"your midas touch on the chevy door..."

Dean chuckles. “Alright, fair. As long as I get visitation rights on weekends.”

You’re still smiling, but the buzz in your brain is louder now. The diner’s not too crowded, but the flicker of the fluorescent above the counter is grating. The hum is high-pitched. Someone slams a glass down two tables over and it startles you just a little too much. You grip your straw tighter.

Dean clocks it. Not in a pitying way—more like a hunter spotting a shift in the wind. His voice goes a little quieter.

“You okay?”

You nod, but then shrug, because honesty’s easier than pretending.

“Just… kinda loud. Lights’re doing the thing. Not a meltdown or anything, just... a little much.”

Dean’s brow furrows, but not with discomfort. Concern, sure. But the good kind. The “tell me what you need so I can do it” kind.

“We can leave,” he offers immediately. “Or we could take it to-go. I know a spot where the Impala always looks good at night.”

You blink. “Are you… asking me to go look at your car under moonlight?”

Dean leans back, smirking. “Maybe.”

You snort. “God, you're such a gearhead.”

“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

You slide your milkshake across the table toward him. “Only if you don’t share.”

Dean grins, and that’s that. You split the check, grab the pie to-go, and make your way back out into the night.

The “spot” he mentioned turns out to be a hill just outside of town. Gravel shoulder. Empty road. Crickets chirping like backup singers.

He parks with the nose of the Impala aimed right at the valley below, the glow of faraway lights blinking like stars. The sky above you is clear—deep navy, dotted in constellations you only half-remember the names of. The air smells like engine grease and pine trees and something sweeter you can't place until Dean opens the pie box.

“Apple,” he announces proudly. “No better nightcap.”

You sit on the bench seat, knees turned toward him, fingers sticky with pie crust and joy.

Dean leans back, elbow on the steering wheel, his other hand resting casually on the seat behind your shoulder. Not touching. Just there. Just available.

“You always like cars this much?” he asks, like he already knows the answer.

You nod. “Before I could write, I was drawing V8 engines with crayons. I memorized the gear ratios of every ‘60s Chevy before I turned ten.”

Dean whistles. “That’s impressive. I was mostly just getting into trouble at ten.”

“I was getting suspended for correcting my science teacher about spark plug heat ranges.”

He laughs, but it’s soft. It’s fond. You look over to find him watching you, eyes warm.

There’s a pause. A moment heavy with something not uncomfortable. Something nice. You’re not sure what to do with it, but Dean seems okay just sitting in it.

Then, after a second, he says: “I like how you talk about things.”

You blink. “Things?”

“Things you care about. You light up. Makes it feel like the world’s got a little more color in it.” He shrugs. “Kinda makes me wanna find more stuff to light you up with.”

You stare at him.

He scratches the back of his neck, suddenly sheepish. “Sorry, that was maybe—too much—”

“No, it wasn’t.”

Your voice is soft. Real. And Dean turns to look at you again.

You point at the dash. “You know how Baby’s engine sounds different in third than it does in fourth?”

Dean blinks. “Yeah…”

“That’s how your voice just changed.”

He raises his eyebrows, curious. “Meaning?”

You smile. “You just downshifted. Got softer. That’s your ‘I’m being real’ voice.”

Dean watches you like he’s not used to being seen. Not like this. And you’re watching him like you’re already mapping out his mechanics in your head—like he’s a beautiful, complicated engine you want to understand.

He leans in then. Slow enough you can move away if you want. But you don’t. You tilt toward him just a hair, and the kiss is barely more than a press of lips—gentle, for a guy who probably fights monsters before breakfast.

When he pulls back, he smiles.

“Bench seat privilege,” he murmurs.

You grin. “Best date I’ve ever had.”

Dean nods, serious. “Same. Not even just ‘cause you knew the exact horsepower of my car.”

“You said that like it isn’t the sexiest thing someone could do.”

Dean laughs, head thrown back.

And maybe the stars burn a little brighter that night. Maybe the Impala catches the moonlight just right. Maybe two people sit there talking engines and life until it’s nearly dawn.

But either way— It’s already a love story.

It just keeps going with pie.

To him, it’s just habit.

You’ve been working together long enough that you’ve become part of the rhythm of his day — the quiet presence across the room, the soft laugh when Chimney says something ridiculous, the way you duck your head when someone compliments you. Buck thinks it’s adorable.You think it’s humiliating. Because every time he looks at you, your brain forgets how to function.

“Y’know,” Buck says casually from the couch, stretching his arms behind his head, “you could just let someone else do that.” You don’t look up.

“I’m capable of wrapping a bandage, Buck.”

“Never said you weren’t.” His boots drop to the floor as he leans forward. “But you’re doing it wrong.” Your eyes snap up.

“I am not.”

“You definitely are.”

“You haven’t even looked at it." Buck grins.

“I don’t need to.” Your stomach flips. You quickly drop your gaze back to your wrist. Across the kitchen counter, Hen leans toward Chim.

“Ten bucks says he ends up touching her hand in thirty seconds.” Chimney snorts.

“You’re on.” Buck stands and crosses the room before you can protest. You feel his presence before you see him — tall, broad shoulders blocking the light as he crouches down in front of you.

“Lemme see.” Your brain instantly goes fuzzy.

“It’s fine.”

“Uh huh.” His hand gently takes your wrist. Your entire body goes rigid. His touch is warm. Careful. Familiar in the way it only becomes after months of working side by side. But somehow it still sends a bolt of electricity straight up your arm.

God, get it together.

Buck unwraps the messy gauze with a small huff of amusement.

“Yeah,” he murmurs. “You were definitely doing it wrong.”

“I was not.”

“You wrapped it like you were trying to mummify your hand.” You huff softly, trying to ignore the way your face is heating. Buck notices immediately. He always does. His mouth curves slowly.

“Are you... blushing?”

“No.”

“You are.”

“I’m not.” He tilts his head closer, studying you with exaggerated seriousness.

“Oh wow.” Your stomach drops. “You really are.” Your voice comes out smaller than intended.

“Buck…” Behind him, Chimney is vibrating with barely contained laughter. Hen elbows him. Buck finishes tying the gauze and taps your wrist lightly.

“There,” he says. Your hand lingers in his for half a second too long. You notice. He notices.Your brain immediately panics. You pull away.

“Thanks.” Buck leans back on his heels, still looking at you. There’s something about the way you avoid his eyes that makes him smile. You’re always like this with him. Soft. Quiet. A little flustered. He’s never quite figured out why.

“You’re cute when you get shy,” he says without thinking. Your soul leaves your body.

“I’m not shy.”

“You absolutely are.”

“Am not.”

“You literally won’t look at me right now.” Your eyes snap up in protest. Which is exactly what he wanted. Buck laughs.

God, that laugh. It should be illegal.

Before you can respond- The station alarm blares. Everyone moves instantly.

“118, respond to a vehicle collision on Western Avenue—” Buck is already jogging toward the trucks beside you. You shake the lingering warmth from your wrist and follow.

--

The crash scene is chaotic.

Two cars tangled at an intersection, smoke rising from a crushed hood while bystanders crowd the sidewalk. The familiar rush of adrenaline settles your nerves immediately. Work mode. Focus. Buck grabs the jaws of life while you and Hen move toward the passenger side of the sedan. Another engine company is already there — firefighters you don’t recognize. You kneel beside a shaken woman in the passenger seat, speaking calmly while checking her pulse.

“Hey, you’re doing great,” you reassure her. A firefighter from the other crew crouches beside you. Tall. Dark hair. Friendly smile.

“Need a hand?” he asks. You glance up.

“Oh— yeah, could you stabilize her shoulder?”

“Sure.” He does, working easily beside you. After a moment he glances at you again. “So do you always look this calm during a disaster?" Your brain stutters.

“Oh— uh—” You feel heat creeping into your cheeks again. Across the wreckage, Buck looks up. And freezes. The guy is smiling at you. Leaning a little too close. And you’re blushing. Buck doesn’t know why that bothers him. Except it really does.

Like a lot.

He grips the tool harder than necessary.

“Buck,” Chimney mutters beside him. “Relax.”

“I am relaxed.”

“You’re bending steel.” Buck immediately loosens his grip. But his eyes stay locked on the scene. The firefighter says something else that makes you laugh quietly. Something sharp twists in Buck’s chest.

What the hell?

The call finishes quickly. Patients loaded. Scene cleared. But Buck’s mood stays weirdly sour the entire ride back. Back at the firehouse, the sun is setting through the bay doors. You’re wiping grease from your hands when Buck walks up beside you. He leans casually against the truck. Too casually.

“So,” he says. You glance up.

“Yeah?”

“Who was that guy?” You blink, staring up at him. He seems tense, his shoulder squared as if he's ready to pounce.

“What guy?” You breathe.

“The firefighter.” Realization dawns. You lean back against the truck, crossing your arms in a desperate attempt to look normal.

“Oh. I don’t know.” Buck frowns, his eyes trailing over you.

“You were talking a lot.”

“We were treating a patient.”

“Looked like flirting.” Your heart nearly stops.

“I wasn’t flirting.” Buck shrugs.

“He seemed like he was.” Something warm and nervous flutters in your chest.

Why does he care?

“He asked if I was calm under pressure,” you say defensively.

“And?”

“And I said yes.” Buck studies you for a moment. Then suddenly grins.

“Well, that’s good.”

“…Why?”

“Because if he asked you out you’d probably panic.” Your face goes red instantly. Buck laughs.

God, he loves that reaction.

“You’re doing it again.”

“Doing what?”

“Blushing.”

“I’m not—”

“You are.” You turn away, mortified. Buck watches you for a second. Then something clicks in his brain. A quiet little realization he’s been too oblivious to notice before. You only blush like that with him. Not the other firefighter. Not Chimney. Just him. Interesting. Buck pushes off the truck.

“Hey.” You look up nervously.

“Yeah?” He shrugs like it’s no big deal.

“You wanna grab dinner tonight?” Your brain goes completely blank.

“…What?”

“Dinner,” he repeats. “Like… food.”

“I know what dinner is, numbskull." Buck chuckles.

“Well?” Your heart is beating so loudly you’re sure the whole station can hear it.

“Why?”

“Because you’re terrible at wrapping bandages and I need to supervise your recovery.” You stare at him.

“You’re kidding.”

“Maybe.” He leans a little closer. “But mostly because I want to.” Across the room, Hen slowly lowers the mug she’s been pretending to wash. Chimney whispers,

“Oh my god.” Your voice comes out small.

“Like… a date?" Buck pauses. The word settles in the air. Date. He watches the way your eyes widen like you’ve just said something forbidden. And suddenly the idea doesn’t seem weird at all. Actually…It makes a lot of sense. Buck smiles slowly.

“Well,” he says. “If that’s what it takes to convince you…” His gaze softens. “Then yeah.” Your stomach flips violently. Buck tilts his head. “So what do you say?” You hesitate for half a second. Then nod.

“…Okay.” His grin widens.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” Buck pushes off the truck, suddenly energized.

“Great.” He pauses. Then adds with a teasing glint— “And don’t worry.” You swallow. “If that firefighter shows up,” Buck says casually, “I’ll scare him off.” You stare at him. Your face is burning again.And Buck thinks — not for the first time - that he really likes the way you blush. He grins.

"I'll pick you up at seven !" He calls out, before turning away from you.

----

Your room is a mess. Like, hiroshima after the atomic bomb mess. Clothes, jewlery, towels- everything you posess is scattered across the floor and your bed, as if a testament to your girlhood has been declared. If someone walked in right now, they’d think a department store had exploded. You stand in the middle of it all with your hands on your head.

“Oh my god.” This is a nightmare. A wonderful, terrifying nightmare. You glance at the clock.

6:14 PM.

You groan and flop backwards onto the bed, staring up at the ceiling. Buck asked you out.

Buck.

Not in the joking, flirty way he sometimes tosses things around the station. Not in the “we should hang out sometime” vague way. Dinner. At seven. Your brain replays the moment for the hundredth time. The way he leaned closer. The little smile. The casual confidence in his voice like this was the most normal thing in the world. Meanwhile you nearly passed out just hearing the word date. You roll over and bury your face in a pillow.

This is dangerous.

Because your crush on Buck isn’t small. It never has been. It started innocently — little things at first. The way he always checked if you were okay after calls. The way he’d casually sling an arm around your shoulders while explaining something. The way he looked at you when you laughed. Then somewhere along the way it became… something else. Something heavier. Something you buried deep down because having a crush on your best friend slash coworker slash walking golden retriever of a firefighter felt like a terrible idea.

And Buck— God.

Buck doesn’t even realize what he does to you. The teasing. The little touches. The way he calls you cute when you get flustered. He does it like breathing. Your face heats just thinking about it. You roll onto your back again and stare at the mountain of clothing around you.

“Okay,” you tell yourself. "Calm down. It’s just dinner." You worry your bottom lip, running your hands down your face. "Just dinner with the man you’ve been hopelessly in love with for months. Totally normal."

You sit up abruptly.

Clothes. You need clothes.

You grab the first shirt you see and hold it up. Too casual. You toss it aside.

Next dress. Too fancy.

Next outfit. Too obvious.

You collapse back onto the bed again with a frustrated groan.

Why is this so hard?!

You’ve been on dates before. You’ve handled burning buildings. You’ve crawled through collapsing structures. But somehow choosing an outfit for dinner with Buck feels like the most high-pressure situation of your life. Your phone buzzes on the nightstand. You grab it. A text from Chimney.

CHIM Hen says breathe.

Another message appears immediately.

CHIM Also Maddie said Buck has changed shirts three times already.

You sit up.

“…He has?” Your heart does something weird in your chest. Another text pops up.

HEN Just wear something that makes you feel confident.

You stare at the message for a long moment. Confident. Right. You look back at the mess of clothes scattered everywhere. Then slowly stand. Maybe… this doesn’t have to be perfect. Maybe Buck asked you out because he likes you. The thought makes your stomach flutter. You pick up a soft shirt you’d tossed aside earlier. Simple. Comfortable.

Something you’d actually wear around him. You hold it up to the mirror.

“…Okay,” you whisper. Not perfect. But you. You pull it on and smooth the fabric over your sides, studying your reflection, the way the material tightens around your waist and stretches over your breasts. You pull on your jeans and study yourself in the mirror. Your heart is still racing. Your hands are still a little shaky. But there’s also something warm blooming in your chest. Excitement. Outside, a car engine pulls up.Your stomach flips violently. A moment later— Your phone buzzes again.

BUCK i’m here.

You stare at the message. Then at yourself in the mirror. Then back at the phone.

“…Oh my god.” You grab your jacket and rush for the door before you can overthink it. Your heart is pounding the entire way down the hallway.

What if this isn’t a date? What if Buck just meant dinner the same way he means grabbing food after shifts sometimes? What if you read it wrong? What if— You open the front door. And every single thought disappears.

Evan Buckley is leaning against his jeep in the fading evening light. One shoulder against the door, arms loosely crossed, head tipped down as he scrolls through his phone. He’s wearing dark jeans and a navy henley that hugs his shoulders in a way that should honestly be illegal. His hair is slightly damp like he showered right before coming here. Then he looks up.

And Buck forgets how breathing works. Because you’re standing in the doorway. Simple jeans. Soft shirt. Hair slightly messy like you ran your hands through it too many times.

You look nervous.

Adorably nervous.

And suddenly Buck understands something that hits him so hard it almost knocks the air out of his lungs.

Oh.

Oh, shit.

He doesn’t just like you.

He wants you.

Bad.

Not in the casual, flirty way he’s used to wanting things. Not in the easygoing Buck way where he smiles, dates someone for a few weeks, and moves on when it fades. No. This is different. This is the kind of want that makes his chest feel tight and warm all at once. The kind that makes him suddenly very aware that if he screws this up, he might actually lose something important. This is the kind of want where his pants are getting so uncomfortably tight he's afraid he might burst if he looks at you for too long.

And that thought alone makes him stand up straighter.

You step outside slowly, closing the door behind you. Buck pushes off the jeep, trying to look casual even though his brain is currently screaming do not mess this up.

“Hey,” he says. Your fingers tighten around your jacket.

“Hi." Your voice is soft. Shy.

God, it’s doing things to him.

Buck runs a hand over the back of his neck, looking you over for a second longer than necessary. Not in a creepy way. Just… appreciating.

“Wow,” he says. Your stomach drops.

“What?” He gestures vaguely at you.

“You clean up nice.” Your face immediately turns red. Buck grins.

There it is.

That blush.

He swears it might be his favorite thing in the world.

“You’re staring,” you mumble.

“Yeah,” he says easily. “I noticed.” You groan quietly, covering part of your face with your hand. Buck laughs.

God, you’re cute.

He steps closer, opening the passenger door for you.

“C’mon,” he says. “Before you change your mind.”

“I’m not going to change my mind.”

“Good,” Buck says. Then he leans a little closer, voice lowering slightly. “Because I’d be very disappointed.” Your brain short-circuits again. You quickly climb into the jeep before you combust. Buck shuts the door and walks around to the driver’s side. The moment he gets behind the wheel, he steals another glance at you. You’re sitting stiffly in the seat, hands folded nervously in your lap, eyes focused very intensely on the dashboard. Buck bites back a smile. He’s suddenly realizing something else. You’re nervous. Like… really nervous. About him. Which makes a warm, protective feeling bloom in his chest. He starts the car.

“Relax,” he says gently.

“I am relaxed.”

“You’re sitting like someone’s about to interrogate you.” You glance down. Your posture is, in fact, extremely tense. You try to loosen your shoulders. Buck chuckles. “Hey.” You glance at him. His voice softens just a little. “It’s just me.” And somehow that makes your heart race even more. Buck notices. And something about that realization settles deeper into his chest. Because suddenly he knows something he hadn’t fully processed before tonight. You matter to him. More than he realized. More than he expected. More than he’s probably ready for. But he also knows one very important thing. He wants this night to go well. He wants you smiling.He wants you relaxed.

And maybe— if he’s lucky— he wants to see that blush a few more times. And maybe watch it spread over your tits as they bounce- he snaps his eyes back to the road, tightening his grip on the steering wheel.

“So,” he says casually as he pulls onto the road. You brace yourself.

“Yeah?” Buck smirks slightly.

“On a scale of one to ten…” You sigh.

“Buck.”

“…how nervous are you right now?” Your face immediately turns bright red again. Buck laughs softly to himself.

Yeah. He definitely wants this. And he’s suddenly very, very determined not to screw it up.

----

Dinner ends later than either of you expected.

Not because it was fancy. Not because the place was particularly special. But because neither of you seemed ready for it to end. At first you’d been nervous — painfully aware of every word coming out of your mouth, every time Buck looked at you, every brush of his arm across the table. But somewhere between sharing fries and Buck telling a ridiculous story about Chimney accidentally setting off the smoke alarm at the station, the tension had softened. You laughed. Really laughed. And Buck had gone quiet for a second just watching you, like the sound surprised him. Now the jeep rolls to a stop outside your place. The engine idles softly. You stare ahead for a moment, gathering your courage.

“…Thank you,” you say quietly. Buck glances over.

“For what?”

“For dinner.” His mouth tilts into that easy smile again.

“You say that like it was a big deal.”

“It was,” you say before you can stop yourself. Buck pauses. Something flickers across his face at the honesty in your voice. He clears his throat lightly.

“Well,” he says, trying for casual, “I had a pretty good time too.” Your heart does a little flip. You reach for the door. Buck’s already out of the jeep before you’ve fully stepped onto the sidewalk.

“Whoa, whoa,” he says, jogging around the front of the car.

“What are you doing?” you ask.

“Walking you to your door.” You blink.

“…You don’t have to.” Buck shrugs like it’s obvious.

“Yeah, I do.” You try not to read into the way your stomach flutters at that. The two of you walk up the short path to your front door. It’s quiet now. Not awkward. Just… charged. You can feel Buck beside you — his shoulder close, his presence warm in the cool night air. You stop at the door, fishing your keys out of your pocket. Your fingers fumble slightly.Buck notices.

“Still nervous?” he murmurs. You huff softly.

“Maybe.” Buck chuckles under his breath.

“Cute.” You shoot him a look over your shoulder.

“Buck.”

“What?”

“You’re doing it again.”

“Doing what?”

“Teasing me.” He leans one shoulder against the doorframe beside you, close enough that you can feel the warmth coming off him.

“Can’t help it,” he says quietly. You finally get the key into the lock, but you don’t turn it yet. Instead you look at him. The porch light catches the soft gold in his hair, the familiar curve of his mouth. Your heart is racing again. Buck notices the way you’re looking at him. And suddenly the teasing fades from his expression.

“Hey,” he says softly. Your breath catches.

“Yeah?” For a second he just studies your face. Then his hand lifts, thumb brushing lightly along your jaw.

“You had fun tonight, right?” he asks. You nod immediately.

“Yeah.”

“Good,” he murmurs. Because he did too. More than he expected. More than he’s probably ready to admit. Your eyes drop briefly to his mouth before you can stop yourself.Buck sees it. And something in his chest tightens. He steps a little closer.

“Careful,” he murmurs. Your heart jumps.

“Why?”

“You keep looking at me like that…” His voice lowers. “…I’m gonna think you want me to kiss you.” Your face flushes instantly.

“I—” Buck doesn’t let you finish. He closes the distance. The kiss starts soft. Careful. Just the gentle press of his mouth against yours. For half a second your brain stops working. Then your hands clutch at the front of his shirt. Buck makes a quiet sound against your lips. And suddenly the careful restraint disappears. The kiss deepens. Warmer. Hungrier. Your back bumps lightly against the door as Buck steps closer, one hand sliding to your waist. Your fingers tangle in his shirt as if you need something to hold onto. Buck exhales softly against your mouth, his forehead brushing yours for a second before he kisses you again. It’s messy now. Breathless. Like neither of you quite planned for this but neither of you wants it to stop. Your hand fumbles behind you, fingers blindly finding the doorknob. The door clicks open. Buck barely notices until you’re suddenly stepping backwards into the house. Still kissing him. He lets out a quiet laugh against your mouth as he follows you inside, one hand bracing against the door as it swings shut behind him. Neither of you breaks the kiss. Your hands press at his chest, his own hands drifting to the front of your pants to toy with the button of your jeans. You whimper into his mouth and he pulls away, breathless.

"Are you sure ?" He gasps, his chest heaving. You nod, your eyes locked on his, filled with trust and desire.

"Yes. I'm sure." With a low groan, he captures your lips in a fierce, hungry kiss, his hands roaming your body, touching, teasing, and driving you wild with need. You melt into him, your body responding to his every movement, your arms wrapping around his neck as you press yourself against him. Buck's hands find the hem of your shirt, slowly pulling it up and over your head, his lips never leaving yours. He backs you up against the wall, his body pressing against yours, his hardness evident through the fabric of his pants. You can feel the heat of him, the strength of his body, and it makes you ache with need. His lips trail down your neck, his teeth nipping gently at your collarbone, sending shivers of pleasure coursing through you. His movements are hurried, pressing you against the counter of yout kitchen as our lips move against each other.

“Buck.” You mutter in between kisses, making him groan. His hands grasp at your breasts, easing them out of the bra and gently pulling away to cup your cheek.

“God, i love seeing you fucking blush. I wonder if you'll blush when I fuck you so hard you won't remember your own name.” He mutters, his eyes soft. You groan, fully unclasping your bra and throwing it away next to your discarded shirt. In a quick motion, he has you pinned to his body, guiding you somewhere else. You reach the couch and he smirks, taking a step back. You watch him, sitting on the edge of the couch slightly, as he unbuttons his shirt teasingly slow. You groan and he takes it into consideration - his shirt comes off quicker, revealing the toned and muscly chest that he hides. You bite your bottom lip and walk up to him.

"God, you're beautiful." He hums, kissing your neck as his hands wrap around the hem of your jeans, pushing them down yout legs along with your underwear. He grabs your waist and spins you around, bending you over the couch’s arm rest as you kick off the discarded pants pooling around your ankles. He leans over you, kissing your exposed back, making you shudder, before he pulls away, twisting your hair into his fist. You can hear his belt buckle clink on the floor, and then you feel his tip nestle between your ass cheeks. His chest presses to your back and you whimper as he reaches forward and grabs your nipple in his fingers, twisting it around. “This might hurt baby, so tell me if you want me t'stop.” You nod, eyes closed as you push your ass against him. “I want to hear you say it." He rasps. "I want to know if you understand. I don't want to hurt you.”

“I understand.” He smiles against your cheek, kissing the shell of your ear.

“Good.” Your body is completely bent over the couch armrest, your hands outstretched in front of you, grasping at a cushion. You look over your shoulder to see him slowly pumping himself in his hand, before his tip teases your entrance, barely grazing your insides. You suck in a breath.

Nothing is happening, so you start to move your hips, gently bouncing up and down on his cock, whimpering leaving your lips as you feel him slip in farther. He groans as he slips inside just a tiny bit, his hands secured around your waist. With a slight lick to your fingers, youreach over and under you to graze them over your folds, nails gently scraping his length as you rub them over your clit in a circular motion, still moving your hips. With a sudden thrust, your entire body shoots forward as he pushes in fully. You cry out in pain, hands darting back to plant against his hips, slightly pushing him out. Tears are pricking your eyes, your thighs already shaking.

“Buck !” You cry out, pushing your hands against his waist. He groans.

“Shit, I'm sorry baby.” You whimper as you feel him ease himself back in fully, slower this time. “Better ?” He asks, gently leaning forward to kiss your neck.

You nod, grabbing his hair from behind as his hips start to slam on youts repetitively. Your mouth falls open and your entire body falls forward, hands clenched around the pillows, loud moans leaving your lips. you can hear him groan in your ear as he slips his hands under you and lifts you up, pressing you flush against his chest, still thrusting himself in and out of you. Sweat is beading on your upper lip as you whimper, his hand moving down to rub in circles on your clit all while pounding into you. You reach over and grab the back of his thighs as he continues to thrust faster and harder, making you a whimpering mess.

“Fuck.” You hear him whimper in your ear, his breaths labored as he comes to a stop. You whimper in protest, body falling forward. He pulls out and you gasp, thighs clenching to protect your throbbing core. His hand settles around your forearm and he tugs you up, brushing your hair out of your face.

“Did I do something wrong ?” You ask, looking up at him. He shakes his head, kissing you jaw and sucking harshly. “No. I just realized I prefer to see your face when I make you come.” He mutters in your ear, gently grabbing your thighs and wrapping them around his waist, hoisting you up. His lips are on your within seconds as he marches off to your bedroom, his hands kneading your ass as you slip your hands into his hair. He lets you drop suddenly, your back colliding with the mattress.

“Evan !” You shriek as he lets you fall, making him chuckle. He creeps up towards you, settling between your legs.

“I have loved you..."He mutters, kissing your collar bone as he creeps down to your abdomen. "Since you first set foot in that firehouse." You suck in a breath, hands flying to wrap into his hair. He looks up at you, giving your core a quick suck before walking back up to meet your eyeline. He crouches in front of your, grabbing your thighs and spreading them apart, settling your legs on either side of him. He grabs the edge of your thighs, just under your waist, right where they fold slightly. He pulls you forward, and before you know it he’s filling you up again. His body retracts slowly, his chest caving as he pulls out, before he slams back in. You gasp, chuckling as you bite your bottom lip and look up at him. His eyes are closed as he pushes in again, before his hips start moving faster, doing quick and sharp thrusts. You gasp, hands fisting the sheets as he grips your thighs, pulling you more towards him, the sound of skin slapping filling the room.

