twists nervously at the thought of seeing not just Bob, but your whole squad. You know they’d all know by now—that you asked Bob out and he shut you down. 

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

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

You give her a tight smile. 

“Feeling any better?” 

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

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

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

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

You shake your head, giving her a silent look that says you’ll fill her in later. Then you turn and make your way to the back of the room, sinking into one of the furthest possible chairs from where Bob is seated. 

It isn’t long before Maverick walks in and starts the briefing. He rambles on about a possible mission on the horizon, which means upcoming hops and drills are going to be more purpose-driven. He wants to work closely with the WSOs, having them and their pilots fly point to spot anything the night might hide from the F/A-18E drivers. 

You’re not particularly bothered by that, because after tonight, the rest of your hops are scheduled with Reuben and Mickey. Which means you only have to deal with Bob for one night. Just one. You only have to pretend to listen to him for one night. Then you get almost a full week’s reprieve. 

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

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

You let Natasha and Bob take the lead, half-listening to Jake whine about how much he hates NVGs and how night shifts ruin his gym schedule. 

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

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

You take a deep breath and call on every ounce of focus and maturity you have just to stop yourself from shutting off comms. You might be pissed right now, but this is your job. The job you worked way too hard for to let some ridiculously gorgeous lieutenant break your heart badly enough to get you grounded. 

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

But still, your hands stay tight on the controls. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You fall back into formation as the terrain-following manoeuvres begin—tight dips, sweeping curves, a mock run on radar targets ahead. You lock in, gripping the stick, head tipped forward, forcing your focus to drown out the simmering frustration. 

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

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

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

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

“Vex—” he tries again. 

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

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

Your heart lurches. 

Terrain. Too close. Too fast. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

You’re not going to make it. 

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

The canopy blasts away with a deafening crack, wind slamming into you like a freight train. The violent jolt of the seat launches you skyward, your body wrenched into the dark as the jet disappears in a blur of motion below. 

Then—freefall. 

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

But you’re too low. Far too low. 

You don’t even have time to brace. 

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

White-hot pain detonates through you. 

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

And then… everything goes still. 

Muted. 

Quiet. 

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

- 

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

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

The sharp sting of antiseptic hits your nose. There are low murmurs nearby, the shuffle of feet across tile, and the distant sounds of other beeping machines. Even before you manage to open your eyes, you know—you’re in a hospital. 

The white and blue walls are almost blinding, but after a few sticky blinks, your vision finally sharpens. You roll your tongue against the roof of your mouth, searching for moisture. 

You try—and fail—to sit up. Your body is too heavy against the crunchy hospital pillows, and your right leg is pinned down even more by a thick black-and-white brace. 

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

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

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

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

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

He doesn’t say anything. He just looks at you. His face is pale, exhaustion carved into every line, his eyes scanning your face like he’s trying to memorise it. Or maybe—trying to recognise it. Because whatever softness was there fades fast, replaced by something harder. His lips flatten into a thin line. His hand tightens around yours… then lets go. 

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

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

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

You clear your throat. “Thirsty.” 

She nods and quickly wheels the little table over, pouring water from the pitcher into a small plastic cup. She then hands it to you before using the bed remote to ease you into a more upright position. 

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

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

You turn to look at him, but all traces of warmth are gone. He looks almost angry, his gaze fixed straight ahead—not at you or the nurse, but at the wall. His jaw is tight, his shoulders tense, and his hands are clearly balled into fists in his pockets. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You glance down at the brace wrapped around your leg. 

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

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

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

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

“No,” he snaps. “It’s not. This is your fault. Because you were reckless, and cocky, and too caught up in your own shit to listen to a perfectly sound call from your WSO.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

After a whirlwind of doctors, nurses, and a long debrief with the flight surgeon, you're finally discharged. You can’t drive—of course—so they pack you into a general escort car with your leg still in the brace and a pair of crutches tossed in beside you. Fantastic. 

Once you’re home, you collapse into bed and immediately pass out. But it’s not exactly restful. Your brain won’t shut off—won’t stop replaying the way Bob looked at you, the anger in his voice, the exhaustion written all over his face. How he never left your side. How he still hasn’t responded to your text thanking him for staying. Or the one where you apologised for not listening to him in the air. 

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

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

When you wake again, it’s dark, and your phone is lit up with a flood of messages from the team. You take your time replying to each one, then hobble into the bathroom, ditch the brace, and take the hottest, longest shower your body can tolerate. 

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

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

Great. Another win. 

Two whole days pass, and still no word. 

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

All you want is to talk to Bob. Ask him why the hell he came to your house that day. Why he was so pissed at you that night. And why he thinks it’s okay to spend two full days sitting beside your hospital bed and then just vanish like none of it happened. 