“Oh god.” You breathe out, whimpering as he leans forward, his hand wrapping around your throat and driving his cock deeper into you, pushing you down on the bed. You moan, gripping his wrist as his other hand lands right next to you head. You can hear the soft groans leaving his lips.

“ Fuck, you're so fucking tight baby.” He grunts, his entire body falling forward, his arms caging you head as he rests his forehead on your shoulder and continues his thrusts. Your thighs have wrapped fully around his waist, and your arms are intertwining around his neck. You can hear the soft whimpers leaving his lips as his arms start to shake.

“Ah, fuck. E-Evan, I'm gonna- Fuck i’m close. Don’t stop.” You whimper, feeling yourself getting closer. you throw your head back, lips tightly clamped together as you squirm under him, your entire body clenching. He kisses your cheek, gently and softly, grazing his lips against your sweaty skin. “You’r e being so fucking good for me. Such a good girl.” you whimper."You- ah, shit- you're squeezin' me so fuckin' tight baby."

“ Fuck, fuck, Evan !” Your entire body jerks as the fiery pit of pleasure in your stomach erupts. He groans, kissing your neck.

"Shit, just like that. Come on my cock, baby." Your eyes roll backwards. “I love you, Evan Buckley.” He moans slightly, a loud groan erupting from his mouth. “Fuck, say that again.” “I love you.” “Again.” He orders in between kisses. “I love you.” “Again.” He says through gritted teeth. His hips buck against yours, and you whimper, clenching myself around him to stop him from moving anymore, your orgasm crashing over you in devastatingly high waves.

“Fuck, i love you, i love you, i love you.” You repeat over and over.

“Ah, shit.” He groans, and you feel him twitch inside you. You're filled with warmth and you feel it trickle down your folds. He looks down, and a sly smile creeps onto his face.

“Jesus." He says, before he kisses your forehead. Buck pulls out slowly, his movements gentle and deliberate. He leans down, pressing a soft kiss to your shoulder, his lips lingering as he savors the moment. You can feel his breath on your skin, warm and comforting, as he pulls back slightly to look into your eyes.

"Hey," he murmurs, his voice low and tender. "Are you okay?" You nod, a small smile playing on your lips as you reach up to cup his cheek.

"I'm more than okay. I'm perfect." He smiles back, his eyes shining with a mix of satisfaction and affection.

"Good. Because you are perfect. Absolutely perfect." Buck rolls off you, but keeps you close, his arm wrapped around your waist as he pulls you into his side. You rest your head on his chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart, feeling content and safe in his embrace.

"You were amazing," he whispers, his fingers tracing lazy patterns on your skin. "So beautiful and responsive. I loved every second of it." You blush at his words, your cheeks flushing a delicate pink.

"Buck…" He chuckles, a soft, warm sound that vibrates through his chest.

"What? It's true. You're incredible, and I'm lucky to have you." You prop yourself up on one elbow, looking down at him with a mix of curiosity and tenderness.

"You're not so bad yourself, you know. I've never felt like this before. So… seen and cherished." Buck's expression softens, and he reaches up to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear.

"I'm glad. I want you to feel that way. Always." He pulls you back down, cradling you in his arms, his lips pressing a gentle kiss to your forehead. You sigh contentedly, your eyes fluttering closed as you drift into a state of blissful relaxation.

"Stay with me tonight," Buck murmurs, his voice a soft plea. "Let me hold you. Let me take care of you." You nod, your answer a soft murmur of agreement. Buck smiles, a look of pure happiness spreading across his face. He tightens his hold on you, his body molding to yours as if he never wants to let you go. You can feel the rise and fall of his chest, the steady rhythm of his breathing, and it lulls you into a state of deep contentment.

"Sleep, my love," Buck whispers, his voice filled with tenderness. "I've got you. Always." And as you drift off to sleep, wrapped in the warmth and safety of his embrace, you know that you are exactly where you're meant to be.

But you’re worried. As your brain starts to kick into gear—dragging itself out of an odd, hazy sludge—you are very worried about why Trench Coat, Tall, and Handsome are so close to you. Why Trench Coat keeps saying you’re sick—you’re tired, but overall you feel fine—and why Tall knows your name. Why Handsome is still touching you, why he’s so quiet, why when he looks at you your skin heats and your heart does a little, happy hum.

Why when you yank your arm from Handsome’s grasp, he blinks at you in confusion. Why he says your name so slowly. Why when he reaches back out to you, your body leans forward of its own accord. 

“No!” You shout, and it’s more at yourself, but Handsome’s whole face falls, and he looks like he’s been shot, stabbed, and bled out.

“Shit, she’s talking- Hey,” Tall says your name, reaching to grab your shoulder, and you start to crawl away from him. “Can you- Wait, where are you going-“

“She seems to be experiencing panic.” Trench Coat tilts his head, glancing over your shoulder. “She is likely trying to get to Dean.”

You follow his gaze, and your body is moving to where Handsome—Dean?—had backed away.

“Fuck!” You try to scramble to your feet, ready to run for your life, but you barely make it to your knees before darkness clouds your vision and your head starts to spin.

All three men shout your name, but Dean’s deep voice is the loudest, and when the world grows clear again, he the one who’s holding you upright.

Your body is slumped into him. It’s the same way you’ve slumped into your bed. The same way you used to slump against you mom when you were a kid, because you never thought she could hurt you. Because she’d felt like the safest place to be in the world.

But you don’t know Dean. 

“Don’t- don’t touch me-“ You try to shake him off, but he doesn’t let go. He just lowers you carefully down and moves away, staring at you with an expression that makes your heart ache for reasons you don’t understand. “Who are you people?!”

Tall says your name again. How the fuck does he know your name. “It’s just us, it’s-“ Tall moves to touch you, and frowns when you flinch away.

At least you still know how to flinch away. 

“I don’t knowwho the fuck you are,” you hiss at him. “Or what the fuck is happening, but I want to go home.” You hug yourself, everything suddenly cold, your voice growing small. “Please let me go home.”

Trench Coat nods. “I am able to-“

“Cas.” Dean grunts from behind you, and Trench Coat—Cas—frowns at him. “Don’t.”

“She has requested something I can assist with-“

“She doesn’t fucking know who you are.” Dean snaps, stomping past you, never looking down. It makes the ache in your heart worse. “What the hell do you think is gonna happen when you zap her back to a home she doesn’t remember?”

Tall shakes his head. “We don’t know that she doesn’t remember the bunker-“

“Yeah? Hey,” Dean says your name, his glare and tone firm. Your body has a very confusing reaction to it, your thighs squeezing together as your stomach fills with heat. “You believe in angels?”

You blink. “Like, with wings?”

Dean gives Tall a pointed look, and Tall just shakes his head again.

“That doesn’t prove anything-“

“It proves enough, Sammy.” 

“No, it doesn’t!” Tall—Sammy—crosses his arms, glaring at Dean. “She remembers her own name, it’s not unreasonable to think she might remember her home!”

“That’s cause her name is her name! She doesn’t remember who we are! She’s not going to remember anything else-“

“It may be productive to find out what she does remember before we make assumptions.” Cas cuts Dean off with clipped words, and barely flinches as Dean glowers at him. You’re impressed. Dean seems scary.

Even if your body doesn’t seem to agree. 

“Good idea, Cas, let’s just-“ Sammy drops to the floor in front of you. “Hi, I’m-“

“Sammy?” 

“It’s actually Sam- wait.” Sam blinks at you. “You remember my name?“

“No.” You shake your head, nodding up to Dean. “He said it.”

“Oh.” Sam follows your gaze with a small frown. “Do you know his name?”

“It’s Dean.” You whisper, and another strange expression flashes over Dean’s face. “But I don’t remember it, I just heard it. I’m sorry.”

Dean’s jaw clenches, and Sam sighs.

“Don’t apologize, we’re just- It’s complicated.” Sam runs a hand through his hair, scanning carefully over your face. “Can I ask you a few questions?”

You nod—you don’t seem to have a choice, and you’re not nearly as panicked as you should be—and Sam swallows.

“Okay, you know your name, so how about- What year is it?”

You tell him, and he nods slowly. It goes like that as he asks you the date, the president, how old you are, and when your birthday is. It only flips when he asks you where home is, you answer, and all three men gape at you.

“What’s wrong?” You look between their identical expressions of worry. “That’s where I-“

Sam says your name carefully, his voice tense. “You haven’t lived there in almost six years.”

You blink at him. “No… I- I live there now.”

“No, you-“ Sam lets out a long breath. “How about this, do you know what your job is?”

“Yeah, I’m a librarian.”

That was clearly not the answer they wanted, but Sam pushes on. “Okay, what kind of car do you drive?”

“I don’t drive.” You glance up at Cas and Dean, and they’re exchanging a taut look. This is so fucking weird. “I, um, I take the bus.”

“Fuck!” Dean shouts suddenly, throwing his hands in the air. He sounds agitated. It’s making you agitated. “Goddamnit, she doesn’t remember anything-“

“Actually, she seems to remember selective things.” Cas lowers down as well, his gaze seeming to drive right into your soul. “Are you aware of how you arrived here, in this room?”

You aren’t. You try to remember, and it hurts. Your whole head lights up with pain and you double-over, but that seems to answer the men’s questions all by itself, and they exchange low, tense words as you lay on the floor.

Dean keeps looking at you. He’s not speaking to you, but he keeps staring at you, and your body always seems to respond to it. His jaw clenches as Cas helps you to your feet, and your legs want to walk right into him. Dean scowls as Sam explains that you do know them—that they’re your friends, and you’re cursed, and they’re taking you somewhere safe to help you—and your skin prickles under the feeling of it. As they move you into a sleek black muscle car and take off down the road, Dean keeps glaring at you in the rearview mirror and you want to reach out and touch him. You think it would be really good to touch him.

You really want to touch him. He’s beautiful, in the shadows and low lights of the highway, and right now it’s really just Dean in the whole universe. 

Just Dean. Here. With you.

The wind is cold in your hair and loud in your ears, but the Impala is warm, and the music is louder.

Dean is louder. Singing at the top of his lungs and drumming a little off beat on the wheel, his eyes alight and his smile wide. 

He’s warm, too. You giggle and roll your eyes when he makes a terrible joke, and he grabs your face with a strong, rough, warm hand to pulls you into a kiss, all as the road keeps rushing past you-

Cas says your name, and you blink at him. You’re not sure what the fuck just happened.

“Are you experiencing memory recall?”

“I, um, what?”

“Your eyes.” He says, and you notice Sam twisting around to watch from the passenger’s seat. “They began to move in a manner similar to human REM sleep, however you remained awake the whole time. Were you thinking of something you had previously forgotten?”

“I, uh,” you glance in the rearview mirror. Dean’s suddenly fixated on the road, his grip on the wheel white knuckled. “Have I been in this car before?”

“Yeah, you have.” Sam’s words are cautious, his eyes trained on you. “A lot. Cas, you don’t think-“

“I do. I believe it may be our best shot.”

And that’s how it begins. The moment you return to the bunker—a strange, underground building they claim you’ve lived in for years—you’re rushed through the grand tour in the hopes of triggering just a little more of your memory.

You’d consider it useless if it wasn’t working. If your hands didn’t already know how to sort through their strange classification of books. If you didn’t get flashes of laughter and visions of Sam and Dean around a table in what they call the War Room. If Sam doesn’t show you the kitchen, and suddenly your brain is washed over with a memory of sitting at the table, across from him and Dean.

Dean winks at you as Sam tries to show you something on his laptop. You’re going to kill him. He’s being obvious, and a little mean.

It doesn’t stop you from following him out of the kitchen only minutes later, even though it snaps your dignity in half.

“You’ve got something?” Sam’s almost jumping in front of you, and you give him a small smile. 

“You drink smoothies.”

“They’re healthy.” Sam shrugs, his voice raising to a shout. “Cas! It’s working!”

Dean shuffles into the kitchen, barely glancing at you. “Cas left. Said he’s going to look for a better fix.”

Sam frowns. “Why didn’t he tell me?”

“He told me. And you should bring her to her room.”

Your eyes widen as Sam nods, rubbing the bridge of his nose.

“Shit, yeah, good idea. C’mon,“ Sam says your name, walking to the hallway. “This should be good for you.”

When you see your room, it does seem like your room. It’s decorated how you’d decorate it, clothing scattered on the floor that you recognize, the walls painted how you’d paint them, but there’s also a shotgun on the dresser and a knife on your bedside stand.

“Shit, sweetheart, this is an awesome gun, where’d you find it?”

You look up at Dean from your bed, fidgeting with your blanket between your fingers. “It was in one of the storage rooms. I can show you later, I think there were a few more.”

“Hell yeah,” he aims it at the wall, his smile easy and boyish. It’s adorable.

You wish he’d stop.

“Dean?”

He hums, still turning the gun in his hands, and you take in a long breath.

“Are we going to talk about it?”

Dean freezes, his eyes wide and almost panicked on yours as he sets the gun back down.

“I don’t think there’s anything to talk about. I mean, it’s us. We can be cool.”

“Cool.”

“Yeah, cool. You have a problem, I take care of it. I have a problem,” he gestures between your bodies with raised brows, and you sigh.

“Okay.”

“Awesome.”

“Yeah.” You smile at him, and this might consume and destroy you. But fuck you, you’re going to let it. “Awesome.”

“You got anything?” Sam asks, and you nod. You might have too much. 

And none of it is making any make sense at all.

The week passes like this. More small memories come to you in visions, your head pounds and stabs with pain, Sam hangs over your shoulder and shows you countless places you can navigate but don’t recognize—their dungeon, their gun range, a place called the Dean Cave, a field, and a corner store down the street—all as Dean swirls around your head, but remains just out of sight. Barely crossing your path, looking like a deer in headlights when he does.

But you think you’ve sat with your legs over his lap in the Dean Cave. You’ve trailed after him—holding onto the sleeve of his jacket—in the corner store. You’ve had his body wrapped around yours in the gun range, his voice low and teasing in your ear as he guides your hands.

And the most memories come in your bedroom. Sitting on the mattress with him towering above you, lying on the floor with him under you, giggling as he pins you against the door.

He still won’t look at you. He doesn’t even acknowledge you anymore. He’s locking himself in his room, only coming out to get food, sort through the library, or take his car and leave for hours on end.

Sam is worried.

“This… isn’t like Dean.” He tells you, frowning at the door Dean had just disappeared through. “I don’t know what’s up with him, but you guys were really good friends before. Like, really good.” He gives you an odd look. You’ve been getting a lot of those lately. “There was a while where I was pretty sure that he was finally-“ He shakes his head, cutting himself off. “Never mind. I’ll talk to him later.”

You sleep in your room again. It’s felt strange, because your body doesn’t seem to like your mattress. It doesn’t relax into it like it should, if you’ve really been sleeping here for years. You keep waking up reaching for the other side of the bed. You keep being unable to fall asleep at all because something feels off. 

He’s still here when you wake up. His arm heavy over your stomach as he presses your back against his chest, his breath hot on your neck. 

You should’ve kicked him out last night. You try to never let him fall asleep next to you, let alone wake up in your bed. It’s cruel to you.

Because now you have to have this, and then let it go. You’ll never be able to wipe the feeling of Dean wrapped around you from your skin, and your muscles will never forget how easy it was to relax when he was holding you. 

When you roll over your hands will always know how to linger on his bare, warm chest. Your fingers will always know how to map his every freckle, even if you were blindfolded and submerged underwater. 

Your heart will always know to slow down when you look at him. Especially like this. He’s peaceful here. His eyelashes fluttering and his lips parted, his brow dropped to yours as he sleeps. 

As he has no way to know that he’s doing it.

He’s vulnerable. Dean’s body is letting him rest with you at his side. It’s letting him fall into a strong sleep with steady breaths and slack muscles, even though there’s something foreign pressed against him.

And that’s why this is cruel. It feeds your hope that this could be more. That Dean could ever see you as you see him, that he’d chose to rest with you because deep down, he loves you like you love him.

Deeply and powerfully. Irrevocably and brutally. Made of gnashing teeth and blood caking your nails, but also simple in loud music and wind, soft in golden streetlamps that cast halos around his head. Concrete. Dependable. You will always love Dean, even if you lose everything else you’ve ever had.

And he will not love you.

And this is cruel.

But you still let your face bury itself in his neck. You still let your nose memorize the evergreen and amber smell of him. You still let his skin leave burning marks on yours, as he stays asleep. 

And you just watch him. 

You have to drag yourself out of bed. You have to give Dean a close-lipped smile when he walks right past you in the kitchen, and not scream when his skin brushes yours.

It’s not foreign. 

It feels like you.

And you’re so lost. 

You don’t ask any questions. The few questions you have asked made Sam sad, like you should already know the answer, and he always does this puppy-dog face that breaks your heart. The only questions you’d really want to ask were questions about Dean. About if Sam talked to him, about why—if you’re as close as Sam claims, if these strange snapshots are true—he won’t even look at you. About how he’d looked at you before.

About how you’d looked at him.

But Sam’s too busy for you to even really consider it. He’s calling Cas and someone named Rowena all the time, he’s researching day and night to try and fix you, and he’s coming up with strange new ways to trigger your memory every day.

“Sit there.” He points to the driver’s seat of the Impala, moving around the hood of the car. “You’re driving.”

You shake your head. “I don’t know how to drive stick-“

“Yeah, you do, Dean- fuck.” Sam groans, rubbing his forehead. “Well, let’s try having you sit in it? Just to see if anything happens?”

You nod, and things do happen. When you put your hand on the gear shift, a phantom of a bigger, calloused one covers it, and suddenly you can drive stick. You don’t even have to think about it, you just can. 

It might be worse when you think about it. Sam makes you drive—telling you to go somewhere and refusing to specify any possible destinations—and whenever you try to actually dwell on what you’re doing, you make a mistake. 

So you let your body take over. You drive the Impala where your hands want you to go, and where they want you to go seems to be a dive bar parking lot.

“Huh.” Sam glances around as you both climb out of the car, a small frown on his face. “I’ve never been here before. I know it’s a stupid question, but do you know where you are?”

“No,” you sigh, letting your feet carry you to the edge of the pavement, letting your knees bend down as you sit on the curb. “Not at all.”

“Shit.” He mutters. “Well, you want a drink while we’re here?”

You nod, Sam goes into the bar, returns with two beers, and drops at your side.

“This is…” Sam glances at you, his voice soft. Apologetic. “I’m really sorry this is happening. I mean, Dean went through something similar a while ago, but at least we had an idea of how to handle that, you know? I’m- I don’t even know where to start here.” He says your name, rolling his bottle between his hands. “All we’ve got is Dean saying you touched a cursed object, but he’s being really weird and when Cas and I went back to the building there was nothing. We’re going to fix this, I promise, but...”

He sighs, trailing off, and you clear your throat. You haven’t just sat with Sam since this—whatever this is—started. This might be your only chance to try to get answers in a way that doesn’t make your skull cave in and your heart burn.

“Can I ask you some stuff?”

Sam nods, and you take a long, slow breath.

“How did I end up here? Doing,” you gesture vaguely to the air. “This.”

A small smile ghosts over Sam’s lips. “Dean and I were hunting a vamp nest, and you were one of the witnesses. You helped us out a little, we told you some stuff about how you deal with vamps, and then you got kidnapped. We- Well, we tried to save you, but by the time we got there you’d kind of saved yourself. You’d covered yourself in dead man’s blood from one of their discarded vics, and none of them would go near you. After it was done, you asked to come with us, and you haven’t left since.”

“And we’re… friends?”

“We are.” Sam says, rubbing his forehead with a sigh. “I mean, I know you and I are. You helped me organize the library when you moved to the bunker. I taught you most of the stuff about the lore, and we made up a game about it. Dean calls it dumb, but he just hates that he’s bad at it. Sometimes you go on runs with me, and then you say you’re never running again. You’re the one who convinced me to ask out my girlfriend-“

You blink at him. “You have a girlfriend?”

“Yeah, Eileen. You’re friends with her too. You’re friends with everybody.” Sam offers you another smile, and this one seems less painful. “Even Rowena likes you. We didn’t have to threaten her to help us out here.”

Even as you return Sam’s smile, a last question eats at your tongue, and you’re too tired, too confused to think better of asking it.

“What about Dean?” You whisper. “Am I friends with him?”

Sam sighs. He seems to do that a lot. 

“Yes. Kind of. I… I don’t know.” He mutters, frowning at the pavement. “It’s complicated. I’m not- This isn’t really my place, you know?”

You swallow. “Does he hate me?”

Sam laughs at that. A loud, full laugh that echoes around the parking lot. 

“No.” He shakes his head, clearly amused by something you don’t understand. “I don’t think either of you could hate each other if you-“

“I fucking hate you!” You scream, shoving his chest. He doesn’t flinch. He never flinches. 

Asshole.

“You’re drunk.” Dean grunts your name, catching your hand against his chest. “We need to go home.”

“I’m not going anywhere with you, Winchester-“

“Yeah, you are.”

Dean starts to tug you across the parking lot, back to the car, and you hate that you just let him. You always let him. He takes you somewhere and you just follow him like a fucking lapdog. Waiting for him whenever he leaves. Whining and whimpering at the door when he’s gone and lighting up from the inside when he returns. 

Barely getting a treat or a smile when he pays attention to you. Only really getting his attention in brief flashes that build your body to an explosion before leaving you to pick up the pieces yourself. Leaving you alone, wracked with a love he can’t return, mending your own heart until he asks to break it again, and you let him.

“You’re going to sleep it off.” Dean mutters from ahead of you, and there are little blond hairs at the nape of his neck that seem silver and gold in the low light. Just another piece of him that’s impossibly beautiful. Another piece you get to touch but never keep. 

“I don’t need to sleep it off!” You yank your hand from his grip as he tries to guide you into Baby, and drop on the curb with a dramatic sigh. “Just leave me alone, Dean.”

“I am not fucking abandoning you at some sketchy bar-“

“Why not?” You raise your chin at him, narrowing your eyes. “Afraid I’ll find someone else? That I’ll crawl into another bed, and they’ll actually like me, and you’ll lose your favorite pet?”

He scowls. “We’re not having this conversation right now-“

“Why not?! You know it’s the truth, Dean! I’m just, I’m your fucking toy and you hate sharing-“

He says your name in a low warning, but you can’t stop now. This pain has been building up and up in your chest and lungs for years, and now that it’s out it’s volcanic. You couldn’t keep it in if you tried.

“But you’ll never actually care about me! I’m easy for you! That was the fucking deal, right! We’re easy for each other and that’s it, just using each other until one of us fucking dies! You keep acting like I mean nothing and then you get all fucking possessive when I try to get over you-“

“You’re not trying to get over me.” He mutters, not fully meeting your eyes. “You don’t have anything to get over. You’re just fucking wasted-“

“Yeah, I am, because you won’t just say that I matter to you-“

“Of course you matter to me, you’re my friend-“

“You’re not my friend!” You scream, your voice echoing through the parking lot. Your head is starting to spin. “Friends don’t do this to each other!”

You’re dizzy. You feel a little faint. 

And you’d just spend an hour telling Dean you hate him. But he’s still grabbing you and keeping you steady.

You really wish he wouldn’t. It would make it easier to pretend you really did hate him. That just his touch didn’t make you feel safe and cared for, even when the dickhead didn’t really care. 

“You done?” He asks, and you hum, something hot and wet stinging at your eyes.

“I hate you, Dean.” You mumble, even as you slump into him. “I fucking hate you.”

He brushes some hair from your face, and your eyes flutter. “I know you do, babygirl.” He mutters, and you don’t think he knows you’re still awake. “Let’s go home.”

Sam’s frowning at you when the real world comes back into view. And when you whisper that you’d really like to leave, he doesn’t ask questions. He doesn’t even make you drive, or try to talk to you as you stare out the window. 

He doesn’t push for the rest of the day. He shows you a few more things that trigger smaller memories, and you don’t see Dean at all. 

But he’s everywhere. In every memory. You walk through the library as Sam explains a system you allegedly designed, and a memory of you explaining this exact system to Dean flashes through your brain. He’d made jokes, and you’d giggled, and his smile had numbed your brain. You try to make yourself dinner, and suddenly you’re laughing and throwing food at Dean, right before he presses you against the counter with a searing kiss. You wander through the halls and you can hear heavy, controlled steps behind you. You return to your room, and he’s at your side in bed, wearing the same flannel from the memory in the parking lot. Making you drink water and helping you change, muttering low apologies you can’t actually really hear. Tucking you in bed and tracing his hand over your face, grabbing you a trash can to vomit in when you shoot back up, his hand rubbing soothing circles on your back. 

His whole face is set in that memory, but it’s all hazy. You don’t know if you trust it, because all the other memories have been sharp and clear, but this one is dreamlike. Like even before you lost your memory, you weren’t sure if it was real. The you who all this happened to might have just made this up for herself. Made up Dean holding her hair back and pressing a soft kiss to her brow as she lay back down, even though you can still feel the warmth of his chapped lips in that exact spot. She might have made up Dean smiling at her when she mumbled that she didn’t actually hate him. She might have made up him staying when she begged him to in a soft voice. 

You don’t know. You don’t know anything. You’ve never felt more lost, never been in more pain. Your body is where it’s supposed to be, but your brain isn’t. It’s restless and worried and tearing itself apart, and when you fail to sleep your body knows how to walk through the halls, even as your whole mind spins and shreds itself to pieces.

Sam was sorry this was happening to you, but you don’t know why. You don’t know him. Every time you’ve seen Cas since you’ve returned, he’s asked you questions you don’t know the answers to. Every day your body remembers things, but you don’t. You want to, you want to so bad, but you’re adrift and drowning in a vast, cold ocean and you can’t even remember how you got there. You keep feeling like there’s a lifeline, just out of reach, but you can’t grab it. It’s not in your room, or the kitchen, or the library. It’s nowhere Sam takes you, nowhere you remember how to go.

You feel like something had been guiding you, anchoring you in the waves, and now it’s missing. Vanished from your hands. 

And now you’re lost, and in pain, and alone. Wandering aimlessly through the depths of the bunker in the dead of night, searching for a lighthouse you’re not sure exists.

You walk into the War Room, and Dean’s already there. Glass of whiskey in hand, head tipped back and eyes closed, the fancy headphones you’d gotten him for his birthday blasting music so loud you can hear it from across the room. You walk up behind him and run a gentle hand over his cheeks, and he doesn’t flinch. His eyes just open slowly and find yours in a second, his attention soft as he tugs his headphones down, grabs your hand, and kisses your knuckles. 

“Hi.” You whisper, and he grins.

“Hey.”

“It’s late.” You run a hand through his hair, and he lets you. He’s amazing and horrible, so he lets you have this. “It’s bad for your back to sleep in a chair.”

“Bad for my back?” He chuckles. “I’m not that old, sweetheart-“

“It’s bad for everyone’s back-“

“Sam sleeps in his chair all the time.” Dean raises his brows at you, and you swallow. “You’re not on his ass about it.”

You sigh. You don’t want to entertain this. You’re too tired for the fight that it will lead to. “Please just go sleep in your bed, Dean.”

He hums, and you let him guide you around the chair, until you’re standing between his legs.

“Maybe I will, if you’re there with me.”

“Don’t say that.” You whisper, unable to move away. He’s going to break your heart again. You’re going to let him, because your heart is traitorous and loves being broken by Dean. It just likes that Dean has to touch it to break it. “Please.”

He shakes his head with a long, deep exhale, and doesn’t say another word. 

But he doesn’t go to bed either. He stands up until you’re trapped between his body and the table, and places his whiskey down, his eyes never leaving yours. He’s scanning over your face with an expression like he’s lost, like he’s looking for something he’s desperate to find but terrified to see.

You don’t know if he finds it. 

All you know is that he’s touching you, and you’re molding into him, and whatever he does to you, you’ll allow. 

As long as it’s Dean doing it.

He unplugs his headphone until the music is filling the War Room, picks up his iPod, and changes the song. This one is soft, a gentle melody drowning you in honey and a daze of Dean. You didn’t think he’d own a song like this. It’s slow and romantic, and it flows so easily as he takes one hand in yours, places the other on your hip, and moves you away from the table.

He starts to sway, holding you steady in his arms, and soon you’re dancing. Really dancing, in measured, easy steps that Dean guides you through. You didn’t think he’d know how to do this. You didn’t think he’d ever do it with you.

But you’re lost in him, and you’ve never felt like you’ve belonged anywhere else. You’re drowning in the song, but Dean’s drowning with you, so you know exactly where you are. Trapped in this infinite and fleeting moment, trapped in Dean’s eyes, trapped in the warmth of his light, casting over your body and guiding you wherever you’ll need to be.

When he leans in to kiss you, you don’t push him away. You could never push him away. Your hands only know how to curl in his shirt and your lips only know how to crash into his. Your tongue always craves Dean’s taste of whiskey and pecan, and your body always knows how to catch the small sparks of lighting his touch creates, then throw them through your whole body.

And Dean always kisses you with everything he has, but this is different. It’s not desperate and needy, it’s long and deep and feels like home. When he sucks on your lower lip, it’s like he’s trying to leave a mark. When his steps still and he dips you down, you gasp, and he breathes it in like it’s more than oxygen. When your arms wrap around his neck, he pulls you closer, like you could be absorbed into his body forever. 

When he pulls away—the song long over, the only sounds in the world his ragged breath and your heartbeat in your ears—he still doesn’t speak. And you don’t move. You’ll be a statue until Dean’s command brings your back to life. You’ll be cold marble, sinking down, down, down until he takes your hand and reminds your body how to be.

And that’s pathetic.

But when he squeezes your hand in his, presses a soft kiss on the space between your eyes, and starts to guide you out of the War Room, you don’t even try not to follow him.

Because Dean would never let you stray from where you’re safe. Next to him.

Your legs are carrying you out of the war room, down a path that they remember but you don’t. To a door that your hand aches to push open, into a room where the air is warm but fresh, and an overwhelming smell of amber and evergreen tints against your nostrils. They don’t seem bothered by it. They seem to relax into it, like it’s an anesthetic. 

This must be Dean’s room. If your body couldn’t tell you that, your increasingly fragile brain would still piece it together. It’s obviously lived in—clothing on the floor, sheets messy on the bed, small bits of evidence scattered on the shelves and dresser—and there’s only one lived in room you haven’t entered before. Dean’s.

Sam hadn’t even shown you where it was.

Apparently he hadn’t needed to. Your whole body had pulled you here.

And that’s your shirt, on the bedside table-

Dean peels off your shirt without a word, discarding it to an unseen corner of the room. You fumble with his belt, your need growing and growing with every second his hands map over your body—he’s already explored it, found places you didn’t even know existed yourself, but he never seems to get sick of you—and Dean just chuckles, keeping his brow pressed to yours as he takes care of it himself. His jeans have barely fallen around his ankles when he grabs your face between his hands and kisses you until your knees are weak.

Neither of you are speaking. There’s nothing to say that hasn’t already been screamed or sobbed or snapped, hasn’t been moaned or mumbled or whispered. 

All that left to do is touch each other, like you have a million times before. Like you will a million times again, because you can lie to yourself that one day your patience will run out and you’ll leave, but you know you won’t. Dean’s changed your body on a level that feels deeper than skin. Your heart only knows how to beat for him. Your brain only knows how to think of him. Your hands only know how to palm at his dick, tenting through his boxers, and your lips only know how to part as he groans down your throats.

You fall to your knees, free him from his underwear, wrap your hand around his proud cock, and look up at him with a soft smile. His massive, rough hand has tangled in your hair, his eyes hooded and throat bobbing, and when you take him in your mouth you know exactly how to play him like an instrument. How to suck when he bumps the back of your throat, how to flick your tongue over the head of him, how to squeeze and jerk off the base of his cock where you can’t get him between your lips. You know to keep going as he starts to groan your name in a low warning, because if he wants to cum in your mouth, you’d never stop him.

That’s another taste you’ll always crave. Salty and bitter and so purely Dean, marking you in a way he can’t take back.

But he pulls you off with a firm tug of your hair, wiping a little drool from your lips with his thumb before tilting your head up and crashing his lips into yours. When Dean hauls you to your feet you crumple into him, and when he tosses you onto his bed you giggle, crawling backwards and spreading your legs in a silent offering you’ve given him a million times before, and will never stop giving him as long as he takes it.

And he always takes it. Dean’s eyes always darken, and he always prowls over you. But it’s never like you’re prey. Never like you’re just a body to be taken and notched on a bedpost. 

It’s like you’re something he’s trying to bathe himself in. Like an external piece of him he’s trying to protect and tend to by covering himself in it. It’s why he always dives down between your legs first, keeping you pinned to the bed with a hand on your stomach, shoving his tongue deep into your cunt and pressing his nose on your clit until you’re writhing and suffocating him between your thighs. When he moves to pull that bundle of nerves between his lips—pressing his tongue flat against you and sucking—a coil in your gut snaps, and you drown his face in your release.

Your body only ever does that for Dean.

You don’t think he knows that. And every time you think to tell him, he’s always already moved on. Risen above you and shoving two fingers into your still raw and sensitive pussy, finding the deepest part of you like it’s a magnet, and rubbing on it as he watches you come undone once more. 

He cleans his hands with his mouth, licking them and smirking at you as you reach for him, trying to grip his body and pull it down over yours. He usually takes his time—teasing and edging you until you’re a whining mess—but tonight really is different. His smile on your flushed, already wrecked face isn’t taunting or lustful, it’s relaxed. And he still doesn’t speak, but when he kisses his way over your navel, up your chest—stopping to suck on one nipple as his hand plays with your other breast, because he’s Dean and he can’t help himself—it’s louder than anything else in the world. He’s taking him time because he’s trying to keep you in his bed. He knows that once this is over, you’ll gather your things and leave, like you always do to protect yourself.

So he’s giving you a reason to stay.

He nips and sucks up your throat and over your jaw, plants kisses everywhere on your face but where you’re begging for him, and pins your squirming body to the bed with his full weight before his mouth finally makes its way to yours. 

He’s kissing you into the mattress, kissing you until your lips are swollen and your head is spinning from oxygen deprivation. He only pulls back to watch his hand stroke his cock, right before he guides himself into your dripping, fluttering pussy and bottoms out in one thrust. He lets out a low grunt as you adjust, and when he rolls his hips, you moan.

And he falls right back into you.

From there it’s only Dean. Fucking you until you’re scratching at his chest and putty in his arms, your mouth is slack as he groans and grunts above you. He hikes your thigh up to push his cock in at a deeper angle and marks your neck and shoulders with bites and hickeys that you hope never fade, building his speed until you’re just a squirming, whining mess and he’s slamming into you at a brutal pace. 

He doesn’t slow down when you cum, clenching around his cock and screaming a high whine of his name. He only swallows the sound with a bruising kiss, plunging his tongue down your throat and rutting harder and harder into your cunt. All you can do is take it. You’ll always take it. If this is how to you get to have Dean, you’ll never push him away.

He cums with a roar against your lips, trigging one last, small, shuddering orgasm through your body, and collapses on top of you.

Dean rolls you over until he’s beneath you, caging you against his chest with big, strong arms. He doesn’t pull out—letting his cum drip down and dry on your thighs—and when your look up at him he’s staring at you with a drunken, awestruck expression. 

His eyes are already drooping, his breathing slowing to an even, steady pace as he keeps you trapped against his body. You wish your hands could remember how to pry him away before he falls asleep, because now you’re going to be trapped here for a long, painful night where Dean’s sheathed inside you and you can smell and taste him everywhere, but he’s still not yours to have.

Yet, you can’t move.

And right as his eyes close, he mutters your name. You almost don’t hear it. You’re not sure you did hear it.

“Dean?”

He repeats your name, and it’s barely a breath. 

“Wha-“

“I love you.” He mumbles your name one last time, and you gape at him. He doesn’t even know he’s speaking. “‘m sorry. Love you. Don’t leave.” He buries his face in your hair, and he won’t remember this in the morning. “Please don’t leave me.”

“What are you doing in here.” 

You drag your gaze away from the bed and turn to see Dean, wearing flannel pants and a white sleep shirt. He’s not glaring at you, even though you’ve invaded his room without permission. He just looks weary. Tired.

“I’m sorry.” You whisper, rooted to the spot. “I don’t… I don’t know.”

Something pained flashes over his face, and you feel small cracks form across your heart.

“Whatever.” He mutters, walking right past you without another glance. “Get out.”

“No.”

You don’t know why you said that. This isn’t your place to be, especially when Dean doesn’t want anything to do with you. When he doesn’t want you here. But you don’t feel adrift here. And you don’t want to go.

Dean stares at you. “What.”

“I’m not going.” You hug yourself, your eyes moving back to the shirt on the dresser. “That’s my shirt.”

He huffs, rolling his eyes as he mutters to himself. “So a fucking shirt you remember. Awesome.”

You swallow. “Why do you have my shirt, Dean.”

He goes rigid, but doesn’t speak, so you keep going.

“Why won’t you talk to me?” You don’t realize you’re walking forward he’s closer. It feels right. “Sam said-“

“Sam doesn’t know what the hell he’s talking about.” Dean grunts, but he doesn’t move away. Even when you move closer. Even as you push on.

“Then you tell me.” You sound like you’re pleading. You kind of are. “Every time I remember something you’re there, but you won’t even look at me! I don’t know who I am, I don’t know what’s going on, and I keep thinking about you but you’re acting like you want nothing to do with me-“

Dean’s jaw clenches, his words pushed through his teeth. “That’s not true.”

“It is! You can’t even stand to be in the same room as me!” You feel like you’re going to cry. You haven’t even wanted to cry, not since this began, but something has crashed down inside of you, and this room feels like a safe place to fall apart.

Dean feels like a safe place to fall apart.

“I’m, I’m so lost, and I don’t know what’s going on, and everything keeps coming back to you but I don’t know who you are! You won’t tell me who you are, Sam won’t tell me who you are, and I feel like I’m supposed to know but I don’t! I know who I am but I feel like I’m missing something, and everything hurts, and I just- I need to know-“

Dean grunts your name, and you let out a choked sob.

You’re sick of being lost. You’re sick of not knowing. And when you meet Dean’s eyes they’re like a beacon, and you can’t help but float into them. 

“Who am I to you, Dean?”

“You’re the love of my life.” His voice is hoarse, and his eyes widen slightly at his own answer. You don’t think he expected it. 

“I’m-“

His hands grab your face—holding you so carefully, like he’s practiced this a million time—and you melt into his touch. 

“You’re everything to me, and I- I fucking failed you.” Dean’s thumb traces over your cheekbone, wiping away a tear. “I can’t fix it. I’ve been fucking trying, baby. I promised you I’d try, but I can’t. I- I can’t. I need your help but you’re-“ He makes a low, strangled sound, dropping his brow to yours. It fits perfectly there. “I can’t do this without you. I never tell you that, I never say that I need you, but I do, and I failed you, and now you’re-“

Dean’s whole body shudders, and your arms wrap around him on instinct alone. He falls over you, clinging to you like you’re going to vanish, and-

“You don’t have to do this.” Dean mutters in your ear, and his hug is going to suffocate you, but you don’t care. Maybe he’ll leave an indent on your body. “We can just fucking destroy it-“

“Because trying to destroy cursed objects has worked out so well for us, historically.” You give him a sad, dry smile, and he shakes his head. 

“There’s another way. There’s always another way-“

“We don’t have time for another way. And it won’t be permanent. All curses can be cured.”

“But we don’t even know what the hell this one does!” He shouts, and you don’t wince. He’s not mad at you. “‘Taking what you value most’ could mean anything, could fucking do anything-“

“I know. But it will kill you if I don’t-“

“We don’t know that-“

You do know that. So does Dean. This object latched onto Dean, and it will either leech his life slowly, involuntarily, or take something from you, along with a piece of your memory. And you’ll lose whatever you need to if it keeps Dean safe.

“Listen.” You hold Dean’s gaze, making your voice firm. “Don’t tell Sam and Cas. They’ll get caught on what happened, and you’ll all start fighting, and we can’t afford that. You just need to find what I value, bring it back to me, and I’ll be okay. Got it?”

Dean shakes his head. “How am I supposed to know what you value if you won’t tell me-“

“I don’t know.” You sigh. “I- I honestly can’t think of what I value most, but hopefully you’ll notice something is missing, and you can track it down.” You give him a soft smile. “I believe in you, Dean. And if I’m awake, I’ll try to help you.”

“You won’t remember-“

“It should only take my memories relating the thing. I probably won’t even know anything is wrong.”

“But I’ll know.” He mutters. “And what if I don’t get the thing back to you-“

“You will get it back to me.” You say simply. He’s Dean. You trust him with more than your life. “And I’ll be okay.”

You start to move away, but he doesn’t let you go. He’s pallid and bloodless from the object draining him, but he’s still strong. And you don’t really want to leave him at all. 

“Don’t. Please.” He mutters your name, and it sounds like a prayer. “I’m not worth this, baby.”

“Of course you are.” You smile at him, tears stinging your eyes as you manage to force yourself away. “I love you.”

His eyes widen, and he looks like he wants to say something, but anything he can say will only make you hesitate.

So you turn away.

Right before you touch the object you have a thought. An epiphany that—if your hand wasn’t already pressed on the object’s cool surface—would have made you break down and scream for Dean to make you stop, to drag you away.

But it’s too late. And everything goes dark.

“Dean.”

He leans back to look at you, and you know him. You know everything about him, and it’s destroying your brain and body, trying to break out but trapped down. This pain is horrible.

But Dean is good.

“You love me?”

He swallows, but nods. He seems afraid. Tense under your hands, like you’re going to push him away and he’ll have to just take it.

He won’t. Because you do the only thing you’re certain you know how to do.

You kiss him.

It’s like fireworks, but there’s no electrically you haven’t felt before, no colors you’ve never seen. You’re swept up in his waves and wide fire, but it could never drown or burn you. You’ve adapted to move with it, to breathe in his water and smoke and trust him to bring you exactly where you need to be.

Against his chest, dipping and holding you steady, pouring his all and then some into your body. And your memory doesn’t crash back into you, it just washes over you like rain. 

Dean pulls back, and you smile at him like you always have. Like you always will.

“Hi,” you whisper, and he grins. 

“Hey,” Dean says your name, and you’ve done this dance before.  “Are you-“

You kiss him again, and you know exactly who Dean is. What he is to you, how he loves you in strong, unspoken silence that kills you and cures you all at one, and how you might be built to love him. 

You are.

And he’s built the same way for you.

End Note: Obsessed with love as a thing that happens to you physically, if you can't tell. Thank you for reading!

If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3

Taglist

@artemys-ackles @ambiguous-avery @nightxcreature @sthefferrete @lyarr24

@deansbbyx @bakugotypecrashout @foolinthera1n @globetrotter28 @lordofthunderthr

@youdontknowe @nyrtopia @iloveeveryoneyoureamazing @panicking-outside-the-disco @elle14-blog1

@impala67rollingthroughtown @dumb--blonde @itsdearapril @apobangpo-0613 @alwaystiredandconfused

@arcticwisteria @generalmoonpolice @foxyjwls007 @jackles010378 @godhelpthisbtch

The weather is always perfect here – warm, but not too hot. He sits on the porch in the late morning, drinking his second cup. People he’s known and loved and lost walk past, greet him. Some sit down with him, chat for a while.

His house is an enigma – it’s like someone took all the places that ever meant something to him, put them in a blender. Everything smells like his childhood home, or at least how he remembers it smelling. The entryway is that of the boys’ home he lived in for a while, something familiar and comforting about that area where he would kick off his shoes so as not to carry in any dirt. The porch is Bobby’s, in a way, or it feels like Bobby’s. The view’s nicer though.

Speaking of the old hunter, that’s where Dean usually goes in the early afternoons. There’s a lake close to where he lives and if he walks its perimeter, it’ll take him to his house. Bobby might pour him a whiskey, both feeling indulgent for having a drink early in the day. He doesn’t really get drunk here, only reaches that pleasant buzz that makes time flow easier around him. He doesn’t need to hide the discomforts and pains he feels with the liquor.

Most of the time, it’s dinner with his parents. Dean usually knows to leave when Bobby either dozes off, or Annie Hawkins comes knocking. She sometimes winks at Dean, but he knows to stay far enough away from that. He’s seen the look on Bobby’s face.

So he goes outside. Sometimes he walks along the lake with Miracle, but more often than not, his car waits outside. The distance is longer when he drives than when he walks, but he’s learned not to question that.

He parks the car in front of his parents’ house, kills the engine, and then sits there for a moment. It’s usually dark at this point, a breathtaking sunset having accompanied his drive. The lights in the house are all turned on, and it looks warm and safe from the outside. He sees his mother and father in the kitchen. Mary’s cutting something up or stirring something in a pan and John will walk up to her, kiss her cheek and she will laugh. Dean sits, just for a moment, watches them. Then he gets out and walks inside.

Mary is sweet and soft-spoken, the way he remembers her. She’s not haunted, like she was when he got her back. She cooks his favorite meals, ruffles his hair. Sometimes Dean wonders if there’s something wrong with him, with the absolute bliss he feels by how different, how much calmer she seems. That his happiness shouldn’t be dependent on it so much. But it is.

Things are different with John, too. After dinner, they often sit outside. Dean hears cicadas as loud as train whistles, but there’s never a single mosquito. John at some point brings out a bottle of what he calls the good stuff. Something his own father used to drink. Dean hasn’t seen Henry here yet, but maybe John’s just not ready for that. This heaven, while different from the way it used to be, has a way of bringing you the things you need when you need them. Dean doesn’t fully understand it. It’s fine. The need to understand isn’t that strong here.

Before Dean goes home to bed, he drives out to the lake. There’s a spot there where the mountains on the other side are perfectly reflected in the water. There’s nights where the sky is so clear, the water so still, that he’s sure he’s looking at an upside down photograph. He takes a deep breath of the clean air. He’s calm. He’s content.

He’s out walking one day with Miracle, throwing him his favorite ball, when he sees you. 

He’s in the woods near his house and usually, he doesn’t meet anyone there, especially not people he doesn’t know. He’s got everything he needs in his corner of heaven and he hasn’t felt the need to go exploring further. He sees you, looks away, then looks back.

An old Beagle is just running up and you lean down, scratch its ear, take the toy from its mouth. Suddenly, it runs off, and it takes only a moment before Dean understands it’s running towards him. Well, towards Miracle technically. 

When you straighten you must realize someone’s nearby, because you turn your head. Your eyes land on Dean, and stay on him for a second while you take him in.

“Cute dog,” you say, nodding a little. Dean smiles carefully.

“You too,” he says. You look away from him, down at the Beagle.

“Her name’s Suzy,” you reply, while Suzy looks up at Dean with big, wet eyes. “She’s a retired show dog.” You look up again, shrug.

Dean nods awkwardly, then looks down at Miracle, who is letting Suzy sniff him, while giving Dean a confused look.

“This is Miracle, the… the dog,” Dean says, feeling idiotic immediately. He used to be good at this, but heaven has made his defenses go down, his persona starting to feel like a distant memory. He looks back at you.

“What makes him a miracle?” you ask, smiling softly. Dean huffs.

“That’s a long story,” he replies. You nod again.

“So, what brings you here?” Dean asks, widening his arms to refer to the air around him, wondering if small talk is the way to go here. You follow his gesture, look unsure about what he means. “I mean, I… death, obviously, but I’m not sure what heaven etiquette is on asking someone how they died.”

You blink, and then your smile slowly falters. Dean feels a pit open up in his stomach.

“I’m dead?” you ask, sounding shocked. 

Dean opens his mouth, hoping he can somehow explain, but then he sees the grin tugging at the corners of your mouth. A second later, you start laughing, and after another second of confusion, Dean has to laugh as well.

“That’s… that’s funny,” he says, scratching at his neck, a little embarrassed that he fell for it. You bring your hand up to your mouth.

“I’m sorry, that was mean,” you say, and Dean looks up at you, checks your face to see if you’re really sorry. It gives him a chance to just look at you. You’re beautiful, he notices. He’s pretty sure you catch him checking you out, but you act cool about it.

“Car crash,” you reply at last, and Dean has to tear his eyes off you for a second to remember what he asked. “You?” He inclines his head.

“Big… nail,” he says. You pull down the corners of your mouth.

“That must have been one pissed off nail,” you reply and Dean chuckles. 

“Yeah,” he says, pushing his hands into his pockets, unsure what to say next.

“Well,” you say, “Suzy and I were gonna go over to that clearing with all the squirrels. She loves running after them and then giving up and whining.” Dean nods, smiles a little and you raise your eyebrows.

“Do you and Miracle wanna come as well?” you ask. Dean studies you for a moment. He’s not sure if having impure thoughts is gonna get him kicked straight out of this place, but he can feel some creeping up on him. At the curve of your neck, your hands. The intense way you look at him.

“Sure,” he says.

Dean doesn’t question why there are squirrels in heaven.

“Are they extras, do you think?” you ask while Miracle and Suzy are racing around, being made into absolute fools by the small, reddish creatures.

“What do you mean?” Dean asks.

“You know,” you say, “are they actual squirrel souls? Or are they just put here for set dressing?” Dean narrows his eyes.

“Do you think squirrels have souls?” he asks. You turn towards him. So far, you have been standing next to each other, looking off in the same direction, but now you’re looking at him.

“I didn’t even think humans had souls,” you say. “I thought it was all just chemistry and biology. I didn’t think there was a heaven, either.” Dean smiles, turns to you.

“Disappointed?” he asks. You narrow your eyes.

“Not sure yet,” you reply, then incline your head. “I do hate having been wrong, though.” He grins. He hates being wrong too.

“What about you?” you ask. “Did you believe in heaven? God and angels and the whole shebang?” Dean looks back at the dogs, who are currently barking up a tree at an unimpressed squirrel.

“I sorta knew heaven existed,” he says, watching. “And hell too.” He looks back at you just as you’re narrowing your eyes.

“Let me guess,” you say, “Methodist?” Dean shakes his head.

“No, I… I’ve died a couple of times already,” he says, checking your face to see how you react. “Went to both places.” Your expression is neutral, and he’s not sure if you believe him. To be honest, it does sound crazy, but you are also standing in heaven watching your dead dogs play with possibly dead squirrels.

“If we were on earth,” you say, slowly, while not taking your eyes off Dean, “and we were alive, I’d probably be paying and getting out right about now. But something tells me you can’t lie about that stuff up here.”

“I promise it’s the truth,” he insists and you nod, look towards the dogs again, a slight smile spreading over your lips before you look back at him.

“You want some ice cream?” you ask.

Dean closes his eyes, makes an effort not to sigh at the taste. He shakes his head and when he opens his eyes again, you’re watching him, fascinated.

“I had no clue apple pie ice cream existed,” he says before bringing the cone back to his mouth, tasting the delicious treat again. You chuckle when he lays his head back, groans at the taste.

“He’s got some unusual flavors,” you say, dipping your tiny spoon back into your own scoop. To distract himself from how pretty you just looked when you laughed and the not-at-all-suggestive-but-making-him-think-things way you lick the ice cream off the spoon, Dean turns, looks at the little cart you just came from - no payment necessary. There’s some kids running around, laughing, chasing each other. Parents sitting on the benches close by, watching them, smiling softly. Dean tries not to think about that part too much.

“So there’s some guy whose heaven it is to just sell ice cream?” he asks, trying to distract himself. You turn as well, look at the smiling man. He’s wearing one of those little paper hats. He looks content.

“I guess?” you say, shrugging. “There’s gotta have been someone somewhere at some point who thought the greatest joy in life was making people happy with something simple and sweet.” Dean looks back at you. He just saw a guy selling ice cream, but you saw what he’s really doing. He likes that. You’re damn smart. Just then, you look back at him, your eyes meeting and Dean holds your gaze just for a second. It’s you that changes the topic.

“So demons and vampires, huh?” you ask, referring to the things Dean told you while you walked over here. The walk was exactly the right length, the two dogs still running around you. You listened, asked the occasional clarifying question.

“And werewolves and ghosts,” Dean continues and you nod.

“Right,” you say. “Can’t forget about those.” Dean chuckles at your reply. He’s almost done with his ice cream so he lowers the cone, holds it out towards Miracle who munches it up, crunching the waffle between his teeth. Not like he can die again, Dean thinks. 

“Must have been scary,” you continue. Dean lets Miracle lick the rest of the ice cream off his fingers, then scrunches up his ear briefly before looking back at you. “Fighting them. Killing them. Tough job. What made you pick it?” Dean blinks at the sun shining into his eyes. It’s getting a little lower. He used to get anxious at each day’s end when he was alive. He never figured out what that was about, but he doesn’t feel it now.

“It was kind of a family business,” he replies. He sniffs. You nod slowly.

“So it’s what you wanted to do?” you ask. You could have left it there. Gleaned what you wanted from his half-answer. But you seem to really want to know.

“You do some stuff long enough,” he settles on after thinking for a second, “and it doesn’t really feel like there’s anything else you can do.” It sounds more pretentious than he means for it, so he carefully looks at you again. There’s a soft expression on your face.

“I know exactly what you mean,” you reply, and Dean raises his chin, motions for you to continue. 

“I sold ACs. Air condition units,” you say, deadpan, then slightly tilt your head. “Well, I worked in the accounting department of a company that sold ACs. So I know exactly what it feels like, that responsibility.” 

You look off into the distance, and once again, Dean’s not sure how to react.

“Keep it cool at home,” you finally say with a slow nod, voice serious. “That was their slogan.” You turn back to Dean. He sees it then, the twitch at the corners of your mouth. He presses his teeth together, but you break first, sputter, then chuckle. Dean does too.

“That is important,” he says.

“It really was,” you confirm. “I once had a woman tell us we made her entire week. Beat that, demon fighter man.” You give him a loose smile at that last bit. A smile that makes his stomach flip.

“My brother and I once had a guy beat us with a broom after we took care of a ghost that was haunting his apartment complex,” Dean says and you snort, the effect he was hoping for, except it’s even better. “Feels good to be appreciated.” You give another small chuckling sound, and then the two of you are quiet. Look at the park around you. Listen to the voices and laughter.

“I should get going,” Dean says, even though he really doesn’t want to. He’s not sure how long he’s been here, but it doesn’t feel long enough to not go see John and Mary for dinner. He has half a mind to ask you to come, but that would be… weird, right? That would be weird.

“I’ll be at the park again tomorrow,” he says, and it’s out of him before he’s even thought about it. He wasn’t actually planning to go back to the park, but now he’s said it. You look at him, that unreadable expression on your face again. “In case Suzy and Miracle wanna hang out again.”

Your smile this time is smaller, a little less enthusiastic. 

“Sure,” you say. “I mean, maybe, yeah.” 

Dean feels awkward, suddenly. Did he read this completely wrong? Do you not want to see him again? Does he want to see you again, and he only just realized?