At this point, you don’t even care if he professes his undying love for you—though you’d strongly prefer it—you just want an explanation. You want to know what you did to hurt him so badly, and how to make it right. Because more than anything, you need him. And if friendship is the only version of him you’re allowed to have... then you’ll take it. 

Even if it kills you. 

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

Your alarm blares at four a.m., an hour before you know the squad will be dismissed, and you wriggle out of bed and into a loose pair of sweatpants before securing your brace over the top. Then you tug on your stupidly oversized U.S. Navy shirt, grab your crutches, and hobble out the door. 

You know where Bob lives—in the least creepy way possible—because you all moved out of the barracks around the same time, and you helped each other move. So, you call an Uber, hauling your injured self into the back seat with grim determination and only a small amount of whining. 

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

You know it’s ridiculous. You could’ve just waited in the lobby. But you don’t want to give him the chance to run away—again, in the least creepy way possible. The plan is to corner him at his apartment door, and maybe guilt-trip him a little with how much effort it took just for you to get there. At the very least, he’d have to escort you back down to the lobby with his swipe card… and maybe you could ‘accidentally’ sabotage the lift so it broke down. Then he’d be stuck with you. 

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

It takes twenty minutes to reach his floor, with plenty of breaks along the way, but eventually, you make it. You hobble down the hallway and lean against his door, dropping your head back with a soft thunk. 

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

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

At one point, a neighbour emerges from a nearby door, startling you. They give you a deeply dubious look before slipping into the elevator, and you make a mental note to tell Bob that they might warn him about a crazy, broken-legged woman lurking outside his apartment. 

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

The elevator doors slide open, and Bob steps out. 

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

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

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

“What are you doing here?” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You try not to appear as awkward as you feel, but crutches aren’t exactly graceful—and you haven’t had much practice. You make your way past the kitchen toward the small living room, where a plush cream sofa waits with perfectly fluffed pillows and a decorative throw draped neatly over the back. You’re just about to drop onto it when a warm hand catches your elbow. 

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

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

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

He helps ease you down slowly onto the couch before straightening and setting your crutches aside, leaning them against the wall beside the TV cabinet. 

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

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

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

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

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

He pours himself a glass, drains it, then pours another before finally making his way back into the living room. He sits at the very end of the chaise lounge—about as far from you as possible. 

“Okay,” he says. “You want to talk?” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You frown. “What do you mean irrelevant? The whole reason I was in a bad mood that night is because you rejected me and then acted like I did something wrong.” 

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

“No,” you snap. “Of course not. God, Bob, none of this is your fault. It’s mine. It’s all mine. I was the idiot who asked you out, the idiot who got mad when you said no, and the idiot who let it affect her at work. I’m not blaming you. I just want to understand.” 

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

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

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

His brow creases. “You do?” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“It wasn’t about your age—that was just a dumb excuse. It was you. You’re gorgeous, you’re smart, you’re funny, and you’re so sharp. You walk into a room and everything shifts. And I kept thinking, how the hell does someone like you want someone like me?” 

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

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

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

He laughs again, broken this time. 

“And I know I had no right to be angry. I know it. But Jesus Christ, do you have any idea how fucking hard it is to look at the woman you love knowing you’re the one who ruined it? Who let her go?” 

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

You swallow hard, blinking fast to keep the tears from falling. Your pulse is racing, pounding in your ears like a war drum. You can feel your heart hammering against your ribs, threatening to break bone. You can’t breathe. You can barely think. There’s only one word echoing in your head. 

“Love?” you whisper. 

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

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

Your heart lurches into your throat. 

“But that doesn’t change anything,” he adds quickly, dropping onto the couch—closer this time, close enough that his knee brushes yours. “I don’t expect it to change anything. I let you down, and you moved on. You had every right to. I should never have been angry about it—and for that, I’m sorry. Just…” He sighs again. “Just give me some time, okay? Just let me—” 

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

He blinks. “What?” 

“Gay,” you repeat. “He’s gay. Like, so incredibly gay he’s into Hangman.” 

Bob’s lips part, a soft breath slipping out. 

You lean forward, brows drawn tight. “His callsign is Grinder. I mean, yes—partly because he’s a hard worker—but mostly because he got caught on Grindr before a briefing once and... it just stuck. But—Bob, I thought you knew—” You cut yourself off, eyes going wide. “Oh my God. You were in the bathroom when I told the squad.” 

The room falls into a heavy, eerie silence. 

The air between you crackles—so thick, so charged, the smallest spark could burn the whole damn building down. 

“Hangman?” he whispers, nose scrunching just slightly. 

You nod. “Hangman.” 

He blinks slowly, wide eyes swimming with emotion. “So, you didn’t—” 

“No,” you snap, frustration flaring hot beneath your skin. “Is that what you thought? That I asked you out, and when you said no I just ran off to find the nearest guy who’d fuck me?” 