And then you get up, pat the side of your thigh, and yeah, Dean wouldn’t hate doing some of that himself, but it’s only to get Suzy to follow you. She waddles up, wet eyes blinking.

“See you around, super hero,” you say with a final look at him, and then you begin walking away. Dean opens his mouth before he realizes he has no idea what to say. So instead, he looks after you, hoping you’ll turn back.

You don’t.

You’re not at the park the next day, and not the next day after that either. You are, however, at the lake a few days after that.

Dean sees you from far away. He’s not sure at first if it’s really you, but then he gets closer. You stand only about a foot from where the water begins, look out at the mountains beyond. There’s a soft breeze that smells fresh, like something blooming.

“This is my lake, you know,” he says, coming up to you. He’s not sure if you noticed him approaching, but you only turn your head, don’t seem surprised to see him. He’s giving you a look that’s clearly supposed to imply he’s joking. “You’re gonna have to get your own.” You turn to him, cross your arms.

“Actually, I’m pretty sure I’m dead longer than you are,” you reply. “So I got dibs.” Dean walks up to you, stops a few feet away.

“You can’t call dibs on the heaven lake,” he says and you give him a challenging look. 

“And yet, I just did,” you reply, but there’s a small smile playing on your lips. Both of you turn towards the body of water, the beautiful display of nature, though Dean would prefer looking some more at the beautiful display of you.

“When did you die?” he asks, a strange question even for someone who’s lived his life.

“1920s,” you reply and when Dean throws you a questioning look, once again not sure how to react, you look down yourself, at the jeans and t-shirt you’re wearing. “Obviously, I’m a flapper.” He grins.

“Must have been some car crash,” he replies, not sure if it’s weird that he remembers what killed you, or if that’s normal. Is it like remembering someone’s birthday? Does it imply more or less closeness? You shrug.

“2010,” you answer, and Dean makes it a point to remember without consciously deciding to. “Right after the Repo Men remake. So it’s probably for the best.” Dean presses his lips together. 

“Could be worse,” he says and you widen your eyes at him. “Means you missed the RoboCop remake.” Your mouth drops open.

“Noo,” you say and Dean nods. You chuckle, then turn back to the lake. Both of you are quiet again.

“I’ve seen you around, you know,” you say, and when Dean turns back, you’re not looking at him. Your eyes are still on the water. “In that car of yours. It’s a nice car. Or walking with Miracle. “

“You have?” Dean asks. Did he see you too? He’s not sure. Surely, he would remember. He feels like he would.

“Yeah,” you say, clear your throat. “A few times. It always looks like you’re waiting for something. Looking for someone.” Dean blinks. 

You might be right. He can’t help himself. There’s nothing he needs to look out for up here - no cars driving the other way, no wildlife he needs to swerve for. But he can’t help himself. Squinting through the windshield, or into the thickness of the forest. His eyesight’s better now than it was when he was alive. Yeah, maybe he is looking for something. Someone. 

“My brother.” It’s out of him before he’s made the conscious decision. He suddenly thinks he knows what you’re asking him, or maybe trying to ask him without actually saying it. You want to know if he’s waiting for someone special, a wife or girlfriend or some long lost love. He’s always wondered at that - whether he’d see Cassie or Lisa or someone he’s not expecting up here, all of it suddenly clear. He always found loving difficult, so many other things to consider and sometimes he wasn’t sure what he really felt and what he’d made himself feel.

“Oh,” you say, and you seem surprised, and maybe just a little relieved. “I see.”

“Yeah,” Dean says. “He’s taking his time, though. Must be living a pretty good life down there.” You scrunch up your nose.

“That doesn’t really matter,” you say, voice careful. “The idea is that he shows up when you need him. It doesn’t cut his life short or anything.”

“Right,” Dean replies. “Well, guess I just need a break from him. He’s kind of a dork.” He grimaces at his own words. He misses Sam, is the truth. Bobby explained it to him, and he thought he’d see him the minute he got up here. But he hasn’t. And he has no idea why.

“Okay,” you say, turning to him, and Dean’s dragged from his thoughts, sure that you’re gonna bolt again. But you don’t. Instead you give him a slow smile. “You got any beer in that car of yours?”

And that is how it happens. 

Sometimes you meet at the park, sometimes at the lake. You walk or sit and drink and talk. Play with the dogs.

One day, Dean opens his front door to see you leaned against Baby with a backpack sitting on the hood behind you.

“I thought we could take a roadtrip,” you say, shifting around, seeming a little shy. Dean frowns.

“To where?” he asks, wondering about the technicalities. But like so often, you don’t answer the way he expects you to. You shrug.

“Wherever we want,” you say.

So the two of you just drive, the dogs in the backseat. Chat some more. Stop for coffee, the best he’s ever had. At some point you stop somewhere else, some place that’s not on any map, despite the big paper one Dean inexplicitly found in his glove compartment. It crinkles but you don’t need it to navigate. So you climb a few rocks. Dean takes off his flannel, ties it around his hips to chase around Miracle. When he turns to you, you’re watching him. He straightens, takes a deep breath. When you look away, he’s pretty sure you’re hiding a grin.

You invite him over for dinner, but Dean’s worried he’d miss the one with his parents, so you do lunch instead. You’re a horrible cook, which, weirdly, heaven does not fix. Maybe it’s because it allows Dean to show you how to make lasagna. It means you sit on the counter with a beer and watch him, commenting on everything he does. Maybe it’s a means to an end. 

He raises a spoon with some of the sauce to your mouth, lets you taste it. He almost leans in then. Chickens out at the last minute. He thinks he might see you looking disappointed at that.

It’s not long before he wakes up in the morning and you’re the first thing he thinks about. He lies there, comfortable between the sheets, and finds himself smiling at the memory of something you said. The way you gently pushed him when he made a dumb joke. Looked at him in that way you do. 

It’s not long before he wants to kiss you.

Once he starts thinking about it, he can’t stop. It’s like his eyes are glued to your lips. It’s not a sexual thought, not really. But they promise such comfort, such warmth. He’s pretty sure he’d be perfectly happy just holding you. It’s very strange.

After a long walk one day, he asks you to come to dinner with his parents. You initially say no, but Dean keeps pushing. You pull up your shoulders, bite your lip and it flusters him harder than if he’d opened up a nudie mag. 

“I don’t know,” you say, but he’s already shaking his head.

“I do know,” he says, and finally you say yes. 

John is quiet but weirdly charming with you, a side Dean’s never seen of him and watches with fascination. Mary is sweet and once the four of you are sitting down, she throws Dean a meaningful look over her glass of wine. He wants to shake his head but doesn’t. 

Dean and you do the dishes. There’s something peaceful about doing them here - it’s not stressful or a burden, it’s a way to wind down. All the glasses come away without streaks. No plate ever breaks.

“Your parents are nice,” you say, hands in warm, soapy water. Dean’s drying a fork. “Did you get along well before?” Dean puts down the fork, reaches for the bowl you pass him.

“It was complicated,” he answers. “They had their own stuff to deal with.” You nod.

“The part where they’re only human too can be kinda tough to accept,” you say and Dean huffs. He looks at your profile, the shape of your nose, the way you’re giving your entire attention to the dish you’re washing. He wants to reach out, brush your hair out of your face and pull you close, but his hands are wet and soapy.

“I think they think there’s something going on between us,” he says, tries to make it sound like a joke, like it’s hilarious, even though he’s not sure why. “I’ve never really brought anyone home. I mean, here or then.” You pass him what you were cleaning, and your gazes meet. The sun’s gone down and you’re only illuminated by the soft kitchen light. It’s a pretty mesmerizing sight, Dean thinks.

“I did,” you reply, and he has no idea what you’re referring to. “Bring someone home, I mean. I thought they would hate him and it would give me a reason to break up with him. But they didn’t, so I married him instead.”

Dean shifts around, his hands halting. You’re not wearing a wedding band, but maybe you just weren’t into that. This feels like something he should have known about you, but he didn’t. He can’t deny the stab of jealousy he feels. That someone got to marry you, even though he clearly messed it up. Dean thinks it takes a special kind of idiot to do that, to let someone like you go.

“Did he…” he says, then changes his approach. “Is he around? Up here, I mean?” You chuckle, and Dean swallows quickly.

“He’s not in hell, if that’s what you’re asking,” you reply, looking down at where you’re working again. “He wasn’t a bad guy. We just weren’t a good match. Nobody’s fault.” Dean nods slowly. 

“I’m sorry,” he says, and he means it. You pull the plug from the sink.

“Thanks,” you say, as both of you watch the water swirl. When it’s gone, you turn your head, look at Dean. Something wistful on your face.

“Do you wanna go grab a beer?” you ask.

Somehow, the lake is even more beautiful than it is normally. The beer is cool, the air just warm enough to be comfortable. And you’re there. Moonlight on your face.

“I know I’ve probably convinced you that my life was pretty exciting, what with the accounting and Suzy the show dog,” you say and Dean brings the mouth of the bottle to his own, takes a long sip. “But it wasn’t.” He swallows the drink.

“Believe me,” he says, shifting where he’s sitting on Baby’s hood. “Exciting doesn’t mean good. I would know.” He looks at you and you look back.

“True,” you say, “I just kinda wish I could have hit some sort of medium, you know? Not full apocalypse-averting levels, but a little more adventurous.” Dean chuckles. He’s told you more about his life in the past weeks, or months, or whatever it is. Could be minutes, or seconds. You’ve listened to him, fascination on your face. At the beginning he felt awkward talking about himself. But you’ve made it comfortable. Like he can’t say anything wrong.

“I didn’t want to have any regrets,” you continue and Dean keeps looking at you, unable to look away. “I thought that would be the worst thing that could happen. Took me too long to realize you could have regrets from not doing things, too.” He nods slowly.

“Not sure which one’s worse,” he replies. “The things you’ve done or the ones you didn’t.” You nod.

“I just always thought, one more day,” you explain, looking out at the water. “One more year of hard work, of grinning and bearing it and then that’ll be it. I’ll be ready to just enjoy life. To do all the things I always wanted to do.” You give a sad smile, take a sip from your beer, swallow. 

“And then suddenly I was living in a place I didn’t care about, with a job I didn’t want, a husband I didn’t particularly like,” you continue, then clear your throat. 

“I remember putting my keys in the front door one day, and thinking: if I have to do this one more time, I think I’m gonna kill myself.” You huff, like it’s funny, but Dean doesn’t miss the way you run the back of your hand over your nose. 

“So I tore it all down,” you say with a small nod. “Quit the job. Quit the husband. Sold almost everything I owned. And I just drove. I drove until the tank was empty and then I got gas and I drove some more.” You turn to him, and Dean doesn’t think he’s ever seen anyone as beautiful as you. 

“And I kept thinking, just after that next curve, there’s gonna be happiness. There’s gonna be peace. Or purpose.” You look down. 

“And did you find it?” Dean asks. You purse your lips. 

“No,” you reply with a soft, sad smile. “I rounded one of those curves and I lost control of the car and went over an embankment.” You scoff, and Dean does the same. 

“That sucks,” he says and you nod. 

“It does suck,” you say and you look at him again. “I just wanted so badly for it all to mean something, Dean. I just wanted… to belong. Somehow. To be me, but I didn’t even know who I was.”

“I know what you mean,” he answers. You raise your chin, listening. “I mean, I did all these things, but in the end, it felt like I was using a teacup to get the water out of a boat with a hole in it the size of an elephant.” You chuckle, and it’s the best sound in the world.

“Sisyphus,” you say. Dean frowns a little. 

“I don’t think you’re supposed to use that word anymore,” he says and to his delight, you laugh. Slap his shoulder. Take another sip, and it gives him a chance to look at you some more. He feels something so deep and big inside him he wonders if he’s about to die all over again.

“Anyway,” you say, swinging your legs. You move just a little, your shoulder pressing against Dean’s. Then you look up at him. “None of it matters now. Not like we can go back and–”

Dean leans forward in the middle of your sentence and kisses you. It’s like a magnet leading right from your lips to his. And when they meet, it all makes sense. 

He’s pretty sure he’s not able to fool himself about the whole love thing up here the way he was able to down there. Any of his old flames could have crossed his path, found their way back to him, but none of them did. Instead he found you. And maybe Dean understands why. He breaks away, stays close enough that he can feel your breath on his face. 

“If I shouldn’t—” he says, interrupts himself. “If you don’t want me to—” But then you grab his face with your free hand, and you pull him back in. Your kiss is intense, passionate, and it makes Dean’s head spin. He blindly tries to put his beer bottle down, nearly pushes it over, but when he rights it he can bring his hand to your face, cup your cheek, his thumb tracing your skin and his middle finger just below your ear. 

You must have put your bottle down too, because your hands are on his arms, pulling on him. You taste like spring and lazy afternoons and Dean’s stomach feels the way it feels when he’s swimming - light and airy and like nothing can touch him. Except you. Only you.

One of your hands wanders lower, down his chest and then grabs at his jacket to pull him closer.

“Dean,” you mumble against his lips. But Dean has a hard time opening his eyes. When he does, he expects you to look regretful. But you don’t. You’re looking into his eyes, tugging at his jacket. When Dean understands, he feels like his heart tries to escape through his throat.

“Do you…” he asks, unable to finish the sentence, and you nod.

“Kinda been thinking about it a lot,” you say and Dean grins and then you do too.

“Are you allowed—” he starts, then stops himself, cause the wording makes him sound like an angsty teen. “Can you have sex in heaven, or will you get, I don’t know, evicted?” You giggle at that, shake your head. 

“I have no idea, I haven’t tried it,” you say and then something beautiful comes over your face as you raise your chin. “But I think we should risk it.” 

Dean grins, runs the tip of his nose over yours when a thought crosses his mind, probably the last coherent one for a little while, he assumes. Without letting go of you, he looks up at the wide, star-spattered sky. 

“Look away now, Jack,” he says. When he turns back to you, you’re frowning. 

“Who’s Jack?” you ask and Dean shakes his head, is already on the way to your lips again. 

“I’ll tell you later,” he says and then he kisses you again, and nothing else in the world matters.

“So you know God?” you ask, laughing, your naked back shaking against Dean’s chest. 

The two of you are squished into the backseat of the Impala. It’s almost too small for two adults, but the way it forces your bodies together is perfect. Dean has his arms wrapped around you, grinning at your amusement while he presses his lips to the back of your ear, then moves down and kisses your neck. You taste salty, sweat from your passionate love making already drying. 

“I do,” he says, “both the old one and the new one.” You give an unbelieving huff. 

“What are they like?” you ask. Dean pulls you closer against him, takes a deep breath, thinks for a second. 

“One’s a giant douche, and the current one’s a toddler.” 

You go quiet, and he moves his head to see that you’ve raised your eyebrows. 

“Well, that’s… reassuring,” you say and Dean kisses your cheek. 

“I think he’s doing alright so far,” he says and you lay your hands over where his arms are holding you, lean down and kiss the back of his hand.

“Can’t complain,” you reply. Dean rests his nose against the side of your head, closes his eyes. Just breathes you in, feels you. He’s not sure he’s ever felt this content. Not that he’s felt a lot of contentment in his life. But this, right here, is pretty amazing.

“So who are you waiting for?” he asks. You let your head drop back, against his shoulder, look at the ceiling of the car.

“What do you mean?” you ask.

“You said you thought I looked like I was looking for someone,” he says. “So what about you? Your heaven isn’t taking walks with Suzy all day long, is it?”

He realizes he fucked up when he feels you stiffen.

“I didn’t mean…” he says as you sit up and turn to him.

It’s not easy with the small interior of the car. You need to scoot around, hands resting on the seat, nearly shove Dean in the groin but then you mostly manage, sitting on your left butt cheek, turned to him. Your expression is serious, but you don’t seem angry.

“Maybe it is,” you say. 

“Nothing wrong with it,” Dean quickly corrects himself. He’s very aware that he can see your breasts now, but he keeps his eyes on your face, stays focused. “I didn’t mean to make it sound like–”

“Like there has to be some guy coming?” you interrupt him, and Dean’s not sure how to interpret your tone. You’re not mad, not heated, but also not exactly soft and sweet the way you were a few minutes ago. “Louie McHale who frenched me on prom night?” 

Dean snorts, then clears his throat.

“Maybe not him,” he says with a shrug. You take a slow breath, then let it out.

“Maybe heaven is just me being on my own,” you say, and although your voice is calm, Dean can’t deny the way it stings. “Maybe it’s just about being free of everyone’s expectations, of their judgement.”

“I didn’t mean to judge you,” Dean says. You’re still looking at him, expression neutral.

“Maybe it’s being free,” you say, and it’s quick, but Dean thinks he sees a slight quiver in your bottom lip. “Maybe it’s being at peace.”

And yeah, that Dean gets. He carefully lays his hand on your shoulder, worried you’ll shrug him off, but you don’t.

“It sounds amazing, honestly,” he says. He sees you swallow.

“You don’t think it sounds lonely?” you ask. Dean’s thumb traces your skin.

“I don’t know,” he says. “Do you think it does?”

It’s like someone letting the air out of you. Your shoulders go lower, your expression falls a little. Your gaze goes down, somewhere into the middle distance.

“I’m good at being lonely, Dean,” you say, and he’s sure this time there’s tears in your voice. “That might not make sense to you, but…”

“Hey, it does,” he says, and you raise your gaze, blinking quickly a few times, and Dean gives you a soft smile. “It absolutely does. I’ve just never been good at it.” You nod slowly, and then, to Dean’s utmost relief, you lean in, press yourself against him. His arms go around you and he holds you close. Sways you, gently, just a little. Both of you are quiet for a while.

“Do you think we can sleep in here without waking up with our spines in our asses?” you ask, and Dean snorts. He nods against you.

“I’m sure we can,” he replies.

“Good,” you say, voice quiet. Dean closes his eyes.

When morning light wakes him to a completely pain-free neck, you’re gone.

He goes to your house. He goes to the woods. The lake. The park with the guy selling ice cream. But he can’t find you anywhere. 

That’s all his days consist of, for a while. Circling between these points, driving slowly, staring out the window. But no sign of you.

He finds your t-shirt in the backseat of the Impala. Wonders how you got home without it, then remembers you’re not home, but somewhere else. He lifts it to his nose, takes a deep breath. Remembers your laugh, the way you felt leaned against him. He holds the shirt out to Miracle, raises his eyebrows. Miracle just tilts his head to the side. 

“Yeah,” Dean says. 

He didn’t know you could grieve people in heaven. It seems redundant. Heaven’s supposed to be perfect, but he feels himself drift away to thoughts of you every chance he gets. Thinks of your voice, the feel of your skin. The sweet way your breath tasted in the back of the Impala. 

Mary asks him if he’s alright, and then asks about you, like the two things aren’t connected. Giving him an out in case he doesn’t want to talk about it. Later on, when he leaves, he hugs her extra hard. She tells him it’ll be okay. He really hopes it will.

It’s not long after that Sam shows up.

He’s not there one second, and the next one he is. Dean blinks, looking at him, but it’s Sammy alright. He walks forward, pulls his little brother into a rib-breaking hug. Something opens up inside him.

He drives the two of them to their parents’ home. The drive is long, the road open. They don’t talk. They don’t need to. 

Mary is standing outside the house when they pull up in front of it, watering some gardenias. She turns at the sound of the car, and when she sees not one but both of her sons getting out, she drops the hose, runs towards them. She and Sam hold each other close, tears on their faces. John, when he comes out of the house, doesn’t fare much better. Dean watches them, feels his heart run over with love for them. It’s almost painful. It is painful. But in the right way.

It’s when he blinks and looks past his family that he sees you.

You’re standing at the edge of the garden, hands clasped in front of you, watching. Dean blinks again. Sam, Mary and John haven’t noticed you, so he walks around them towards you, but he can’t help himself and by the time he reaches you, he’s jogging. 

“Hey, there you are!” he says when he stops in front of you. He’s too excited to see you to slow himself down. He puts his hands on your arms. He’s missed the feeling of your skin. You look up at him, and there is something unsure in your face. Some doubt. To play over it, Dean takes your hand in his. 

“Come on, I want you to meet Sam,” he says, starts walking towards his family but you stay where you are. He looks back at you. 

“I don’t know if that’s a good idea,” you say, smiling softly. “Maybe you two should just spend some time on your own right now.” Dean frowns, takes a step closer to you again, not dropping your hand. 

“I want you to meet him,” he says, not understanding. “You’ll love him. He’s a big dork, but I think you two would really get along.” You blink and for a second Dean’s not sure if there’s tears in your eyes. 

“Just… enjoy this, okay?” you say, laying your other hand over his, squeezing. “There’s no rush. Enjoy your time together.” 

Dean steps even closer to you. He wants to hold you, wants to touch you, but something tells him this isn’t the right moment. 

“I don’t get it,” he says and you raise your shoulders, sigh. 

“You know how it works,” you say, “people show up here when we need them to show up. Maybe Sam finally coming here is a sign that you need him right now.” You swallow, but then force a smile on your face again. 

“Maybe you and I were moving a little fast, and he’s here to remind you of what’s really important.” Dean can only blink, so confused is he by what you’re saying. 

“I…” he starts, but doesn’t know where to go from there. You raise one hand and cup his cheek. 

“It’s okay,” you say, and by the slight tremor in your voice, Dean is pretty sure you’re putting on a brave act. 

He hopes you’ll kiss him then, but you don’t. You look at him for another second and Dean hopes, prays, it’s not so that you can remember his face. Then you drop his hand and walk away.

He looks after you, rooted in place. Sam calls his name behind him and he turns, raises his hand to signal he’ll be there in a second. When he turns back, you’re gone. 

The evening doesn’t end.

The sun goes down, but it stays warm. They sit at the table outside in the garden, empty plates and full bellies. Some lanterns lit, warm light on everyone’s faces. It’s when Mary asks John to help her carry the dessert outside, that Sam turns to his brother. Face serious.

“Who was that woman earlier?” he asks. Dean clears his throat, then reaches for his beer. For a second, he thinks about pretending he doesn’t know what Sam is talking about. Maybe that’s what he would have done if he was still on earth. But what would be the point now?

“Someone special,” he opts for. Sam nods in that wise way he does, the way he used to even when they were kids. “Someone… real special.”

“Are you two…” Sam asks, letting the sentence taper out, accompanied by a raise of his eyebrows. Dean huffs, looks out into the dark of the garden. Fireflies dance in the air near an old apple tree.

“I don’t know,” he says, sighs. “Something happened. I think I said something that hurt her. About her heaven being kinda… empty.” He clears his throat again. Feels shame hot and stinging in his heart.

“Ouch,” Sam says, and Dean scoffs. 

“Yeah,” he says. “Really put my foot in it.”

They’re quiet for a while, Dean looking at his beer, thumb peeling off the edge of the label. God, to have you here now. Have you meet Sam, listen to you talk to him. Watch you eat, take a drink. Maybe Dean would pull you into his lap when no one is looking, press his nose into the spot under your ear that he found when you were in the backseat of the Impala, the one that made you squeal and giggle. He feels himself smile at the memory. Maybe you’d run your fingers over the side of his face in that way that makes him feel so soft, outside and inside.

“You know,” Sam says and Dean blinks, looks over. “I’m kinda waiting for someone too.” Dean frowns, not understanding.

“You’ve been here for half a day,” he replies. “The three of us not enough action for you?” Sam huffs, looks down and when Dean follows his gaze, he sees the gold band on his little brother’s finger.

“Sammy,” he says, feeling suddenly horrified at the fact that he didn’t notice, or didn’t ask. Hasn’t been bombarding him with questions about everything that’s been going on with him. 

“I just think,” Sam says with a shrug, “I don’t know. We get the people we need when we need them, right? Isn’t that how it works?” 

Dean chews the inside of his cheek. He’s not totally sure what Sam means by that. Yes, that is how it works, but what is he trying to say?

“I thought heaven was supposed to be perfect,” Dean mumbles instead, taking another sip. “If that’s the case, where’s your girl? Why would me and mine get into some dumbass argument? Why would… I mean, it’s not supposed to be like this, right?”

“Dean,” Sam says, but he’s not listening.

“It should just be easy,” he rambles on. “No hurt feelings, no goddamn… just, wanting someone and not having them. How does that make sense? You just end up alone, the way you did down there?” His eyes shoot to Sam, and he clears his throat.

“Not that I was alone down there,” he quickly adds, and Sam raises his hand, telling him it’s okay. “I just… why would I meet her? A complete stranger? And then for it to just not work out, what’s the point?” He finally stops himself, looks at Sam again. His lips are pursed in thought and then he drops his head back, looks at the sky above. Dean follows his gaze, looks too.

More stars than he could count. Hundreds, thousands. He needs to swallow. He waits for it to make him feel small, the way it used to, but it doesn’t.

“It can’t all be perfect,” he hears Sam’s voice after a while. He looks to the side. Sam’s face is in deep concentration. “If everything was perfect, nothing would be. You need a little bit of conflict. Something to work on. To get through.” 

“That doesn’t sound like heaven,” Dean cuts in, and Sam rolls his eyes. It makes Dean feel such fierce love for him. 

“Problems on earth,” Sam continues, “they could be too big. Too painful. Some things that happened, you couldn’t be sure you’d make it through…” Sam stops, clenches his jaw, looks at Dean, and he knows exactly what he means. Damn it, sometimes it felt like his life was filled with more of those things than with anything else. Most of the time it felt like that.

“But here?” Sam continues, then shrugs. “Maybe they just exist so you can learn something about yourself. Or about someone else. Maybe they’re just there to give you that little extra push you need.” 

Dean nods, slowly, even though he’s not sure he totally understands it. He looks off to the side, trying to fit Sam’s words into the context of you. It’s only when he realizes Sam hasn’t looked away that he meets his brother’s gaze again.

“So…” Sam says, eyebrows raised again in that smartass way he does.

“So?” Dean replies, sounding annoyed.

“So, go,” Sam says, shaking his head at Dean’s pigheadedness. “Go, be with her. Tell her. Come on, dude.”

Dean opens his mouth, sure to fire something back, then closes it. Both brothers look to the side when the door that leads from the kitchen to the garden opens, Mary and John walking outside, laughing. 

And that’s when Dean gets it.

Not because of his parents, necessarily. Not because of his brother’s words. Not because whoever Sam had in his life hasn’t shown up either, because maybe Sam needed to spend some time on his big brother first, get his happiness taken care of before he could look to his own. 

He gets up so quickly he nearly sends the chair he’s on flying. Mary and John are just approaching the table, look up in surprise.

“I gotta go,” Dean says, looking between them, then looking at Sam. His parents seem almost worried, but Sam gives him a barely noticeable nod, a self-satisfied grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. “I just… I gotta go.”

With that, he turns around. Presses a kiss to his mother’s cheek and then he’s off, speed-walking to his car.

It’s morning when he arrives at your place, and he does not question it. It’s just how it has to be. He gets that now.

He takes the steps up to your porch two at a time, then bangs his fist against the door, the mosquito screen clattering. He does it again when you don’t show up within two seconds. He’s terrified you won’t be there. 

He feels nervous and giddy. He doesn’t remember the last time he felt nervous. It was always just mortal fear and pain. This shouldn’t feel as significant as it does compared to the other things, but it does. 

He breathes a sigh of relief when he sees you appear in the living room, surprise on your face at the loud knocking before your features soften when you see it’s him. You make it to the door, push it open, and Dean needs to take a step back for you to do it, but he immediately steps closer to you again. 

“Dean?” you say, like you’re wondering if he’s taken a wrong turn somewhere. 

He hasn’t. He’s taken a lot in life, but this one is the right one. 

“I always kept hoping for something on the other end of the curve too,” he says and you blink at him, not understanding, but Dean can’t stop himself to explain, just barrels on. 

“I always thought, one more case. One more monster. Then I’m done. But the truth is, I wasn’t ever gonna be done. Living that life was a good way to stop myself from ever having to risk whatever came after.”

He feels breathless almost, but you are listening to him intently, and he needs to make himself understood, needs you to understand how similar you two are. How you’ve been looking for the same thing.

“And heaven… I don’t know, I think I was so terrified of what would come after, that heaven would have been just more of the same. Because allowing myself to want anything else, it just…”

And he’s not sure if you understand. He raises his hands, looks at them in a bid to make himself understood, and then yours go up, and you take his, hold them, almost as if to calm him. He looks back at your face. Your beautiful face. How could he have been so dumb and not seen it. 

“Sam was always a good excuse not to get out,” he continues, and he feels something tight in his throat. It’s a mix of overwhelming love for his brother, and maybe some regret. But mostly love. “He was the excuse. Sammy didn’t need me. He was good on his own, too good, sometimes. But I needed him. Cause with Sam there, I never had to do anything else.” 

He sees you trying to understand what he’s saying, trying to make sense of the mess of words he’s hauling at you. He loves you so much in that moment, so much that if he wasn’t dead already it would kill him all over. 

“That’s why Sam didn’t show up,” he explains to you, and you tilt your head a little, so maybe he is starting to make sense. “He didn’t show up because I wasn’t supposed to use him as an excuse anymore.” You shake your head a little. 

“Excuse for what, Dean?” you ask softly. But he can’t say it with words. Not really. 

He steps closer, wraps your hands that are still intertwined with his around himself and then takes your face in both of his. You look up at him, and he thinks maybe you’re nervous too, or a little scared, but so is he, and maybe that’s okay. 

“To avoid the things that scared me. But meeting you wasn’t scary,” he says, looking deep into your eyes, and it’s the only thing he wants to do for the rest of forever. “Falling in love with you wasn’t scary. It was the easiest thing in the world.” 

You blink, lashes fluttering, and Dean sees the tears in your eyes. You swallow, your lips move.

“Dean,” you say, voice cracking on those few letters. He waits, waits for you to say something. You press your lips together, still looking into his eyes. “I’m scared.”

He nods. Runs his thumb over your skin, encouraging you to continue.

“I’m scared it’ll hurt,” you say, and he understands you perfectly. “I’m scared of…” You take a sharp breath. 

“I know,” Dean says. “Me too.”

You look at him, and then you nod too. Take another breath, slower this time. 

“Okay,” you say, blink, and it makes a single tear dislodge from your eye. “Okay.”

What can Dean do but kiss you?

He didn’t know that’s what it would feel like. It’s terrifying. It’s perfect.

You pull him close, so close that it hurts, and while there shouldn’t be pain in heaven, he understands why it’s there. Why he can feel the way you press your fingers against him, why he can feel the burn of his own tears in his eyes. 

Because it’s part of it. Because it makes the feeling complete.

It’s a week or a year or a second later. John and Mary’s garden again. 

The party is endless. No one gets tired, they never run out of food. No one gets too drunk. If you need a minute, you go inside or walk out to the road. Throw a ball for one of the dogs. You might see a deer in the woods. Freeze and look at it. Wonder if it’s a soul or set dressing.

Dean moves his hand, his fingers brushing over the back of yours before he interlocks his fingers with yours. The deer’s ear twitches, but it doesn’t bolt. Just stands there, in a beam of sunshine, like it doesn’t have a care in the world.

Dean turns his head, looks at you. There’s a soft smile on your face as you watch the beautiful animal, before you turn, look at him.

You’ll go back to the party soon. The dogs, the family, old and new. But for a moment, Dean just wanted to walk along the road with you, listen to the quiet all around. Not alone, not lonely. But a third thing that he hasn’t found the word for yet.

He pulls you close, and you lean your head against his shoulder. There’s a soft breeze. The deer’s ear twitches again, and then it starts walking away. After a while, Dean and you move.

Keep walking down the road, back towards all the sounds and laughter. Round the curve, and you do it holding hands.

It’s a young woman, her mousy brown hair up in a braid. She adjusts her glasses. “Hi.” The way  she speaks is soft, a stark contrast to the deafening sounds outside the room. She gives you a small smile. “Um, I’m Dr. King. What’s brought you here today?”

“I, uh, I fell and hit my head,” you point to the left side of your temple. “It’s been hurting a lot. 

“Okay,” she nods and slips on a pair of blue gloves, approaching the side of your bed. She feels along your temple, feeling the bump that has formed there. She sits down on a rolling stool. “How long has it been hurting?”

“Like nine hours? A little more, I think.”

Dr. King hums. “Any dizziness? Nausea?”

“I was a bit dizzy at first, but then it went away.”

“Did you lose consciousness when you fell?”

You open your mouth to answer. Before you can even make a sound there’s a knock on the door that is more a formality than asking for permission and the curtain is drawn just so that a head and half of a torso can poke in and say, “Mel, our patient from North 4 is back from his MRI, he’s–”

Frank freezes when his eyes finally stray away from Mel and he realises that her patient is not a random person. The change is barely noticeable– his back straightens, shoulders rolling back and gaze sharp as he analyses every inch of your body in a matter of seconds. He checks you for any obvious life-threatening injuries from head to toe, stares a moment too long at the ugly bruise that peeks out from the waistband of your low-rise shorts, and then his eyes finally go up to your sheepish smile. 

“Hi, Frankie,” you say quietly. Frank’s jaw relaxes the tiniest bit.

Mel looks uncomfortably between the two of you, eyes going back and forth between her coworker and patient. “Oh, um, do you have the results?” she asks. Frank hands her the tablet he was holding without sparing her a glance. “Right…” she mumbles.

She taps and looks at the screen for a few seconds before looking between the two of you again. “Um, I’ll just…” she makes a weird gesture to the door and gives you an awkward smile. “I’ll be right back,” she tells you, though you both know she won’t be coming back now that Frank is here.

She cradles the tablet against her chest and fumbles with the curtain in her hasty getaway. She practically scampers away, closes the door behind her with a tight smile and then it’s silent. 

Frank stays rooted to where he’s standing for a long, tense minute. You gnaw at the inside of your lower lip and watch him near the hospital bed you’re sitting on. His fingers brush along your exposed thigh on his way to grab your hand. In a hushed voice, he asks, “What happened?”

“I…” You look everywhere but his face– the ceiling, the floor, the rolling stool Mel had been sitting on. You settle on the wall, but Frank moves his head so that you have no choice but to look at him. “I fell. In the shower,” you mumble, embarrassed.

His hold on your hand tightens. “Baby,” he sighs. “I told you to get a shower mat,” he scolds lightly. 

“I haven’t found one in the shade I want,” you explain for the fight time with a whine. The high-pitch of your own voice makes your head throb and you wince. 

Frank catches onto your grimace immediately. His hand cradles the right side of your head and you lean into his touch. “D’you hit your head?”

You nod. “It’s been hurting since I fell.”

“Okay,” he sighs. “You might have a concussion. I’m gonna do some tests, all right?”

He lets go of your hand and head and you already miss the warmth of his touch. He takes out a small flashlight from the pocket of his scrub and turns it on. He points the light tight at your left eye and then switches to the other side. “Okay,” he says and turns the flashlight off. “Follow my finger.” 

You follow it dutifully. He moves his finger up and down on one side, slides it along the other side and repeats the same motion. “Good, now stand up, honey.” You get up from the bed, but the small jump to the floor makes the bruise on your hip flare up and you grimace. Frank’s eyes are already on your side, calculating. “We’re gonna do an x-ray,” he concludes. 

He then moves to the other side of the room and stands against the wall. “Walk towards me in a straight line.” You do as he says. Every step makes you wince a little, but you’re 98% sure it’s only because of the bruising and not because a concussion has altered your facial nerves. 

Once you reach him, you smile at Frank. “How did I do?” 

“Too slow. We might have to open up your skull to fix it,” the corners of his mouth twitch. Knowing you’ll worry too much until he confesses he was only joking he assures you, “Everything looks normal. I’m still ordering an MRI to make sure there’s no damage inside, though.”

His hand gently goes to the back of your head and he uses his hold on you to bring you closer to him, his lips brushing against your forehead. You sigh. “Is it gonna take long?” Frank raises an eyebrow questioningly. “It’s just– I have my ceramics class in an hour,” you explain.

“It’ll be at least an hour, maybe two. We’re a little backed up today.” And then, because he can’t help himself, he adds with a pointed look, “If you had come in earlier you wouldn’t miss your class.”

You have the decency to look ashamed. 

“I didn’t want to be a bother,” you whisper with a small shrug. What you really mean is ‘I didn’t want to be a bother again’. You’ve been to the ER twice this week. Four times already this month, and you don’t even want to think about how many times you’ve ended up in the hospital the past year. 

It’s no secret you are a clumsy person. When you were younger, it was endearing. Now, it’s embarrassing. Annoying. You try your best to avoid potential accidents: you wear flip flops instead of slippers so you don’t slide along the floor and use oven mittens every time you bake to avoid burning your hands– just to name a few adjustments you’ve made to your everyday life. But no matter how hard you try, you still trip over your own shoes and cut yourself while cooking and bump into tables and doorways and hit your head when kneeling down to reach something under the dinner table. 

You hate it. But Frank, oh sweet caring Frank who understands and tries his best to help. He’s switched most of the glass bottles and tuppers and glasses for plastic or aluminium so that when you inevitably drop something while cooking or setting the table you don’t cut yourself. He’s added padding to the legs of the couch and bed to protect your toes. When you go out, he pays close attention to you and your surroundings: he steers you away from a light pole you would’ve hit and stops you from crossing the street with a red light on. 

He’s done all that and much more. Without you even asking. And he’s never once complained about your penchant for unfortunate mishaps. He never got mad at you. How could he, when it’s your own clumsiness that brought you to him in the first place? 

He knows you don’t do it on purpose, that it’s not something you do because you think it’s cute and fun, nor an elaborate plan to sneak into his workplace. He doesn’t enjoy the fact that you get hurt so often, of course he doesn’t, but he understands that it’s not something you can control. And what is he to do but take care of you when you need him?

Frank exhales sharply. “You’re not a bother.” You try to say something but he cuts you off before you can make a sound, “You’re not. Not to me.”

“Frank, it’s the second time this week I’ve come here,” you deadpan.

He blinks, baffled. “What do you mean second?” Shit. His face turns serious, really serious, and you know he’s angry now. “When the hell were you here?”

You scrunch your face at your accidental confession. “Tuesday,” you mutter.

“Tuesday,” Frank parrots. “And why am I finding out 3 days later, exactly?”

“Because I didn’t want to bother you!” you exclaim, but your loud voice makes your head throb once more. You clutch your temple and close your eyes, the fluorescent light suddenly too bright. 

Frank combs his fingers through his hair in frustration and pulls at the roots. His nostrils flare as he exhales. “Come here,” he mumbles. With a hand on the small of your back he leads you back to the bed and, once you’re sat, he turns the light off and sits down on the stool. “Better?” 

You nod. He stares at you, elbows on his knees, and licks his lips. “Why didn’t you tell me you were here?” He’s talking about your Tuesday visit to the ER, but he also means why didn’t he know you were there today.

You shrug. “I didn’t want to bother you,” you repeat. You play with your fingers as you speak. “You are so busy and I don’t want to annoy you with my silly stuff when you have patients that really need your help. Like, right now, you are here with me and there’s somebody out there probably dying that needs you.”

“You need help too, you might have a concussion.”

“Yeah, because I fell in the fucking shower like an idiot,” you scoff. “It’s always something stupid that happens to me and those people out there are actually sick and I take up your time because I’m too stupid to even shower by myself.”

Frank sighs and gets up, hands reaching for your face. He cradles your cheeks in his palms, heart twisting at the angry tears gathering in your waterline. “You are not stupid,” he says firmly. “You just have a… particular proclivity for accidents involving stationary objects.”

You snort. The corners of his mouth tick upwards, satisfied that his comment managed to cut through the tension. 

His thumb brushes along your cheekbone. Softly, he tilts your chin up and leans down to press his lips to yours in a tender kiss that makes the pain in your head subside. When you part, you rest your forehead against his chest. He rests his chin on top of your head, one of his hands gently massaging your scalp while the other rubs your back up and down. It’s the first time since your fall this morning that you feel any sort of relief. 

“I’m serious,” his voice rumbles beneath his sternum. “I don’t think you’re stupid. And I want to take care of you when you need me. You could never bother me when you’re in pain.”

He’s been your doctor for almost a year, even before you started dating. He’s not planning on stopping taking care of you, especially not when it’s one of the things he knows how to do best.

He presses a kiss to the crown of your head. “Next time you get hurt, come find me, okay?”

“Keep staring like that and Rooster's gonna catch fire.”

Bob whips around to find Jake watching him with a shit-eating grin.

“I’m not staring,” Bob mutters.

Natasha glances over her shoulder. “You haven’t stopped staring all morning, Floyd.”

“Why don't you just ask Rooster to switch seats?” Reuben asks.

Bob’s cheeks flush with heat. “I don’t—I’m not—why would I—”

“Your boarding pass, please, sir,” the flight attendant cuts in.

Bob hands his ticket over with a tight-lipped smile, trying not to combust as the rest of his squad smother their giggles behind him. The flight attendant points him down the aisle, saying something about on the right, and he steps through after Natasha—the others trailing close behind.

And he can’t help it. The second he steps into the aisle, his eyes search for you—but they find Bradley first, his head sticking up above the rows of seats. He glances up and spots the group, a bright smile breaking across his face as he nudges the person beside him. You, obviously.

Then your head pops up over the seats and your smile knocks the air right out of Bob’s lungs. You wave frantically, eyes sparkling even under the bleak airplane lighting. He almost trips over his own feet as he shuffles down the aisle—and behind him, Jake doesn’t miss a beat.

“Watch your step, Floyd,” he says, voice smug. “I knew you were falling for her, but I didn’t think literally.”

Bob shoots him a flat look over his shoulder, biting back what he really wants to say when he spots a little kid within earshot. “Cut it out.”

Jake raises both hands in surrender—but the look on his face says he’s going to do anything but cut it out.

After an awkward shuffle past a family trying to wrestle their toddler into a seatbelt, Natasha announces that she’s found everyone’s seats. She quickly tosses her backpack into the overhead locker and claims the window seat. Mickey and Reuben stash their bags and slide into two of the four middle seats, Javy following suit. Then Bob drops into the seat beside Natasha—which means, to his dismay, Jake is directly across the aisle.

By the time everyone is settled—belts clipped and phones on airplane mode—the plane is almost full. There are people chatting excitedly, parents yelling at kids to sit still, and flight attendants walking the aisles in preparation for takeoff. Natasha already has her neck pillow wrapped around her shoulders, her head tilted against the window, eyes shut and looking perfectly content. Until—

Mickey leans forward, raising his voice above the chatter. “Did you guys know the last eruption of—”

“No,” Natasha snaps, eyes flying open.

Mickey hesitates, but continues anyway. “—Mauna Loa was in—”

“No!” she says again, leaning across Bob now. “I swear to all the Gods, Garcia. If you don’t shut the hell up for the next six hours, I’m going to find an active volcano to throw you in the second we land. Got it?”

The corner of Bob’s mouth twitches, but he doesn’t dare laugh—not when Natasha’s in a mood like this.

“Okay, damn.” Mickey raises both hands. “Sue me for trying to get in the vacation spirit.”

Natasha rolls her eyes and flops back in her seat. “It’s not a vacation.”

Mickey snorts. “Yeah—right. So why do I have my vacation sandals on, then?”

Bob’s almost positive Natasha would have leapt across the aisle and strangled Mickey if it weren’t for the captain’s announcement crackling through the overhead speakers. Her jaw ticks, dark eyes narrowed across the aisle at where Mickey is now sinking back in his seat. The others are giggling like idiots, holding their hands over their mouths as the captain talks about takeoff and then instructs the cabin crew to start the life jacket demonstration.

Bob tries to pay attention. He really does. But he can hear your quiet laughter, and he can hear your muttered voice telling Bradley to cut it out. Whatever it is. You’re only five rows back—yeah, he counted—and he knows the sound of your voice better than he knows his own.

And maybe that’s the problem. Maybe he knows just a little too much about you and not nearly enough about himself. Not enough to understand why he feels like this. Not enough to convince himself you could possibly feel the same way. Not enough to ask you out instead of pining over youlike some pathetic loser.

Yeah. He’s doomed.

When Bob finally blinks and returns to his own body, takeoff is over. The plane is cutting through the clouds, still ascending, and Natasha is back to leaning against the window with her eyes closed.

And it’s at this very moment that Bob regrets not packing his headphones.

“So.” Jake leans toward the aisle, grinning. “You and Blink, huh?”

Bob rolls his eyes. “It’s nothing, Hangman. Just drop it.”

“If it’s nothing, then why would I have to drop it?”

Bob gives him a look. “I said drop it.”

“And I’m just asking what it is I’m being told to drop,” Jake presses.

Bob sighs, tipping his head back against the headrest. “Why do you even care?”

Jake’s grin sharpens. “Care about what?”

“Oh my God,” Bob mutters, pinching the bridge of his nose beneath his glasses.

Jake chuckles, shifting as much as he can in the narrow seat to face Bob. “Look, I swear I’m not just trying to be a dick. I see the way you look at her—we all do. And if you weren’t so stuck in your head about it, you’d see that she’s just as into you.”

Bob doesn’t say anything. He can’t. He’s not about to admit anything, and he sure as hell isn’t about to let Jake’s ridiculous idea get any traction.

Because you’re not into him. He knows that for a fact.

Jake rolls his eyes. “And since you refuse to believe me, and since you’re too chickenshit to ask her out, I figured this vacation might be a good chance to prove it.”

“It’s not a vacation,” Natasha mumbles, eyes still shut.

Bob ignores her. “Prove what?”

“That she’s into you,” Jake says, exasperated.

Bob frowns. “Prove it how?”

Jake settles back in his seat, smirking. “Oh, you know… a little proximity, a little orchestration, a few strategic interventions.”

“Strategic interventions?” Bob echoes.

Jake just grins.

“Like—” Bob’s brows pull tighter. “Like what?”

“Like this.”

Before Bob can get another word out, Jake is on his feet. Bob’s eyes snap up to the little seatbelt sign overhead—no longer lit, which means passengers are free to move around the cabin. He fumbles with his own belt and pushes halfway out of his chair, craning his neck over the back of the seat to see where Jake’s headed.

Bob’s stomach drops when Jake stops beside you and Bradley—but when he shifts a little higher, he sees you’ve got your headphones on and your eyes shut.

Jake leans over you, muttering something to Bradley.

Bradley frowns, his face twisting into something between disbelief and irritation. He shakes his head.

Jake’s eyes widen, and he murmurs something else, pointing a finger toward Bob.

Bradley glances at Bob—still frowning, but now with a hint of confusion.

“Bobby,” Jake calls, waving him over.

Bob sinks back into his seat, exhaling hard. What the fuck has he done to deserve this?

With a deep breath, he pushes the belt clip off his lap and stands, making his way down the narrow aisle toward where Jake is standing with a very convincing look of concern on his face.

“Come on, Rooster,” Jake says. “Do you really want to be the reason Bob goes into anaphylactic shock?”

Bob’s looks at Jake, eyes wide. “The reason I what?”

“I told you he’s not allergic to peaches,” Bradley says.

Bob frowns. “I’m not allergic to—”

“Oh, hey guys.” You slip your headphones off, blinking up at Jake and Bob. “What are you doing back here?”

“Bob’s severely allergic to peaches,” Jake says quickly, “and the guy in front of him just opened a peach cup.”

Your eyes widen. “Oh, shit. Do you need to swap—”

“But the thing is,” Jake cuts in, leaning closer to you, “he gets super sick if he’s sitting in an aisle seat—which is why I was asking Rooster, here, to be a gentleman and swap seats.”

Silence.

Your brows pull together. Jake looks at Bradley. Bradley looks at Bob. Bob can’t stop looking at you.

Then Bradley looks at you and—it clicks.

“Okay, fine,” he says, unclipping his belt. “Only because Bob dying would be a really shit start to the holiday.”

Bob’s cheeks heat as Bradley slides out of his seat and into the aisle—and Jake looks like a kid on Christmas morning. Bob can feel his pulse thrumming under his skin as everyone makes the awkward shuffle to give him space to squeeze in beside you.

His heart stutters when you look up at him with that soft little smile. The one you give him every morning from behind your coffee mug. The one you wear with a nod on the tarmac right before you climb into your jet. The one that’s been showing up in his dreams more than he cares to admit.

With a steadying breath—laced with your intoxicating perfume—he drops into Bradley’s seat. His arm brushes yours, his knee bumps your thigh, and when he glances over and finds you right there… God. He’s lightheaded.

“Alright, you crazy kids,” Jake says with a grin. “Mommy and Daddy are just up ahead if you need anything. Don’t be too loud, and keep your hands to yourself.” He pauses, smile sharpening. “I’m looking at you, Bobby.”

Bob can feel his whole face burning as he stares back at Jake, lips pressed into a thin line. He can’t start cursing him out in the middle of the plane. And he definitely can’t say what he really wants to say with you sitting right between them, rolling your eyes and laughing.

Laughing like you don’t notice the way his heart is pounding so loud he can barely hear anything else.

Like you don’t see the smirk Bradley gives him now, finally in on Jake’s stupid scheme.

Like you don’t catch the little wink Jake shoots over his shoulder before he walks back to his seat with Bradley in tow—both already arguing about which one of them is mommy and which is daddy.

Bob shifts carefully in his seat, trying not to jostle you too much as he finds his belt and clips it—but your thigh stays pressed to his anyway. And when he finally settles, you turn toward him with that same warm smile, cheeks faintly pink.

“I didn’t know you were allergic to peaches,” you say, voice soft enough that it’s almost swallowed by the hum of the plane.

Bob feels his pulse trip over itself. “I’m—I, uh… only found out recently. Really recently.”

Your lips twitch like you’re trying not to laugh. “That’s rough. Peaches are delicious.”

“They’re dangerous,” he murmurs before he can stop himself, eyes flicking to the peachy colour of your lip balm.

You nudge him with your elbow—not hard, just enough to send a spark up his arm. “Good thing you’re sitting with me then.”

Bob can’t breathe for a second.

Then something shifts—so subtle he almost misses it. You adjust in your seat, turning your knees a little more toward him, your shoulder brushing his. You’re close enough now that he can smell your shampoo, warm and sweet, and it takes everything in him not to lean into it.

“You okay?” you ask quietly.

He nods—too fast. “Yep. Great. Perfectly fine.”

Your smile softens, brows pulling together just slightly. “Jake didn’t bully you into this, did he?”

Bob almost laughs. Almost. “A little. But I figured sitting with you was better than Fanboy and his Hawai’i facts.”

“And the peaches,” you add, eyes sparkling.

Bob chuckles. “And the peaches.”

The next hour slips by in a blur of quiet conversation and shared silence. At some point, the plane dips slightly through a pocket of turbulence, and your shoulder knocks gently into his. You mumble a quiet apology, but you don’t pull away.

If anything—you gravitate closer.

Bob swears he stops breathing when your head softly rests against his shoulder, your hair brushing his jaw when you shift to get comfortable. You let out a soft sigh, warm through the cotton of his shirt, and Bob has never been more aware of another human being in his life.

He tries to focus on the in-flight map glowing on the screen in front of him. He tries to remember how to sit normally, breathe normally, exist normally. But then his eyes drop to where your fingers rest, just barely brushing his armrest, and he wonders if you even notice how close you are. How close he is.

Then a shadow passes over him. Slowly. And his gaze flicks up to find Bradley.

He’s grinning like an idiot, pausing just long enough to catch Bob’s eye and wink—slow, smug, deeply unhelpful. Bob glares, as much as a man with a sleeping passenger on his shoulder can glare, but Bradley just suppresses a laugh and keeps walking toward the bathrooms.

Eventually—even with his racing heart—Bob starts to relax. The warmth of you curled against him, the quiet hum of the engines, the dimmed cabin lights... it all blurs together. His chin dips, his breathing evens, and without meaning to, he drifts off too.

He doesn’t know how long he sleeps like that—your cheek tucked against his shoulder, his head resting lightly against yours—but it’s the soft chime of the speakers that yanks him back to consciousness.

“Cabin crew, please prepare the cabin for descent.”

Bob blinks awake, disoriented, momentarily unsure where he is. And then you shift against him, lifting your head with a groggy little noise that hits him square in the chest.

“Oh—sorry,” you mumble, rubbing your eyes. “I didn’t mean to fall asleep on you.”

Bob sits up straighter, heat flooding his cheeks. “No, no—you’re fine. Totally fine.”

You smile, still sleepy, still warm. “You’re comfortable.”

He doesn’t know how to respond to that, so he just smiles—face burning, heart racing—and glances down at his lap, wondering if you could possibly hear the pounding of his heart over the hum of the plane engines.

By the time the plane lands, Bob is almost sure he’s sweat through his shirt. He keeps his arms pinned to his sides as he shuffles out behind you, eyes fixed on the back of your head and definitely not on the way your butt looks in the soft, slinky lounge pants you’d worn for the flight.

After the chaos of disembarking and baggage claim—which ended in tears after Mickey accidentally knocked a little boy over while yanking his suitcase off the conveyor belt—the whole team heads out to the taxi rank. Bradley and Reuben are already complaining about how hungry they are, Jake is unbuttoning his shirt because he’s too hot, and Natasha is about five seconds away from getting her own Netflix special about how she went from naval aviator to homicidal murderer.

The team splits into two cabs, and for the first time all day, everything actually goes quiet. For the first time there are thirty minutes of blissful, air-conditioned silence—no trivia, no yelling, no crying children—just the low rumble of traffic and the faint rush of waves as the coast gets closer.

And when the resort finally comes into view, even Mickey stops trying to make small talk with the driver.

It’s huge and bright and tropical, with balconies stacked around every level and palm trees swaying over the massive pool that stretches right along the beachfront. There are clusters of lounge chairs tucked beneath striped umbrellas and shade sails, and two bars anchored at each end of the sprawling pool deck.

It’s paradise.

“Goddamn,” Javy mutters. “This place is nice.”

“Yeah,” Natasha says as she marches toward the lobby doors, “and it’s going to be a whole lot nicer when I’m lying on a lounge chair with a drink in my hand at least twenty feet away from you idiots.”

The sliding doors whoosh open, and the rush of cool air feels like a blessing. The lobby is enormous—open ceilings, carved wooden beams, tropical flowers arranged in towering vases, and the steady trickle of a waterfall somewhere off to the right. There are people everywhere. Families wrangling kids and suitcases, couples in matching outfits, honeymooners draped over each other like they’re allergic to personal space.

And somehow the Dagger Squad still manages to be the loudest thing in the room.

Jake stops dead in the doorway, sunglasses still perched low on his nose. “Now this,” he says, beaming, “is what I call a vacation.”

“It’s not a vacation,” Natasha mutters—for what must be the tenth time today.

“Does this place have a lounge?” Mickey asks, stepping in front of Jake. “Like, a member’s lounge or VIP lounge? I feel like this place should have a lounge. Someone ask about a lounge.”

Reuben elbows him. “Mick, enough about the lounge or I’m shoving your head in that fountain.”