He cringes—actually cringes. “That’s just how it looked, I—” 

“So you assumed?” you cut in, voice sharp. “You didn’t even ask. You just decided to get all broody and jealous and pissed off, even though you’re the one who rejected me?” 

You want to pace like he did, storm out, slam a door, something—but you can't. Not with your stupid leg. 

“I know I had no right,” he mutters. 

“Damn straight you didn’t,” you bite out. “You think I’d do that? You think I’d throw myself at someone else just because you said no? Jesus, Bob, I’m looking at a decade-long mourning period after you. I’m in love with you. Do you really think I could move on? Ever? Let alone the next fucking—” 

His mouth is on yours before the word leaves your lips. 

It’s not a kiss—it’s a collision. A detonation. A goddamn freefall. 

His hands are in your hair, on your jaw, trembling as they try to hold you steady while his lips crash into yours with blistering need. It’s hot and desperate and unrestrained, all teeth and tongue and pent-up ache, every ounce of frustration and longing he’s carried igniting in a single breathless second. 

You gasp, shocked by the force of it—your lips parting, letting him in. 

And then it’s chaos. Raw, searing, beautiful chaos. 

His touch is everywhere, frantic and reverent, as if he’s trying to memorise you with his fingertips and palms. Your hands claw into his shirt, his shoulders, his hair, dragging him closer, gasping into his mouth like you’re both trying to breathe each other in. 

You feel like you’re on fire. Like this kiss could split you in half. 

There’s a sharp pain in your leg from how hard you’re leaning in, but you don’t care. You’d burn your whole body just to keep this going. 

Because he kisses you like it’s the last thing he’ll ever do. Like stopping would kill him. And you kiss him back with the same reckless hunger—because you’ve wanted this forever. Because he’s yours. And you’re his. And nothing else exists anymore but the way he’s holding you like he’s afraid you’ll disappear. 

“I love you,” he breathes against your lips. “I love you. I love you. Please don’t go. Don’t ever leave.” 

You press your forehead to his, a breathy laugh slipping out. “I’m not leaving.” 

“Good,” he murmurs, then kisses you again—soft, lingering. 

His lips find the corner of your mouth, then trail down the line of your jaw to your neck. Your skin ignites beneath every brush of his mouth, like your whole body is wired to spark beneath his touch. 

Your stomach flips like you’ve been dropped from a height. Your thoughts dissolve into haze. Limbs weightless, breath shallow. All you can feel is the hot press of his lips and the growing ache in your stupid leg. 

“Bob,” you whisper, broken and breathless, as his tongue traces the hollow where your shoulder meets your neck. “Bob, m—my leg.” 

He jolts back like he’s touched a live wire, eyes wide. The sudden loss of him leaves you cold, shivering in the space he’s no longer filling. 

“I’m so sorry,” he gasps. 

You shake your head quickly. “It’s fine. I’m okay.” 

He looks so heartbreakingly beautiful it makes your chest tighten. His glasses are askew, his cheeks flushed, lips kiss-swollen and wet. His eyes are wild and wide, pupils blown so far they swallow the blue. 

Then he frowns, glancing down at your shirt. “So... whose shirt is that?” 

You blink, then glance down. “Oh. No idea. Barracks laundry mix-up, I think. Makes a good sleep shirt, though.” 

He chuckles softly, the pink in his cheeks creeping all the way to the tips of his ears as his eyes lock on yours. “It looks good on you,” he murmurs, voice low and rough, “but I think I prefer the short skirts.” 

Your heart trips, racing straight into your throat. “Bob Floyd,” you gasp, eyes wide with faux scandal, “did you just admit how much you love short skirt weather?” 

He rolls his eyes, all sheepish charm. “Only when the skirts are on you.” 

“That so?” Your lips curl into a slow smirk. “Well, unfortunately, I think this—” you tap the brace on your leg “—means short skirts are officially out. For now, at least.” 

He exhales hard, gaze dropping for just a second before snapping back to yours—burning now. There’s a hunger there, dark and open and unfiltered, something you’ve maybe only glimpsed before. It sparks heat low in your belly, your thighs aching to clench—if it weren’t for your stupid goddamn injury. 

Then, low and shameless and deadly serious, he asks, “What about sex?” 

The question punches the breath right from your lungs. Your cheeks flush hot as you bite your lip to hide the grin already threatening. 

“Can you be gentle?” you ask, voice barely above a whisper. 

“I can try,” he mutters, so deep and rough it settles right between your legs and spreads like wildfire. 

Your head is spinning. Logic fading fast. You don’t care how sore your leg might be—you want him. All of him. Finally. 

So you lean in, brushing your lips to his in a soft, teasing kiss as you murmur against his mouth, “Then what the fuck are you waiting for, Floyd?”