Bob hangs back a step, letting you move ahead of him in the line for the check-in desk. Your bag bumps against your hip when you shift, and Bob has to pretend he’s studying a carved tiki statue so he doesn’t keep staring at you like some sex-starved lunatic.

But then Jake leans around him and whispers, “Is this your plan? Just stand really close and stare at her all vacation?”

Bob’s entire spine locks up.

“Seresin,” he warns under his breath.

Jake smirks. “Just saying, I don’t think it’s gonna work.”

Before Bob can snap back, the front desk clerk waves everyone forward with a too-wide smile—her eyes flicking up and down the group like she can’t decide which one she wants to eat first.

“Welcome! Are we all checking in this afternoon?”

Natasha steps forward with the confirmation email pulled up. “Yep. Five rooms under Mitchell, but one checked in yesterday.”

The clerk taps a few keys and scans her computer screen. “That’s right. Captain Mitchell arrived yesterday evening. Is this the rest of the party?”

Natasha nods.

“You’re all Navy, right?” the clerk asks, brows lifting. “Like... pilots?”

Mickey groans. “Here we go.”

Jake steps forward, flashing his most charming smile. “Yes ma’am. And as the most decorated pilot in the group—”

Natasha actually barks out a laugh.

You snort behind your hand.

Bob rolls his eyes.

But the clerk doesn’t notice the chaos—she’s too busy tapping away on her computer. “Alright, I’ve got your room assignments right here…”

Bob’s pulse jumps.

Jake leans forward, elbow on the counter, eyes sparkling.

Natasha crosses her arms like she’s preparing for war.

Mickey mutters something about hoping for ocean views.

And you glance back at Bob with a soft little smile—completely unaware that he’s seconds away from cardiac arrest.

“Alright.” The clerk lays four sets of keycards on the counter. “You’ve got three twin rooms and one king.”

Jake’s eyes go wide.

Bob’s stomach drops.

“Room 301, Seresin and Machado. Room 302, Bradshaw and Fitch.”

Jake looks at Bob, then at you, then back at the clerk.

“Room 303, Garcia and...”

The clerk squints at her screen. Bob’s heart skips. Jake looks like he’s about to explode.

“...and Floyd,” she says finally.

Bob lets out a soft exhale—part relief, part disappointment—and he can almost swear he sees your shoulders sag, just a little.

“What?” Jake snaps. “That’s ridiculous! We’re wasting a king bed on the two girls?”

The clerk’s eyes widen as she slowly pushes the keycards across the counter.

Natasha turns to Jake, lips curling into a smirk. “Who says it’s wasted?”

Jake sputters. “That’s—no. Hold on. You can’t just—what does that mean?”

Natasha grins. “Wouldn’t you like to know.”

Then she shoots you a cheeky wink and snatches two of the keycards off the counter.

The clerk clears her throat, gesturing toward the elevators. “Your rooms are all on the third floor. Elevators just to the left.”

The rest of the group grab their keycards as Natasha starts tugging you toward the elevators. Jake trudges close behind, muttering something about injustice, and Bradley, Javy, and Reuben crowd in last. Bob lingers for a second, tucking his keycard into his pocket and watching the elevator doors ease shut.

Mickey nudges him. “You good, buddy?”

Bob flinches slightly. “Yeah. Yep. Totally.”

“Cool,” Mickey says, stepping forward to aggressively mash the elevator button. “Because I’m showering first. And if this ocean view isn’t pristine, I’m writing an email.”

Bob huffs half a laugh through his nose. “Sure.”

The second elevator dings and they both file in. Mickey keeps rambling—something about how he expects to see dolphins every morning and can’t wait to drink out of a coconut—but Bob’s not listening.

He’s thinking about you. Again. As usual.

But for some reason, right now, right here, he can’t make himself stop. Normally he can shove it down, tell himself it’s an unrealistic fantasy, remind himself you’re just his friend, his squadmate. Someone he cares about, sure, but not someone he gets to have.

Except… every time he tries to tell himself that, he sees your smile. Soft, pink-cheeked, eyes sparkling like there’s nowhere else you’d rather be than right there beside him.

And God. It hits him in the chest. Every damn time.

Could Jake be right? Could you really feel the same way about him?

Surely not. Right? You’ve never asked him out. And sure, you flirt sometimes, but the whole squad does. It’s practically part of the job description at this point. And maybe you try to sit next to him whenever you’re at The Hard Deck, but that’s only because you get along so well. Right?

Jake’s not right. He can’t be.

The ding of the elevator yanks Bob out of his thoughts, and the doors slide open onto the third floor. The hallway is warm and bright, lined with framed watercolour paintings of hibiscus flowers, plush little sofas tucked between every second door, and the faint smell of sunscreen drifting from someone’s open door.

“Look, Mick,” Reuben calls, already one foot in his room, “here’s your lounge.”

He points at one of the small sofas, and Bradley snorts before they both disappear inside. Mickey just rolls his eyes and continues down the hall until he stops at room 303.

He swipes the key and shoves the door open with a grin. “Home sweet home.”

Across the hall, behind room 304’s door, Bob hears your voice. Your laughter—light, familiar, stupidly gorgeous.

And with a soft exhale that feels more dramatic than it should, he turns and steps into his room.

Not your room.

Not this time.

But the ache in his chest says he’s already imagining the next time Jake meddles.

And—God help him—he might just be on board with it.

After settling in, showering, spending twenty minutes doom-scrolling and another ten on the balcony looking for dolphins, Bob and Mickey finally make their way down to the hotel restaurant. It’s almost seven p.m., and Mav has organised for the whole group to meet for dinner to go over work-related requirements before the Dagger Squad are unleashed on Oʻahu.

Almost everyone is already there by the time they walk in—everyone but you and Natasha.

“Ooh, shrimp,” Mickey says immediately, rushing up to the table with zero hesitation and snatching the biggest prawn off the platter sitting in the centre.

Maverick stands, brows raised. “Nice to see you too, Lieutenant.”

“Hey, Mav,” Mickey mumbles around a mouthful of shrimp.

Bob gives a short nod. “Captain.”

“Bob,” Maverick says, amused, before taking his seat again.

Mickey pulls out the chair beside Reuben, and Bob grabs the next one along—leaving two empty seats between him and Bradley. Jake catches Bob’s eye from across the table with a knowing smirk, wiggling his eyebrows like he orchestrated this exact seating plan. Like he already knows exactly where you’ll sit when you get here.

And as if the universe is working off Jake’s script, Maverick stands again.

“Ladies. Nice of you to finally join us.”

Bob twists in his seat to look—and that’s when he forgets how to breathe entirely.

He didn't expect you to change—and even if he had, he would’ve pictured shorts or something soft and easy like your flight pants—but you… you’re wearing a sundress. Light, floaty, soft in a way that belongs to somewhere warm and ocean-bright like Oʻahu. Not that you don’t look gorgeous in your service khakis or your flight suit—you do, painfully so—but this is different. There’s something about the way the fabric moves when you walk, catching the light each time you step closer, that knocks every coherent thought straight out of Bob’s head.

He tries to school his expression into something normal, something friendly and casual, but his pulse is thundering and his palms are suddenly warm. All he can think about is the press of your head against his shoulder on the plane and how he can still feel it, like a phantom touch.

Natasha takes the seat beside Bradley without hesitation, and you slide into the last empty chair beside Bob. So close he can smell your sunscreen. So close that the air shifts when you sit—warm and sweet and dizzying in a way he’s not prepared for.

Bob swallows, mouth dry.

He is so, so screwed.

“Yum, shrimp,” Natasha says, leaning across the table to stab one with her fork while Mickey glares.

You glance at Bob as you pull your chair in, sliding your napkin onto your lap with a small smile that makes his heart knock dangerously against his ribs. He’s just about to open his mouth to ask how your room is when a waiter appears beside him, carrying another elaborate food platter.

“The fruit platter,” he announces, angling it toward the table.

You gasp. “Oh! No, I’m so sorry—could you actually put that down the other end? He’s allergic to peaches.”

The waiter freezes, eyes wide. “Of course. My apologies, sir.”

Bob’s cheeks heat as every pair of eyes at the table snap toward him. “No worries,” he mumbles. “Thank you.”

The waiter circles around and sets the platter down in front of Jake and Bradley, who are trying—very unsuccessfully—to hold back their laughter, hands clamped over their mouths, faces turning red, shoulders shaking.

As soon as he leaves, Maverick turns to Bob. “You’re not—”

“It’s new,” Bob blurts. “I—uh—just found out.”

Maverick frowns. Jake wheezes. Mickey eats another prawn.

“Right,” Mav says slowly. “Well—you should really update your medical records.”

Bob nods, once, tight. “Yeah. Will do.”

There’s a brief moment of quiet while Jake and Bradley finally manage to choke down their laughter—then Maverick clears his throat and launches into logistics. He talks through the week ahead—tomorrow free, Pearl Harbor the day after, two more free days, then the gala on Friday night after an early-morning rehearsal. Simple enough. Easy to follow.

But Bob hears almost none of it.

He nods when everyone else nods, laughs when the table laughs, eats when food is served without really tasting a thing. Because you’re beside him—close enough that your knee brushes his under the table every now and then, close enough that he can smell the floral hotel soap still clinging to your skin, close enough that he keeps catching your hand almost resting over his on the table. Like gravity itself is pulling you toward him.

Mickey keeps reaching for shrimp. Natasha keeps stealing them. Jake keeps watching Bob like a man waiting for fireworks. And every time you lean in to speak to Javy or Maverick across from you, the sleeve of your sundress slides a little down your shoulder and Bob forgets what language is.

By the time dessert comes out, he’s ruined.

Fully, hopelessly gone.

And when Mav finally calls it a night, the sky outside is dark, the pool lights glow turquoise, and the night air feels thick and lazy, like everyone is finally ready to crash.

Chairs scrape, napkins drop, and everyone slowly stands and starts filing out of the restaurant. Maverick peels off first, heading for the block of lifts at the far end of the building that go all the way up to the top floor—to his fancy executive suite.

The rest of the squad drifts toward the main elevators—laughing, yawning, nudging shoulders. And you end up next to Bob, because of course you do. Close enough that your arm brushes his when the hallway narrows, close enough that he can feel the heat of your skin through the thin fabric of his shirt.

He tries to focus on Mickey’s running monologue about whether the pool bar has frozen margaritas or only blended ones, but all he can think about is the faint smell of coconut shampoo every time you turn your head.

The elevator arrives with a soft ding, and everyone squeezes in. You step in beside him, shoulder pressed to his as the doors slide closed. Jake catches Bob’s eye over your head and winks, like an absolute menace.

Bob pointedly looks at the ceiling.

Three floors pass in seconds—but it feels like hours, with the back of your hand brushing his, his fingers itching to lace with yours, every inch of air between you charged and too warm for such a small space.

When the doors finally open on the third floor, everyone spills out, still chatting lazily as they wander down the hallway toward their rooms—301, 302, 303, 304 all in one neat cluster.

You stop at your door with Natasha, turning to Bob with that gentle smile again.

“Night, Bob.”

He swallows. “Night.”

Mickey claps him on the back. “Come on, roomie. I’m exhausted.”

Bob follows him into room 303, but not before glancing once more at you disappearing behind your door across the hall—heart pounding like he’s eighteen and in love for the first damn time.

He exhales, long and helpless.

Maybe he should do something about it.

About you.

Maybe he should talk to Jake.

-

Jake is already sprawled across a sun lounge when Bob finally walks out onto the pool deck late morning. Clustered around him are five more lounges, each reserved with a single item on them as if that’s legally binding. One has a pair of sunglasses—even though Jake already has aviators perched low on his nose—the next has a hat, then a shirt, and the last two each have a single flip-flop.

“Morning, Bobby,” Jake grins, all lazy confidence and oiled skin.

Bob sighs. “Don’t call me that.”

He drops onto the lounge with the hat, picks it up, and tosses it at Jake. Then he scrubs both hands over his face, elbows on his knees, and stares at the ground—jaw tight, chest aching.

“Okay,” he finally says, lifting his head. “I’m in.”

Jake arches a brow. “In?”

Bob swallows. “Help me. With… her.”

Jake’s grin spreads slow and wolfish—like the sun rising just to witness chaos.

“I thought you’d never ask.”

He sits up, pushing his sunglasses into his hair and swinging his legs off the side of the lounge to face Bob properly.

“Alright, Phase One: Plane Buddy. Complete success. Shoulder contact achieved. Mutual napping? Unplanned bonus.”

Bob pinches the bridge of his nose beneath his glasses. “Please don’t call it phases—”

“Phase Two,” Jake continues, ignoring him completely. “Proximity. Sun, water, bare shoulders. Classic vacation bonding. She sits there—” he points to the empty lounge on Bob’s other side, “—you offer sunscreen for her back, she does yours, feelings ignite, boom.”

“This isn’t a mission brief, this is—”

“Everything is a mission brief if you do it right.”

Bob just stares at him—horrified, defeated, wondering if he’s made a terrible mistake.

Then footsteps thump against the deck boards behind them, and Bradley appears wearing swim trunks and a hideous Hawaiian shirt hanging wide open like he owns the entire island.

“What mission brief?” he asks, dropping his towel onto one of the flip-flop lounges.

“Operation Hawaiian Heat,” Jake says.

Bob almost chokes. “We are not calling it that.”

Jake turns back to him. “Okay. Fine. The other option is Operation Unblue Bob’s Balls.”

Bradley snorts. “I like that one better.”

Jake gestures at him triumphantly. “See? Rooster gets it.”

Bob lays back onto his lounge and throws an arm dramatically over his face. “What have I done?”

“You’ve come to the right man, that’s what,” Jake says, far too proud.

Bradley drops onto his sun lounge, kicks his slides off, and sprawls out with a contented sigh.

“Now.” Jake leans in. “Phase Two—”

Bradley turns his head. “There are phases?”

“Obviously,” Jake says, like Bradley just asked whether water was wet. “Bob’s going to make a move today.”

Bradley sits up, suddenly invested. “Finally. I was this close to drafting you a script.”

Bob’s ears burn. “I’m not making a move. I just—I asked for help.”

“Which implies intent,” Bradley says.

“And opportunity,” Jake adds.

Bob sinks lower in his lounge, face in his hands. This was a mistake. A huge, life-altering mistake.

Jake claps his hands once, decisive. “Now we just need Blink down here. We keep her close. Swim together, flirty eye contact, sunscreen situation if we can engineer it—”

Bradley nods. “Water proximity works. Pools lower personal-space boundaries by at least forty percent.”

“That’s not real data,” Bob mutters.

“It is now,” Bradley replies.

Jake gasps suddenly, like he’s just been struck by divine inspiration. “Oh! And when Phoenix eventually emerges from the underworld, we—”

“Morning!”

Bob freezes at the sound of your voice.

“Hey, Blink,” Bradley greets, too quick and too casual to be anything but suspicious. “How’s Nix?”

You drop your towel onto the lounge beside Bob, and Jake’s grin sharpens.

“Miserable, but alive,” you reply. “Housekeeping dropped off, like, a litre of Pedialyte, but she won’t drink it until she’s sure she can at least keep water down.”

Bradley winces. “Damn. Is she alright on her own?”

“Insisted on it, actually,” you say. “Said she doesn’t want anyone to see her this weak.”

Then you rest a hand on Bob’s shoulder, and his entire body goes rigid.

“How’s Fanboy?”

Bob clears his throat. “He’s good—I mean, not good—alive. He’s alive. But still really sick.”

His cheeks burn—and Bradley snorts. Loudly. But before anyone can question it, he pushes off the lounge, takes four long strides across the deck, and dives straight into the pool.

You blink after him. “That was weird.”

“When has Rooster ever been normal?” Jake says quickly. “Anyway—what were you saying about Phoenix?”

You eye him suspiciously. “Nothing. Bob was saying Mick is still really unwell.”

Jake raises both brows. “And Natasha?”

You frown. “Like I said two minutes ago—still sick.”

Jake hums, lips twitching like he’s trying not to smirk. “Do you think it was something they ate?”

“Nat reckons the shrimp,” you reply. “They were the only ones who ate it.”

Bob sits up straighter, as if suddenly unsure how to hold himself with you around. “So, it shouldn’t last too long—they'll be better by tomorrow, right?” he asks.

You shrug—and then you do something that has Jake biting his knuckles and Bob ready to explode. Figuratively. Literally. All of the above.

You hook your fingers into the waistband of your shorts and tug them off in one smooth motion, then pull your shirt over your head and drop it on the lounge beside you. Sunlight catches on your swimsuit—soft and pale blue—and whatever words Bob had left in his brain evaporate instantly.

His breath stops. Full system shutdown.

He tries to look away, he really does, but his eyes drag back helplessly, like gravity has been recalibrated to you. His pulse kicks up hard enough he’s convinced Bradley can hear it underwater. And Jake definitely notices—he chokes on a laugh, clamps a hand over his mouth, and shoots Bob the smuggest look a human has ever produced.

Bob’s fingers curl around the edge of his sun lounge, knuckles white. Every rational thought he’s ever had abandons ship. The only thing left is the shape of your smile, the sun on your skin, the faint scent of sunscreen drifting with the breeze as you shake out your hair.

You don’t seem to notice the devastation you’ve just caused. You just drop your flip flops on top of your towel and push your sunglasses up your nose—casual, effortless, lethal.

Bob’s mouth is dry. His heartbeat is loud. And if he wasn’t already in over his head, he is now—irrevocably.

“Anyway,” you say, stretching your arms above your head. “I’m gonna go for a swim.” Then you tilt your head toward Bob, the corner of your mouth lifting just slightly. “You should come, Floyd. You look hot.”

You don’t wait for an answer. You just flash him a smile—warm, easy, devastating—and walk toward the pool, the sun catching on the sheen of sunscreen coating your skin until it makes him dizzy. You slip into the water with a clean, graceful dive that sends a ripple across the surface and a full emotional crisis through Bob’s nervous system.

“Go!” Jake hisses, slapping Bob’s leg.

Bob startles. “What—now?”

Jake’s eyes nearly bulge out of his skull. “She literally just asked you. Invited you. By name. While wearing that swimsuit. And I’m sitting right here—do you hear the words coming out of my mouth? Go!”

Bob hesitates, palms flattening uselessly against his thighs. “I—uh, I don’t know. I should probably—”

Jake grabs the sides of Bob’s lounge and shakes it once. “Robert. Floyd. Get. In. The Pool.”

Bob exhales in a rush, defeated. “Fine.”

He sits up—reluctantly, slowly, like a man walking to his own execution.

“Take your shirt off!” Jake hisses.

Bob frowns. “No. Absolutely not. I’m pale. I’ll burn in, like, five minutes.”

Jake’s eyes widen. “Do you want to be sun-safe or get laid, Bob?!”

“That’s not—those aren’t the only options—”

“Right now they are!”

Bob glares at him, then at the pool, then at you—floating on your back, sun in your hair, laughing as Bradley splashes you.

Jake gives him one last shove. “Shirt. Off. Go.”

And Bob, red-faced and mortified and completely hopeless, reaches for the hem of his shirt.

He inhales once—deep, resigned—then tugs it over his head in one quick, graceless movement before he can chicken out. His glasses get a little crooked in the process, his hair sticks up, and his entire torso goes pink the second sunlight hits it.

“Dear God, he’s adorable,” Jake mutters, like he’s narrating a nature documentary.

Bob pointedly ignores him. He folds his shirt—mostly to have something to do with his hands—and sets it on the lounge beside him. His ears are burning. His chest is burning. His soul is burning. He’s already regretting every life choice that has led him to this exact moment.

And then—he feels it.

A flicker of attention. The weight of someone’s stare. Like heat crawling up the back of his neck.

He glances toward the pool, and—

You’re watching him.

Not accidentally. Not confused. Not casually.

You’re watching him—with your elbows resting on the edge of the pool, water beading on your shoulders, chin tilted just slightly as your eyes track down his chest and back up again.

Your lips part—not much, just enough—and Bob’s heart slams against his ribs so hard it hurts.

The second your gaze snaps up to meet his, you blink fast and pretend you weren’t staring, pushing off the wall and turning onto your back like you’re suddenly very invested in the wispy white clouds floating through the sky.

“Oh my God,” Jake whispers. “She was eating you alive.”

“Shut up,” Bob hisses—but his voice comes out thin, breathless, like all the air has left his lungs.

He swallows hard, palms slick, pulse pounding, eyes drifting back to where you’re pretending not to look at him—except you absolutely are. Out of the corner of your eye, subtle and warm and curious. Your lips even quirk a little when his gaze catches yours, and then you turn away with pink cheeks like nothing even happened.

Jake nudges Bob hard with his foot. “Get. In. The. Pool.”

Bob exhales like a man marching toward certain doom and pushes himself to his feet. The sun feels too hot, the water too bright, and every instinct in his body is screaming at him to sit back down—but he forces himself forward anyway.

He steps in slowly, careful, lowering himself until the water settles warm around his chest. His heart is pounding so loudly he’s amazed it doesn’t disturb the surface.

You turn at the sound of movement, brushing wet hair from your cheek.

And then you smile at him.

Not the casual, breezy smile you give everyone. Not the professional squadmate smile. Something softer. Something that hits him sharp behind the ribs, like you’re seeing a part of him he doesn’t know how to hide.

“Hey,” you say, drifting closer.

Bob clears his throat. “Hi.”

Your eyes slide from his face down to his chest, not even trying to be subtle this time. “Don’t think I’ve ever seen you this—”

“Wet?” he offers—quick, nervous.

You snort softly. “I was going to say undressed.”

Then you turn your head, suddenly very interested in something across the deck—but Bob catches the colour rising in your cheeks, and he knows the sun has nothing to do with it.

A quiet beat stretches between you. Nothing but the gentle lap of water against tile, the distant crash of waves, the low murmur of O’ahu slowly waking up around you.

“Sleep well?” he asks suddenly—because he has no idea what else to say, only that he has to say something.

You turn back to him. “Not really. Nat was up most of the night. You?”

He shrugs. “Same. Fanboy wouldn’t stop groaning.”

You laugh—soft, breathless—and Bob feels the sound settle somewhere beneath his skin, warm and dangerous. “Maybe we should swap—”

A dramatic splash cuts you off, both of you flinching as water sprays everywhere.

When Bob opens his eyes again, he can’t see—his glasses are spattered with droplets, the world reduced to blur and colour—but he can feel you. Warm. Close. Too close. You laugh softly, and he feels the exhale of your breath brush his lips.

“Oh no,” you say. “You’re blind.”

Before he can even think to move, he feels the ghost of your fingertips at his temples, gently as you slide his glasses off. His whole body goes still, every muscle locking as it registers just how close you are. And when he blinks, uselessly trying to coax focus from his lousy vision, all he can really see is—

You.

Everything beyond you dissolves into colour and light—the blue of the pool, the pale stretch of sky, movement without detail—but you stay sharp. Close. So close he can see every tiny detail he’s never let himself linger on—the dark line of your lashes, the curve of your lip. You’re right there, within reach, water slicking over your shoulders as you float nearer without even meaning to.

Bob’s breath stutters.

Without his glasses, there’s nothing to hide behind. No distance. No buffer. Just you and the water nudging him forward, your bodies close enough that he can feel the heat of you through the pool, the faint brush of your knee against his thigh sending a spark straight through him.

You tilt your head, studying him, lips parted like you’re about to say something—and the way your eyes trace over his face, down his chest, back up again makes something low and dangerous coil in his gut. The water laps between you, slow and lazy, but Bob feels wound tight, every nerve lit up, every thought stripped down to how close you are and how impossible it is to pretend he isn’t thinking about it.

About you.

Your skin. How it would feel against his. How your lips would taste if he just leaned in.

For a moment, neither of you moves.

And then—

Jake surfaces. “Whew! That’s refreshing!”

Bob startles and steps back.

You shoot Jake an unimpressed look. “Really, Seresin?”

“Oh.” His brows lift, lips curling into a smirk. “Did I interrupt something?”

You don’t answer—you just shake your head and start wading toward the edge of the pool, Bob's glasses still in your hand.

Jake watches you go for exactly half a second before turning back to Bob. “Easy there, Casanova. This is a family resort.”

Bob squints at him, mostly just trying to see him clearly. “What do you mean? Wasn’t getting close the—”

“Close, yes,” Jake cuts in under his breath. “But you don’t give it away. You keep the tension high. You let it build.” He pauses, his smirk sharpening, and drops his voice lower. “You have to make her want it. Make her beg for it.”

And God—that absolutely does it.

Because Bob’s brain, traitorous and unhelpful, fills in the blank immediately. You—closer than you should be. Looking at him like you were a second ago. But this time? You’re lower. Even closer. That softness in your eyes sharpening into something else entirely. And his body reacts before he can shut the thought down—fast, unmistakable, and deeply inconvenient.

Bob sucks in a sharp breath.

Nope. Absolutely not.

He needs space. Distance. A wall. A lifeguard whistle—something—because if he stays here another second, Jake’s going to notice, and that will be a whole new level of humiliation.

Without another word, he turns and wades toward the shallow end, heart hammering, every nerve lit up for reasons that have nothing to do with swimming.

“Are you guys hungry?” you call from the deck.

Bob glances over his shoulder and squints to see you using your shirt to clean his glasses—and he has no idea why, but somehow that makes his situation even worse.

“Yes!” Bradley replies, way too eager. “I’m starving.”

“Can you get a fruit platter?” Jake asks, voice smug.

Bob refuses to turn around.

“But no peaches!” Bradley calls.

“Of course—no peaches,” you say.

Bradley and Jake both do a terrible job of suppressing their laughter, but Bob still doesn’t turn around. He just takes a deep breath and keeps wading through the water, willing his body to cooperate, until—

“Bobby!” you shout. “C’mere!”

And just like a moth to a flame, he turns and starts toward the edge of the pool.

He puts his hands out to keep from running straight into the wall, palms finding the warm tile as he leans in. For a second, it’s all blurred shapes and colour—and then you’re there, crouched beside the pool, skin still glistening with tiny droplets of water, that damn swimsuit wet now and clinging sinfully to your body.

“Here,” you says softly, holding his glasses out.

He takes them and slides them on, blinking a few times as the world sharpens again.

“You hungry?” you ask, smiling now.

He clears his throat. “A little.”

“Good.” You straighten, and Bob’s thoughts immediately pivot back into deeply unhelpful territory as he looks up at you from this angle. “I’m going to order some breakfast.”

He nods. “I’ll—uh, I’ll be out in a minute.”

You tilt your head, still smiling but curious now, brows furrowing just slightly—but you don’t press. After a beat, you simply nod and turn away, heading toward the bar where one of the resort’s waitstaff greets you enthusiastically.

Bob continues wading toward the shallow end of the pool, deliberately keeping his distance from Jake and Bradley while trying to think of anything—anything at all—that isn’t you. He watches a gecko scale the trunk of a palm tree, tipping his head back until it disappears into the fronds above. Then he shifts his gaze skyward and starts counting birds as they fly over the surfboard hut on the beach.

By the time he hears you call out that the food has arrived, his situation is finally under control and he can climb out of the pool with most of his dignity intact.

Reuben and Javy have joined the group now, everyone clustered around the lounge chairs with two huge platters of food set out on the low tables between them. Bradley and Reuben have dragged a couple of loungers closer to make a loose circle, and in the middle of it all, there’s you—smiling and waving Bob over as he pads across the deck.

“I made sure there are no peaches,” you say as he steps closer.

Jake drops his chin to his chest and snorts, like he just can’t get enough of this ridiculous joke.

Bob nods, pressing his lips into a tight smile. “Thanks.”

There’re a few minutes of blissful quiet while everyone stuffs their faces with fruit and pastries. Bradley and Reuben fight over the last pain au chocolat, Jake whinges about the lack of protein, and Bob does everything he can not to watch you like the total creep he’s become since landing in Hawai’i.

The moment stretches—comfortable, lazy—until Javy finally breaks it.

“So,” he says, glancing around the group, “we’re going out tonight, right?”

Reuben looks up, chocolate smeared across his top lip. “What about Phoenix and Fanboy?”

Jake scoffs. “Just because they decided to eat bad prawns and get sick doesn’t mean they get to ruin my vacation.”

“I feel obliged to say it since Nat isn’t here,” you mutter, “it’s technically not a vacation.”

“Yeah, we’ve got that visit to Pearl Harbor tomorrow,” Bob adds. “Mav won’t be happy if we’re all hungover.”

Jake smirks. “So we invite Mav. He can’t be mad if he’s hungover too.”

Reuben snorts. “Mav is a highly decorated captain who’s about to receive a very serious, very formal Navy commendation. He’s not going to—” He stops, tilting his head. “Actually, no. You’re right. He’ll definitely come out.”

Bradley chuckles. “Yeah, he will.”

“So—what?” you ask. We just ditch Mickey and Nat?”

Jake’s smirk sharpens. “Actually, I’ve been thinking about that.”

“Oh, God,” Javy mutters. “He’s been thinking.”

Bradley snorts, but Jake ignores him completely.

“We’re only assuming it was the prawns, right?” he says, voice light and full of faux innocence. “But it could be a virus. Or something contagious.”

You shrug. “I guess.”

Bob’s pulse kicks harder.

“So,” Jake says slowly, his eyes sliding toward Bob, “I think it’d make sense to quarantine the sick.”

Bob’s stomach twists.

You frown, still oblivious. “How?”

“I don’t think—” Bob starts.

But Bradley cuts in. “I agree. We don’t want anyone else getting sick.”

“I don’t know if the resort will have any free rooms,” Javy adds, equally oblivious.

Jake rolls his eyes. “We don’t need another room.”

There’s a beat of silence.

All Bob can hear is his pulse pounding in his ears.

And then—you laugh.

“Oh my God,” you snort, clapping a hand over your mouth. “There is no way you’re getting Nat to share a bed with Fanboy. She barely tolerates being in the same state as him.”

Jake grins. “I never said anything about Phoenix and Fanboy sharing a bed.”

You tilt your head, frowning. “Then who—”

Your eyes land on Bob, and the question dies on your tongue.

There’s a split second of nothing—nothing but static. Bob’s heart slams so hard he’s pretty sure everyone can hear it. His spine locks, breath catching in his chest as heat rushes up his neck so fast it makes his ears burn.

You go still beside him. Not panicked. Not nervous. Just quiet. Processing.

Jake’s eyes dart between the two of you. “Get it now?”

Bradley makes a strangled noise somewhere between a cough and a laugh. Reuben abruptly becomes very interested in the breakfast platter, and Javy presses his lips together so hard his cheeks puff out.

Bob stares straight ahead, brain completely blank except for the deafening thud of his pulse. Share a bed. With you. Overnight. Multiple nights—maybe. The thought hits him low and heavy and immediate, and he has to brace his hands against his knees just to stay upright.

“That’s—” you start, then stop, glancing at Bob. “I mean… yeah. I guess it makes sense?”

Bob doesn’t dare meet your eyes. If he does, he might combust—or worse—so instead he watches Reuben pick a handful of grapes off the fruit platter like it’s the most important thing in the world.

“I wouldn’t mind,” you add, softly.

Bob’s breath catches.

“Great.” Jake claps his hands together. “Look at that. Problem solved.”

Bob opens his mouth. Then closes it. His brows knit as he tries to remember how words work. His heart is still racing, his face is definitely on fire, and he’s suddenly acutely aware of how close you’re sitting—close enough that if he shifted even an inch, your knees would touch.

You lean forward just slightly, like you’re trying to catch his attention.

He doesn’t look. Not directly, at least.

“Unless you’re not okay with it?” you ask.

Bob shakes his head way too fast. “No. I—yeah. I’m fine. Totally fine.”

He is absolutely not fine.

The rest of the day passes in a blur. Bob makes a valiant attempt to remember how breathing works as he tries to relax on his sun lounge beneath the shade sail—but every time you catch his eye, his lungs promptly forget their job. He feels hot. Too hot. In a way that has nothing to do with the balmy weather and everything to do with the way sunlight glints off your skin when you climb out of the pool, water tracing slow paths down your arms and back.

And so, relaxing proves impossible.

After lunch, Jake announces that it’s time to check on the casualties—and break the news of the new room allocations—dragging both Bradley and Javy inside with him. They’re gone for almost an hour. Long enough for Reuben to glance nervously toward the hotel lobby and seriously suggest alerting security.

But eventually, they reappear. All three of them looking a little… shaken.

Apparently, Natasha had put up a fight—an impressive one—before eventually, finally, surrendering. But not before making one thing abundantly clear. This arrangement is for you. Only you. Not the boys. Not Jake’s logic. Just you.

And when Javy relays that information with a glint of fear in his eyes, you laugh—bright and sweet and completely unaware of the effect it has—and Bob’s head spins so hard he has to shut his eyes.

He’s not sure he’s going to survive the night—let alone the rest of the trip.

After a few more hours of lying in the shade, pretending not to watch you, and doing everything in his power to ignore Jake’s running commentary, Bob finally decides to head back up to his room to get ready for the night. For whatever circus he’s signed up for by giving Jake even the smallest amount of control over his love life.

Bradley calls after him to be back in the lobby no later than six, and Jake adds something smug about making sure the room situation is handled—as if Bob has ever once been in charge of what Natasha Trace does.

By the time he reaches the third floor, his skin is still warm from the sun—burnt, probably, thanks to Jake—and his head is so full of your laughter he feels like he might faint. He drags his keycard through the reader for room 303, pushes the door open—

And freezes.

Natasha’s suitcase is parked neatly in the entryway, and both twin beds are occupied.

Mickey is curled up on his side, scrolling through his phone with a washcloth pressed to his forehead, and Natasha is sitting on the other bed, hugging the—hopefully—empty wastebin to her chest.

“Hey,” Bob says, taking a hesitant step inside. “How are you feeling?”

Natasha glares at him. “Great.”

Mickey doesn’t reply—he just groans and curls up tighter.

Bob winces. “Can I get you anything?”

“Yeah,” Natasha mutters. “You can get out before I throw up again.”

“We got housekeeping to move your stuff already,” Mickey mumbles.

“Oh.” Bob glances at the small entryway table, at the keycard for room 304 waiting there. For him. “Thanks.”

He picks it up and sets his card for room 303 in its place.

“And for the record,” Natasha says, eyes still narrowed. “I know what this is about. Bagman isn’t subtle. But I’m too sick to argue, and like I said—I’m doing this for her.” She lifts a hand and points a finger at him. “So don’t screw it up.”

Bob’s heart slams against his ribs. Screw what up?

“Okay,” he says quickly—obediently, because Natasha Trace is terrifying at the best of times.

She nods once, slowly, before her eyes slip shut and her chin dips to her chest. Bob watches for a few seconds as she breathes through another wave of nausea, feeling totally useless and hating it. But he knows Nat. And he knows better than anyone that all she wants right now is to be left alone.

“Hey, Bobby,” Mickey says, his voice theatrically weak. “If I don’t make it, don’t let Rooster hit on the girl at the coffee shop back home, okay? I know he thinks she’s cute, but I called dibs and that counts even if I’m dead.”

Natasha sighs into the wastebin. “The only way you’re dying on this trip is when I kill you for being so fucking annoying.”

Mickey frowns. “Hey. You didn’t hear me complaining when you were hogging the toilet. You don’t think that was annoying?”

“I was throwing up!” Natasha snaps.

Mickey’s eyes widen. “So was I!”

“Well,” Bob cuts in, already retreating a step toward the door. “I’m gonna just—you know. I have to get ready, so… I’m gonna go.” He opens the door. “Let me know if you need anything, and—uh—don’t kill each other.”

Then he slips out and lets the door click shut behind him before either of them can protest.

His pulse pounds in his ears as he turns slowly and walks across the hall to room 304. He tries to act normal. Tries to stop his hands from shaking as he swipes the keycard through the reader. Tries not to let his knees buckle as he takes that first step over the threshold.

But it’s hard. Harder than it should be. Literally and figuratively.

The smell hits him immediately—sunscreen, fresh linen, and you. That warm, sweet scent that haunts his dreams and makes him dizzy every time you pass by too close.

With unsteady steps, he moves further inside and lets the door fall shut behind him. His suitcase is parked neatly in the entryway, the bed is perfectly made, and fresh soaps sit on a little tray beside the bathroom sink.

Bob’s heart lurches into his throat as his gaze snaps between the bathroom and the bed.

Oh, God.

There’s no door.

No door separating the bathroom from the rest of the suite.

Just two frosted glass partitions—one in front of the toilet, the other shielding the showerhead. But at the right angle? God. At the right angle, you could see everything.

Bob drags in a slow, shaky breath, willing his nervous system to stand down. He’s not in the middle of a dogfight—he’s in a hotel room. In Hawaiʻi. On what could be considered a vacation. This is not the time for fight-or-flight to kick in.

With trembling hands, he grabs the handle of his suitcase and wheels it farther into the room. Your suitcase is laying open on the floor beside the bed, clothes half-spilled like you’d only just started unpacking, so he steers himself to the opposite side before dropping his own case down flat.

He has to shower before you get here. He has to.

Because the thought of you walking into this room while he’s naked—with no real barrier, no real privacy—doesn’t make Bob nervous.

It makes him unreasonably horny. Dangerously so.

And he has absolutely no desire to find out just how hard—literally—it would be for him to control himself.

He rummages through his case until he finds an acceptable shirt and pair of shorts, then jumps up, grabs a towel from the heated rack beside the bathtub, and tosses it over the shower partition.

The water heats in no time, and Bob’s hands are still trembling as he pulls his shirt over his head and kicks off his swim trunks. He takes his glasses off last, setting them carefully on the edge of the sink before stepping under the spray and trying—with every ounce of focus he has—to think of anything but you.

He scrubs himself quickly, movements brisk and efficient, ignoring the almost painful state of his arousal as the imaginary clock in his head counts down to your arrival.

But his imagination, unhelpful as ever, drifts anyway.

What if you walked in right now?

What if you saw him—saw everything?

What if, instead of shock or embarrassment, you just laughed softly and stripped out of that damn blue swimsuit and—

Bob’s eyes snap open at the sound of the door.

His heart slams, and he looks down—at his hand curled tight around the base of his cock.

Jesus Christ.

“It’s just me!” you call out quickly. “I’m not looking, I swear! I just went to check on Fanboy and saw Nat had already swapped rooms.”

Bob squeezes his eyes shut again, every muscle in his body locking as he stands frozen beneath the spray. He wants to answer—he really does—but he’s not sure anything there’s anything he could say right now that would come out sounding even remotely normal.

“I’m just going to watch some TV,” you add, your footsteps echoing softly through the room. “Take your time.”

And Bob has no choice—because it takes an embarrassingly long time for his situation to go down when he can still hear your soft laughter from the bedroom.

Eventually, though, his blood reroutes and his muscles finally relax. He turns the water off, half-dries himself behind the partition, and wraps the fluffy white towel around his hips—heart thumping wickedly as he steps out of the bathroom.

He clears his throat. “I’m—uh. I’m done. Shower’s all yours.”

Your head snaps toward him—and your eyes go wide.

You swallow hard, making no effort to hide it as your gaze drifts down—over his bare chest, his shoulders, his stomach, and lower still—until it catches on the towel sitting low on his hips and stays there.

Bob flushes instantly, his whole body going hot under your gaze. But he doesn’t get it. You saw him in the pool earlier—more of him, technically. He’s exactly as naked now as he was then, maybe even less so. The towel is at least a little longer than his swim trunks are.

And yet—

Here you are. Silent and staring at him like you can’t decide how to feel.

He clears his throat again.

You blink, eyes jumping back up to his face. “Sorry,” you murmur, cheeks pink. “I just—uh. You know. I’ve never really…” Your words trail off, and as if you can’t help yourself, your eyes dip again—quick, guilty, unmistakable.

Then you shake your head and scramble off the bed.

“Sorry. I’m gonna—um—yeah. Shower.”

You brush past him in a rush, close enough that he can feel the heat of you on his skin. Close enough that he can feel the way you shiver when your arm brushes his.

He doesn’t move. He just stands there—listening to your soft footsteps against the tiled floor, the rustle of clothes, the sound of the shower turning on. Out of the very corner of his eye, he can see your silhouette behind the frosted glass. If he turned his head, he could probably see more. Your shoulder, your arm, your hip—right at the edge of the partition.

But he doesn’t.

He doesn’t turn his head. He doesn’t look.

Instead, he drops his gaze to where he left his clothes on the bed and curls his shaking fingers into the fabric of his shirt.

As soon as Bob is dressed, he banishes himself to the balcony—and stays there. He grips the railing and stares out at the ocean like it might save him. He counts every bird that lands on the same palm frond blocking half his view, tracks a couple walking barefoot along the shoreline, listens to the hum of traffic somewhere beyond the resort. He tells himself to breathe. To stand normally. To not look back.

And he doesn’t turn around until he hears a soft knock, followed by the slide of the glass door.

“Okay, Captain Chivalry—it’s safe now.”

When he finally sees you, standing just inside the door, his breath catches in his throat.

You’re wearing another flowy sundress, but this one has a structured bodice—almost like a corset. It hugs you perfectly, all clean lines and soft fabric, and somehow still looks like absolute sin despite the ivory colour and lace detailing that should suggest the exact opposite.

“You look—” he chokes, his voice already hoarse. “I mean, you—you…”

Nothing. Absolutely no thoughts. Just a catastrophic loop of wildly inappropriate ones.

You roll your eyes, the corner of your mouth lifting just slightly. “I’m going to assume you’re trying for a compliment, so—thanks, Floyd.” Your cheeks go a little redder beneath your blush. “Now come on. It’s almost six.”

Bob nearly trips over his own feet as he follows you inside, his eyes shamelessly glued to where the hem of your dress brushes the backs of your thighs. He watches you slip on your shoes, grab your purse, fix a stray lock of hair in the mirror—and it’s only when you turn to him with a small, curious frown that he tears his gaze away and starts searching for his shoes.

The walk to the elevator is completely silent, aside from the thunder of Bob’s pulse in his own ears. Only when the doors slide shut do you finally turn to him again.

“Is it too weird?” you ask, so quickly he almost misses it.

He blinks, turning slowly toward you. “Is what weird?”

“Sharing a room,” you reply. “Specifically that room.”

Yes. But only because he can’t seem to keep his own thoughts under control.

“No,” he says, keeping his voice steady. “I—I mean, I don’t think so. It’s a little… intimate—” he tries not to cringe at the word “—but I don’t think it’s weird.”

Your expression relaxes, your gaze softening.

“Okay, good.” You turn back to face the elevator doors. “I just don’t want you to be uncomfortable.”

Bob shrugs. “It could be worse.”

Your head whips back toward him, eyes wide—indignant.

“Oh my God,” he rushes. “No, not you. I meant—Phoenix and Fanboy. I meant—”

Your brows rise slowly as you wait for him to find the right words—but his brain is fuzzy, his face is hot, and standing this close to you is doing him no favours, giving him an unfair vantage of your cleavage.

Then a soft ding cuts through the silence and the doors slide open.

You huff a short, quiet laugh through your nose, shake your head, and step out without another word.

Bob hesitates. Maybe it would be better if he didn’t go out tonight. Maybe he, his foot, and his mouth—which it keeps getting stuck in—should just go back up to the room and hide in shame while the rest of the squad goes out. Maybe he could pass this embarrassment off as concern for his sick friends and avoid the night entirely.

Maybe—

“Floyd!” Reuben calls. “You waiting for an invitation?”

Bob blinks, waiting only one more undecided second before taking a deep breath and stepping out of the elevator.

The next half hour passes in a blur of streetlights and excited chatter. Thanks to the dwindling squad numbers, it only takes one maxi cab to get everyone from the resort to the first location of the night—scouted by Bradley, of course. It’s a bar on the beach, literally called The Beach Bar, with alfresco seating and a list of signature cocktails long enough to rival Jake’s dating history.

According to Bradley, Maverick and Penny have already arrived. Penny flew in this morning with Amelia after making the devastating decision to close The Hard Deck for the week—something the Dagger Squad would undoubtedly be complaining about if they weren’t in Waikiki with the bar owner herself.

“There they are!” Penny calls, a bright smile on her face as she pushes out of her seat.

Everyone crowds around to give her a hug while Maverick stays firmly seated, beer lifted to his lips.

Jake is the first to find a seat at the table—right beside Maverick—and before Bob can beeline for the opposite end, Jake grabs his arm and pulls him into the chair next to his.

“It’s part of the plan,” he hisses as Bradley takes the seat on Bob’s other side.

Bradley shoots Bob a knowing smile before picking up the drinks menu and flipping it open.

“How are Fanboy and Phoenix?” Maverick asks once everyone’s seated.

Bob glances across the table—at where you’re sitting, between Penny and Javy. The furthest spot from him.

“Not great,” Reuben replies. “Nix was green the last time I saw her.”

Penny sighs. “Poor thing.”

Maverick’s brows pull together, concerned. “Do you think they’ll make tomorrow’s visit to base?”

“Doubt it,” Bradley mutters.

The conversation blurs into background noise—voices overlapping, topics changing—but Bob barely hears it. He hums and nods when he has to, but he’s not listening. Not really. Not at all. He’s too busy watching you.

As always.

He’s so focused, in fact, that he doesn’t realise Jake has ordered him a drink until a tall glass of something brown, with a wedge of lemon, is set on the table in front of him.

“On the hard stuff tonight, hey, Floyd?” Javy says with a smirk, nodding toward the drink.

Bob blinks, then glances down. “I—uh—yeah, I guess.”

He doesn’t drink often—and very rarely drinks to get drunk—but he’s pretty sure Jake ordered him a Long Island Iced Tea.

Great.

Maverick chuckles. “Didn’t think you’d be the one I’d have to warn about being hungover tomorrow, Bob.”

Bob’s lips press into a forced, fake smile while the rest of the table shares a laugh. Even you. But he doesn’t get to enjoy your smile right now—he’s too busy shooting daggers at the smug man sitting beside him.

“Alright,” Jake says, lifting his own drink. “A toast—to our fearless leader, our formidable captain, and the generosity of the U.S. Navy for this all-expenses-paid vacation to Hawai’i.”

“Hear, hear!” Reuben cheers, raising his beer.

Maverick rolls his eyes as the whole table stands and lifts their drinks, laughing. And even Bob can’t help but crack a small smile when the rim of your glass clinks against his.

The night wears on in surprisingly calm fashion. Everyone drinks. Everyone eats. Everyone laughs. There’s easy conversation and a warm atmosphere that settles in around the table. Bob makes it through two terrible drinks before he beats Jake to ordering and finally gets a glass of something non-alcoholic that doesn’t make his throat burn.

But even then—even with a glass of orange juice in front of him—something about the way your eyes darken whenever they meet his makes him feel just a little drunk.

A little reckless, maybe.

By nine p.m., Maverick is on his third embarrassing story about baby Bradley, Penny is crying with laughter, and Reuben is recording it because he knows Mickey would be devastated to miss out.

“And that is why Rooster is banned from every Chuck E. Cheese in the state of California,” Maverick snorts, lifting his drink.

Javy leans halfway across the table, grinning. “Every Chuck E. Cheese in California? Still?”

Maverick nods. “Still.”

“I was eleven!” Bradley exclaims. “It was an accident.”

“Oh, buddy,” you giggle. “That definitely doesn’t sound like an accident. You were an evil little kid.”

Bradley rolls his eyes but doesn’t bother arguing—he just lifts his beer to his lips and drains it.

After a few more minutes of laughter—and Bradley sulking—Jake claps his hands together and sits up straighter.

“Alright, team,” he says. “I think it’s time we move on.”

Maverick’s brows lift. “Move on?”

Jake nods. “I found this great little bar with live music—it’s only about a block away.”

“What about tomorrow?” Penny asks, arching a brow.

Bradley shrugs. “What about tomorrow?”

“I don’t want six hungover pilots showing up to Pearl Harbor,” Maverick says, his brows drawing together.

Reuben scoffs. “Come on, Mav. At best you’ll get five—Bob never gets drunk!”

Maverick drops his head and pinches the bridge of his nose. “Thank you, Payback. That’s exactly what I wanted to hear.”

Penny stifles a laugh behind a sip of her drink.

“Well,” Jake says, smirking, “if you come with us, you can make sure we don’t drink too much.”

At that, Penny snorts, nearly spraying a mouthful of beer across the table.

“Sorry,” she mutters, still smiling. “I just—sorry, but did you really just ask Maverick to come out with you and be the responsible one?”

“Hey.” Maverick shoots her an indignant look. “I can be responsible. I’m their captain.”

Penny doesn’t respond—she just keeps giggling like this is the best joke she’s heard in years.

“You know what,” Maverick says, pushing out of his chair. “I’ll rise to the challenge. I’ll be the babysitter. Let’s do this.”

There’s a chorus of cheers and laughter as chairs scrape back and everyone stands. Penny is still laughing as people pay their bills and wander out to the front of the bar—and that’s where she bids Maverick goodnight, says her farewells to the rest, and climbs into a cab to get back to Amelia at the hotel.

Jake then tells Bradley the name of the next bar and motions for him to lead the way—with a wink he’s not even trying to hide. Bradley nods, grinning like the unsubtle fool he is, and links his arm with yours, dragging you to the front of the group and striking up a conversation about something Bob can’t quite make out.

“Okay,” Jake whispers, falling into step beside Bob. “Phase Three.”

Bob sighs. “Great.”

“This is where it gets a little counterintuitive,” Jake says. “But stay with me. You’ve done great so far—well. Mostly. You’re lucky you’ve got me.”

Bob grimaces.

“But now,” Jake continues, “you need to pull back.”

Bob looks at him. “What?”

“Just a little,” Jake adds quickly. “Enough that she notices. Up until now, you’ve been attentive. Safe. Available.” He glances ahead, toward you. “Now you introduce a little… mystery.”

He emphasises the last word with a flourish of his hand, like he’s unveiling a magic trick.

“What have I done?” Bob mutters, more to himself than anyone else.

Jake ignores him. “You’ve got to become temporarily unavailable.”

Bob’s eyes go wide.

“Not emotionally—don’t freak out,” Jake adds. “Just... visually.”

“Visually?” Bob echoes.

“Nothing dramatic. Five minutes. Smile. Eye contact. A compliment.” Jake shrugs. “You don’t even have to mean it.”

Bob frowns. “I still don’t understand what you’re talking about.”

Jake rolls his eyes. “Flirt, Bob. I’m telling you to flirt with another woman.”

“What?” Bob’s eyes go wide again. “No way. I—I can’t. I mean, I just—”

“I know, I know—this makes you uncomfortable.” Jake claps a hand on Bob’s shoulder. “But that’s where the growth happens.”

Bob shrugs him off.

“How is flirting with someone else supposed to help?”

“It’s scarcity, Floyd. Very basic economics.” Jake lowers his voice. “Right now she thinks she’s got you figured out. We just need to… shake the snow globe. You know?”

Bob stares at him. “No. Actually, I have no idea what you’re—”

“We’re here!” Bradley calls from the front of the group. “Get your IDs out, sexy people. You especially, Floyd—those glasses do nothing for your baby face.”

Bob lets out a sharp, exasperated breath. “Jesus Christ.”

“Buck up, Bobby!” Jake grins. “Your night is about to get a whole lot more interesting.”

Everyone funnels into the bar without too much fuss—the security guard checking IDs even though he can clearly tell no one is underage. The place is already humming, with live music booming above the chatter and a heavy air thick with salt and sweat and something citrusy from the bar. It’s darker than the last place, lit mostly by strings of lights and the low glow of neon along the back wall.

Bob hangs back out of instinct, letting everyone else surge ahead, but Jake’s hand at his elbow steers him forward before he can fully commit to disappearing.

The bar stretches along the back wall, polished wood crowded with elbows and condensation rings. People shout their orders over the music—beer, cocktails, something pink with fruit floating in it—and Bob finds himself wedged between Bradley and Jake, staring at the chalkboard menu like it might offer him spiritual guidance.

He doesn’t look at you first—even though he wants to.

He can feel where you are, though. Somewhere just to his right. Close enough that when he finally turns his head, he catches the tail end of your glance. Your eyes flick away immediately—nothing dramatic, nothing obvious—but it still sends a small, unsteady jolt through him. Like being caught mid-thought.

But before he can linger on it for too long, Jake nudges his side. Hard.

“Six o’clock. Blonde. She’s looking this way,” he says, eyes trained across the bar. “Not sure if she wants me or you—” he smirks. “I know which I’d put my money on—but I’ll give you this one.”

Bob gives him a flat look. “Gee, thanks.”

“You ready?”

“No.”

“Great. Let’s go.”

Bob stumbles through the crowd, half-dragged by Jake, until he finds himself at the other end of the bar, right beside the blonde—he’s assuming—Jake had been referring to. And then Jake is gone. Vanished. Nowhere to be seen. But Bob can still feel his gaze from wherever he’s hiding.

Bob clears his throat, turning stiffly toward the blonde.

“Uh—hey,” he says, immediately hating how unsure it sounds.

She turns to face him, smile widening. “Hi.”

Now he’s supposed to say something else. Something smooth. Something intentional. Something Jake would say that’d have any woman scribbling her number on a napkin.

He clears his throat. Again. “I—I’m Bob.”

“Marci,” she says, holding out her hand.

Bob shakes it. “Pretty name.”

“Thanks.”

Okay. Now what?

Bob knows he shouldn’t—he knows it’s too soon, that it could very well blow up Jake’s stupid plan—but he does it anyway. He looks for you.

And you’re still there.

Standing between Bradley and Reuben. Your eyes catch his, just for a second, before drifting away—as if they never really meant to land on him at all. Your posture is relaxed, your expression unreadable, but there’s something uneasy in the set of your mouth. Something he can’t quite figure out.

“So,” Marci says, patient, expectant.

Bob’s eyes snap back to her, and he tries to focus.

What would Hangman do?

God. He never thought he’d be seriously asking himself that question.

“I like your—uh—shoes,” he offers, and immediately regrets it. They’re just shoes. Normal shoes. Why would he compliment her shoes?

She laughs anyway. “Thanks.”

He nods, pushing his glasses a little further up his nose. “Yeah. They—um. They suit you.”

This is going so much worse than he thought. And he already knew it wasn’t going to be good.

But the worst part—the worst part—is that he can feel himself pulling away from you to do this. Turning his body, angling his shoulders, pretending to be temporarily unavailable like Jake told him to. It feels wrong in a way he can’t quite articulate.

He risks another glance across the bar.

You’re looking now.

Not sharply. Not accusingly. Just… looking. Your brows faintly knit, head tilted, like you’re watching something you didn’t expect and aren’t sure how to categorise.

Something in Bob’s chest gives a small, panicked lurch.

He laughs, turning back to the blonde. “Sorry. I’m not—this isn’t usually my thing.”

Marci hums, amused. “Could’ve fooled me.”

A beat passes. Then another.

Bob glances across the bar, searching for something—anything, any excuse—when a frantic hand gesture catches his eye. Jake. Of course. His eyes are wide, expression stern, a sharp finger pointed straight at Bob as he mouths something Bob absolutely cannot make out.

But he can gauge the general vibe.

Try harder.

So, with a deep breath, Bob forces his shoulders to relax and asks Marci if she’s here on vacation—which works. Her face lights up, and she launches into the story of why she’s here. Why she and her friends decided they needed a girls’ trip because one of them found out her boyfriend had not one, but two other girlfriends.

Then it’s something about work. Something about her boss, who only has it out for her because she has naturally thick hair and he’s going bald. Then it’s her family. Her cat. A friend who moved to Canada who, like, totally regrets it because it’s so cold up there.

Bob nods in all the right places, hums when it feels expected, and lets the sound of her voice wash over him without really catching on to anything specific.

He’s not trying to be rude. It’s just easier this way.

He takes a slow sip of his drink—barely tasting it—and tries to settle into the role Jake’s assigned him. Tries to look relaxed. Tries to angle his body the way he’s supposed to, shoulders turned just enough to sell the illusion.

Temporarily unavailable.

The phrase echoes through his head, absurd and heavy all at once.

And every few minutes, he lets his gaze drift. Not fully—just enough to check. To confirm.

You’re still at the bar, but you’re not where you were before. You’ve shifted closer to Reuben now, your bodies angled together as he leans in to hear you over the music. Your head dips when you laugh at something he says, hair falling forward, obscuring your face for a second.

Bob’s chest tightens.

This is working, right? This is the point. This is what’s supposed to happen.

He tells himself that. Repeats it. Loops it in his mind like a mantra—the only thing keeping him grounded—and tries not to catalogue every tiny move you make, every glance you don’t send his way. But it’s hard. Because he wants to be the one you’re laughing with. Leaning into. Looking at with that concentrated little frown between your brows.

Marci laughs at something—and he realises suddenly, belatedly, that it must have been a joke. He smiles back, a reflex more than a choice.

“Sorry,” he says, automatically. “It’s loud in here.”

She doesn’t seem bothered. He’s not even sure she heard him, because she just keeps talking—easy, unoffended—like this is exactly the kind of interaction she expected when she walked into a bar like this.

Bob wonders—briefly, unfairly—if this is how it always goes for people like Jake. If it really can be this easy. Just standing here, nodding along, letting someone talk while the rest takes care of itself. No second-guessing every word, no constant awareness of where everyone else in the room is standing.

Because Marci doesn’t seem to need anything from him beyond that. She’s talking, filling the space easily, smiling when it suits her, perfectly content with half his attention—or less, really. It’s easy. Effortless. And the unsettling part is how little of him it actually requires.

For a moment, Bob feels strangely hollow. Lost in his thoughts, stuck on the idea that maybe this is what flirting is supposed to feel like, and he’s just been doing it all wrong.

Then a hand lands on his shoulder—solid and familiar—and Jake appears, a charming smile already stretched across his face.

“I’m so sorry to interrupt, but I need my friend for a minute. Do you mind?”

Marci’s cheeks flush. “Oh. No, not at all. Take your time.”

Okay. Maybe it’s just Jake. Maybe it really is this easy for him.

With a wink and a nod—a very cowboy nod—Jake turns away and steers Bob a few steps from Marci. Further from the band, where he doesn’t have to shout over the music.

“I think it worked a little too well,” he says.

Bob frowns. “What?”

Jake tips his head toward the bar. Toward you.

“She asked Payback to take her home. She’s gone.”

Bob’s stomach drops. “She... she what?”

Jake doesn’t repeat himself. He just waits.

Bob can feel his heart pounding, too fast, too loud, like it’s climbed up into his throat. There’s a tight, bitter ache behind his ribs—unfamiliar and immediate—and he swallows hard, like that might make it go away.

“Like, take her home?” he asks, trying to keep his voice even. “Or take her home?”

Jake rolls his eyes. “Relax. She didn’t ask him to take her home like that. She’s probably just tired.” He pauses, then grins. “And jealous.”

Is that supposed to make Bob feel better? Because it doesn’t.

“I should—” Bob tries to step past Jake, but he blocks his path.

“Should what?”

“I should explain. I don’t want her to—”

“Explain what?” Jake asks, rhetorical. “You didn’t do anything wrong. You were talking to a pretty girl in a bar and she couldn’t stand to watch. This was kind of the whole plan.”

Bob’s brows draw tighter. “Well, I don’t like the plan.”

Jake lets out a sharp sigh. “Come on, Floyd. Don’t chicken out now. I know Phase Three’s hard but I promise you’re gonna like Phase Four.”

Right now, Bob couldn’t care less about phase three or four or Jake’s entire stupid plan. All he cares about is you—where you are, what you’re thinking, who you’re with. He doesn’t care about jealousy or mystery or being temporarily unavailable.

Just you.

“Okay, whatever,” he says, eyes bouncing between Jake’s face and the door. “I won’t explain myself—but I’m going back to the hotel. I’m done tonight.”

Jake narrows his eyes. “You promise you’re not going to blurt out some lame excuse and ruin everything?”

Bob gives him a flat look. “Yes. I promise. I’m just—I'm tired, okay?”

Jake doesn’t move at first. He just looks at Bob, studies him, as if he could stare hard enough to read his mind. Then, after what feels like a weirdly long time to be holding such intense eye contact, he steps out of Bob’s path.

“Fine. Be boring, go home.” His eyes move from Bob’s face to the bar behind him. “Mind if I comfort your friend?”

“Knock yourself out,” Bob mutters, brushing past Jake as he heads for the door.

Jake calls something behind him, but Bob doesn’t hear it—and he doesn’t want to. All he wants is to get back to the hotel and see you, before his imagination starts showing him things he won’t be able to shake.

It isn’t until he’s climbing out of the Uber, fishing for his room card in his back pocket, that he realises he should’ve texted you—let you know he’s on his way back. He doesn’t want to frighten you. Or worse. You could be showering again, or changing, or walking around in your underwear—

God. He needs to stop before his brain goes somewhere it absolutely shouldn’t—before he pops a boner waiting for the damn elevator.

He slips his phone out of his pocket and types a quick text:

Forgot to let you know I left the bar. Just got back to the resort.

But before he hits send, he hesitates. Is he trying too hard?

So he retypes as he steps into the lift:

I’ll be at the room in five.

He hesitates again. Should he elaborate?

He types again:

Decided to call it an early night and I’m just about back at the room. Hope that’s okay.

Hope that’s okay? Why wouldn’t it be? He doesn’t need your permission. It’s his room too.

He takes a deep breath as he steps out of the elevator, then deletes the text and tries again:

Just letting you know I’ll be back at the room in—

He glances up from his phone. Shit. He’s already here. Texting now would just be weird.

It’s fine—he’ll just knock. That’s a fair enough warning. Right?

He lifts his hand and raps on the door three times.

A beat passes. Then another. Nothing.

His brows draw together, his heart beating far too fast for this to mean nothing.

He knocks again. Waits.

Still nothing.

His stomach knots nervously, nausea crawling bitterly up the back of his throat.

Maybe you’re out on the balcony?

He exhales slowly, then slips his keycard from his back pocket and swipes it through the reader. The lock flashes green, then beeps and clicks. He turns the handle and pushes the door open slowly.

“It’s just me,” he calls. “I forgot to text when I left the bar, but—”

The room is dark. Not a single light left on. Bob’s brows knit tighter as he lets the door fall shut behind him with a soft click. He treads lightly, quietly, squinting through the dark toward the bed in the middle of the room.

But it’s empty. Everything’s empty.

The bed, the bathroom, the balcony—the whole damn room is completely empty.

Fuck.

Bob squeezes his eyes shut and drags in a slow, steady breath, like that might be enough to force his thoughts back into order. Like he can shove it all back down if he just doesn’t think too hard.

But it doesn’t work.

The images come anyway—half-formed and unwelcome. Not clear enough to be real, but sharp enough to sting. He doesn’t want to picture it. Doesn’t want to give the thought any shape or weight. But his brain keeps circling the same awful question, over and over, until it feels burned into the backs of his eyelids.

What if Jake’s stupid phase three didn’t make you jealous—what if it just made you move on?

What if you saw him laughing with someone else and decided not to wait around for clarification. What if you didn’t owe him that. What if you assumed the worst because, frankly, he’d given you every reason to.

Bob shoves his glasses into his hair and presses the heels of his hands into his eyes.

He did this. He followed the plan. He pulled back. He looked away. And now the room is empty, and you’re not here, and the silence feels loud enough to accuse him of something.

Maybe you didn’t even mean it to happen like this. Maybe you were just tired. Maybe you just wanted to go home and sleep.

But the thought doesn’t settle. It won’t.

Because another part of him—the louder, more anxious part—keeps whispering that he waited too long. That he hesitated when it mattered. That he let someone else step into the space he should’ve been standing in all along. That Jake’s plan was never going to work because Bob was already too late.

And now he’s alone in a dark hotel room, trying not to imagine what he’s already decided he’s lost.

After a few minutes of standing in the dark, listening to his pulse pound in his ears, Bob fumbles for a light switch, flicking on the first one he can find. The overhead lights flicker to life instantly, bathing the empty room in a warm yellow glow that feels almost mocking in its normalcy.

He avoids his reflection in the mirrored wardrobe as he steps around the bed and flips open his suitcase. He picks out a pair of sleep shorts and one of his threadbare sleep shirts, throws them on the bed, and starts unbuttoning his shirt with clumsy fingers.

Every sound is obnoxiously loud in the quiet room. He can hear the soft whistle of the breeze outside, the distant echo of voices from other rooms. Even the rustle of fabric is too sharp in his ears as he shrugs his shirt off.

Then his hands drop to his waistband, about to unbutton his shorts when he hears the door click—and freezes.

It barely takes you two steps to come into view, looking a little startled and a little confused.

“Oh.” You frown. “Sorry, I—uh—I didn’t expect you to be here.”

The tension drains out of him all at once, like someone pulled a plug. Bob can feel it in his shoulders, his jaw, the way his lungs finally remember how to exhale. You’re still wearing that sinful little sundress—hair still perfect, makeup unsmudged. Almost as if everything he’d imagined hadn’t happened at all.

“Hey,” he says, a little breathless. “I’m sorry, I—I should have texted you, but I didn’t think. Just wanted to get out of that stuffy bar.”

You huff a quiet, humourless laugh through your nose. “Yeah. Looked like you were having a terrible time.”

Bob frowns. He might not be as good at reading women as Jake is, but he knows you—and he knows that was dripping with sarcasm.

“What does that mean?”

You shrug, but it’s stiff—too deliberate. “Nothing. Just… surprised you didn’t go home with your new friend.”

Bob’s brows draw tighter. “New friend?”

“The blonde,” you say, forcing a smile that doesn’t quite stick. “At the bar. Gorgeous, by the way.”

“Oh—uh.” Bob hesitates. “She was just—we were just talking.”

“Just talking?” you repeat, brows lifting.

He nods automatically, then pauses. There’s something different in your expression now—darker, sharper. Focused on him in a way that makes his skin prickle.

“I could see you, Bob,” you say, folding your arms. “I could see her. She was into you.”

He blinks. “She was?”

Your mouth twists. “God. Really? Isn’t that the whole reason you went over there? So you could get laid?”

The words hit harder than he expects.

“No,” he says quickly. “I mean—no. That’s not—” He cuts himself off, heat creeping up his neck as he thinks of Jake—don’t explain, don’t chase. “I didn’t think she was interested… like that.”

You stare at him for a beat, then let out a short scoff. “Wow. Okay.”

You step closer without meaning to—or maybe he steps back. He’s not sure. All he knows is that you’re very aware of the fact that he’s shirtless now, your gaze dipping and catching before you drag it away again.

Something tight and confusing coils low in his stomach.

“You know, I used to think it was just me,” you say lightly—too lightly. “But at least now I know you’re clueless about all women.”

Then you turn on your heel, march toward the other side of the bed, snatch something out of your suitcase, and stomp into the bathroom.

Bob just stands there, stunned. His brain is still catching up—confusion tangling with relief, with something warmer and sharper that has no business showing up right now. His heart is still pounding, but not like before. Not panic. Something else.

“I’m changing,” you mutter.

Bob fumbles for his shirt, pulling it over his head as he turns toward the balcony. He doesn’t look back—no matter how much he wants to—he just slides the door open and steps out into the warm night.

He takes a deep breath, staring out at the quietly crashing waves, and for the first time since Jake started talking about plans and phases and being temporarily unavailable, a thought sneaks in—unwanted and reluctant, but impossible to ignore.

Oh.

Maybe it’s… working.

‧₊˚✧ PART TWO ‧₊˚✧

You'd been in the bed opposite his, tonight. Futile to close his eyes again and try to succumb back to sleep. Bathroom, he'd decided. To breathe and forget and remind.

Not his. To hold or admire or love, though he loves you very much. It's a dagger to his heart, a pretty, embossed and painful thing that taunts him and smudges sticky crimson around his insides. Over his ribs, it drips to his stomach. He feels it everywhere, always and ever flowing.

The steady drip, drip, drip of the tap keeps him tuned. But it's soon paired with soft, tentative footfall and he turns his head towards the sound. It stops and then shuffles, his hands feel wet all over again.

"Dean," you call, muffled. His forehead drops to the door, he curses. "Are you alright?"

He swallows down a thick ache. "Yeah," he answers. "M'fine, sweetheart."

Silence stretches for one moment, and the next. Until your soft sigh pierces through the veil and he hears a gentle thud where you've just sunk your head against the door, with his. He wonders if they'd be touching if there wasn't something in the way.

"Did you have a nightmare? I told you to wake me up for those, De. It's okay."

It's worse that you're caring and kind. Worse that you do smile at him and look at him and pay attention, worse that you know the turns of his tangled, tarnished mind and love so loudly despite it. The doorknob turns under his grip and he isn't sure when he'd reached for it at all, it's a mistake.

You're pretty like this, subtly-lit and mostly shrouded by the dark. Hair mussed and eyes glinting, drooped with heavy sleep that he desperately hopes he hadn't woken you from. The majority of him yearns to thrust forward and wipe the shadows from your soft under eyes and kiss at your nose, tuck you back into bed with him and hold you until the sun rises.

"I'm alright," he assures, voice quiet. "You should go back to sleep, pretty."

Your head shakes. "It's too quiet without your snoring. I need the noise."

A small smile spreads then, he ignores the pang of his chest and crosses his arms to stifle it.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. Are you gonna make fun?"

The dagger stabs at him, then. He bends down to meet your eyes in full and lets his gaze flutter about the shine in them. "No," he breathes. "'Course, not. Not about that. Okay?"

You nod and he lets a low sigh bleed out from his lips. It's without thinking that his fingers find your bicep, they give an upwards sweep. His jaw works when you lean and press against the touch. He does it again, down your sleeve and up to bunch the fabric, soothing and repetitive, he wishes this was regular and every day.

"Baby. You're fallin' asleep, go on," he whispers. "I'll be out in a sec."

It's a very massive slip, baby. He'd want to crawl into the Earth and wilt amidst it's soil if he had said it aloud during the day. But with how sleepy you are, he's sure you haven't noticed. Even surer when you smile crooked and turn to make way back to bed, and the first bout of relief he's felt in a long time blooms big.

One day he'll call you by it without being nervous, he dreams again, awake. You'll flush and bubble out that flowery laugh that he loves and call him something just as honey-sweet and coveted right back. It'll be known and yours and real, love.

Real love.

He closes the door and faces the mirror once more, and hopes he has another one when he falls back asleep tonight.

❤︎⁠

A rocks glass is placed down onto the table in front of you with a thud. Looking up, you’re met with the sight of the best man towering over you expectantly with a drink in his hand.

“Evan.”

“Hi gorgeous.”

You scoff, staring up at him through your lashes.

“What’s this?”

“A drink.”

“Yeah. But why?”

“It’s whiskey. I watched you grimace every time you had to drink the champagne, so I thought you’d want something different.”

You swirl the glass, listening to the tinkle of the ice against the sides.

“You were watching me, huh?”

“Of course I was. Can’t take my eyes off you in that dress.”

“Shut up,” you chide, fighting to keep the grin off your face. “I’m not doing this with you.”

“Doing what, exactly?”

“The whole best man and maid of honour thing. It’s just too cliched.”

He laughs all hearty and genuine, and you poignantly ignore the way the butterflies start fluttering in your stomach.

“Then why do you keep looking at me like that?”

“Like what?”

“Like you want to eat me.”

Now it’s your turn to laugh, shaking your head at him.

“Yeah, right. In your dreams, Evan.”

“Oh, you will be,” he winks, knocking his glass against yours in a quick cheers before walking off to the find the groom.

You watch him go, not completely oblivious to the way his suit fits him just right. Determined to stand your ground, you inhale a deep breath before taking a sip of your drink. The drink that definitely isn’t exactly what you needed. The drink that he’d practically read your mind to figure out. Effortlessly.

✵  ✵    ·　 ✵ 　　 *  · ✵

It’s been like this all day.

You met Evan Buckley for the first time last night, at the rehearsal dinner. The bride, your best friend in the world, kept telling you that you’d love the best man.

“He’s from California,” she’d said. “He’s Danny’s friend from when they were kids. He’s a firefighter, babe. He’s hot.”

You’d laughed it off, zipping up the back of her dress while she watched you in the mirror.

“Oh, come on. That’s so cliched. The whole maid of honour and best man thing is so old, Lucy.”

“You’re single, he’s single,” she’d protested. “It’d do you some good to get laid, relieve some stress. And people let their guards down at weddings. Now’s your chance.”

“If I wanted to get laid, I’d get laid,” you scoffed.

“All I’m saying is that Buck is completely your type. He’s gorgeous, he’s funny, he’s sweet. And you’re gonna have to spend a fair bit of time together tonight and tomorrow, so… just keep an open mind.”

“Fine,” you soothed, rolling your eyes. “Mind wide open. Alright?”

“You’re gonna love him.”

“You said that already.”

“Because I really believe it. You’re gonna love him.”

And the problem is… she was kind of right.

No, you don’t love him. You’ve known him for 48 hours. But… there’s something.

Lucy wasn’t lying. He is gorgeous, and funny, and sweet. And hot. So hot. He showed up to the rehearsal dinner in dress pants and a linen shirt, all sun kissed and muscled and tanned and stunning.

The two of you were seated next to each other, planned so carefully by the bride and groom. One minute you were making cautious introductions, shaking hands and smiling gently. The next minute you were crying with laughter, clutching at his bicep as he grabs your thigh, legs intertwined and chairs pulled together.

Lucy and Danny nudge each other occasionally, watching the both of you get along like two old friends that have known each other forever. A look passes between them that says I told you so clear as day.

But you’re stubborn. Too stubborn, some may say. You know you’ll never hear the end of it from your friends if you give into this very alluring temptation, and perhaps your pride means a bit more to you than it should. So you resist, you refuse to give in. Even if you really want to.

And that was just last night. Today has been even worse.

By worse, you mean the connection between you and Evan has grown even stronger. You walked down the aisle with him, arm linked with his, both dressed up to the nines. The maid of honour and the best man, a perfect picture.

You haven’t been able to keep your hands off each other all day. Little touches - his fingers on the small of your back, your grip on his bicep, shoulders brushing and thighs pressed together. Nothing crazy, but nothing meaningless, either. There’s an undeniable electricity buzzing between you, hot and alive.

You’re not sure how much longer you can deny it.

✵  ✵    ·　 ✵ 　　 *  · ✵

You’re dancing with Lucy and her little nieces when you hear yelling and commotion coming from the other side of the dance floor. Looking over, you see Danny, Evan and other groomsmen flailing around and fussing.

“What happened?” Lucy’s yelling, making her way over with you in tow.

“Just a drink spillage, Luce! But it’s red wine, and now Buck’s shirt is pink.”

You look at the man in question and can’t help but laugh. His crisp white dress shirt is now a pretty shade of pink across the front, his cheeks a rosy colour to match.

“Stop laughing,” he chides, but he’s grinning at you as he says it. “I need to go and change. I have a spare shirt in my suitcase upstairs.”

He starts to leave, but soon turns around and calls your name.

“I don’t have a key for that big door at the end of the hallway to get to our rooms. Do you?”

“Yeah, it’s in my purse. You want it?”

“Just come with me. It’ll be easier.”

Before you can argue, he’s taken off, big strides across the garden. You have to practically run in your heels to keep up with him, shaking your head in frustration.

“I could have just given you this,” you say when you reach the door, unlocking it for him.

“Where’s the fun in that?”

The smirk he gives you is so cheeky, it’s a wonder you don’t smack it off his face. Cocky bastard.

“You’re so annoying,” you mumble, walking with purpose to his room.

“Come in with me? It’ll only take a minute, then we can walk back together.”

You know you should say no, tell him that you’ll meet him downstairs. But you don’t. Instead, you say,

“Fine. But hurry up. I don’t wanna miss the party.”

“Yes ma’am,” he mock salutes, unlocking the door to his room that’s conveniently directly across from yours.

You take a seat on the edge of the bed, trying to avoid watching him undress. He shrugs off his now pink shirt, taking it with him into the bathroom.

You’re surprised at how tidy everything is. Not that you think Evan would be particularly messy, but he doesn’t strike you as a neat and clean type. His suitcase is unpacked into the closet, bed made, nothing on the floor. It only makes you like him more.

“Can you grab my other shirt from the closet please, gorgeous? The one I wore last night for the rehearsal dinner.”

You swing the two doors open and rifle around, failing to see the linen button up that he’s looking for. Suddenly, you feel a warmth behind you, Buck’s solid form caging you in. He reaches around you, arm brushing yours as he finds what he needs.

“Found it,” he murmurs into your ear, all low and honeyed.

Against your better judgment, you turn around, finding yourself face to face with him. He towers over you, watching your reactions carefully. Your hands reach out and rest on his bare chest, steadying yourself before you either fall over or pass out.

Buck gently traces your bottom lip with his thumb, eyes completely locked on yours. You have to resist every urge to either bite it or suck it into your mouth, reminding yourself that now isn’t the time. The noise from the garden floats up and through the window that’s cracked open slightly, tethering you to the reality that is slowly fading away the longer you hold Evan’s gaze.

He leans in, and to your surprise, doesn’t kiss you immediately. Pressing his forehead to yours, he inhales deeply, as if committing the moment to memory. His thumbs are now tracing gentle circles on your jaw, soft and callous at the same time. You inhale slowly, processing the scent of his cologne mixed with the evening breeze. If you could bottle it up, you think, you’d be a millionaire. This would cure everything.

Buck finally closes down the gap between you, inching towards your lips softly. You shut your eyes, waiting for him to finally kiss you - when there’s deafening knocking on the door. The two of you jump apart, hearts pounding and nerves on a live wire.

Evan strides over to the source of the noise, taking a deep breath to try and compose himself as he goes. You perch on the edge of the bed, smoothing down your dress and attempting to look as inconspicuous as possible.

“Buck? Dude, it’s Jake. Hurry up, yeah? The guys wanna do our dance routine before everyone gets too drunk to remember it.”

He doesn’t bother opening the door, just yells back through the wood.

“Yeah, sure - I’ll be down in a minute!”

You hear Jake’s footsteps retreat, both of you exhaling the breaths you didn’t know you’d been holding. Buck looks at you, worried that the moment’s been ruined, to find you stifling a laugh behind your hand.

“There’s a dance routine?”

“Shut up,” he grumbles, fighting to keep the grin off his face. “We created it years ago. The guys won’t let it die.”

“Oh, I can’t wait to see this.”

You’re cackling, reclining onto the duvet as you laugh.

“Stop,” he groans, jumping over to flop onto his back on the bed next to you. “I did a lot of regrettable things in college… and that routine is definitely the worst of it.”

“I hope you know that you’re never going to live this down, Buckley. I’ll be reminding you of this forever.”

“Oh yeah?” he asks, propping himself up on his elbow so he can look at you. “You really like me, huh?”

“What the hell gave you that impression?”

“You said forever. What’s next, honey? You gonna get down on one knee later?”

You’re suddenly aware of the warmth of the whiskey flowing through your veins, giving you a liquid confidence that stuns both you and the man lying next to you.

“Two knees, maybe. But not one.”

His eyes go wide as you smirk, pulling yourself off the bed and making your way over to the door. Buck watches you carefully, gaze steady and firm.

“You coming? I’m more than ready to see those moves of yours.”

He stands up, slipping on his shoes and shrugging the clean shirt onto his broad shoulders. You grab your purse, leaning against the doorframe as you wait.

Evan reaches past you for the door handle, nose purposely brushing yours as he does it.

“I’ll hold you to what you said before,” he murmurs, moving a strand of hair away from your face softly. “Don’t think I won’t.”

You look up at him with big doe eyes, like butter wouldn’t melt.

“Sure, Evan,” you reply lowly. “I’ll believe it when I see it.”

Breaking away from him, you swing the door open, strutting down the hallway without looking back. Your confidence has sky rocketed, knowing that he wants this just as badly as you do. You walk back out to the garden and take your earlier seat, ready for the show you’ve been promised.

✵  ✵    ·　 ✵ 　　 *  · ✵

The dance routine is spectacular.

It’s cheesy and hilarious and very early 2000s inspired - it’s almost like watching a music video from a boy band you loved when you were a teenager. It should embarrass you, turn you off majorly, but… it doesn’t. It only does the opposite.

Everything Buck does makes you like him more.

You spend the rest of the evening dancing, laughing, and floating on cloud nine. In a garden in Italy, surrounded by your best friends - you can’t think of anywhere else you’d rather be.

As the evening dwindles to an end, everyone slowly begins making their way back to their rooms within the villa. You sit down, unbuckling your heels to finally give your feet a rest. It almost feels like deja vu when a rocks glass is placed down in front of you on the table.

“Hi, Evan.”

“Hi gorgeous.”

“What’s this?”

“A drink.”

“Yes, but why?”

He pulls out the chair in front of you and sits down, looking at you intently.

“Thought we could have a nightcap before we go upstairs.”

You look around to find that mostly everyone has decided to call it a day. You can see Lucy and Danny walking off hand in hand, going for a stroll around the grounds before they let the wedding officially be over. It just leaves you and Buck, sat in your original places.

“Is this Baileys?”

“Yes ma’am. Do you like it? I figured you probably wouldn’t want another whiskey, seeing as you’ve had so many.”

You scoff, trying to fight the grin that threatens to take over your face.

“I’ve had, like, four, thank you very much.”

He holds his hands up in mock surrender, making you chuckle as you shake your head.

“Cheers, Evan,” you toast, clinking your glass against his matching one. “We did it. A wedding without a hitch. Mostly.”

“My shirt will never be white again, but besides that, we did a pretty good job.”

“We make a good team.”

He looks slightly taken aback by your honesty, trying to hide his smirk.

“Yes, we do. A super hot, super funny team.”

“A super hot, super funny team.”

You both laugh, heads thrown back with no cares in the world. Buck shuffles his chair forward so his legs are slotted on either side of you, warm skin radiating into yours. The moonlight is glinting off of his cheekbones, illuminating the light streaks in his hair. You’re a little tipsy and much too tired to fully fight your feelings anymore.

He’s beautiful, and you’re sick of denying it.

The two of you finish off your drinks, sat in a comfortable silence beneath the starry night sky. His hand has found its way onto your thigh, thumb rubbing gentle patterns into your bare skin. You’re sneaking glances at him when he looks away, admiring the way he’s glowing, buzzed off of the alcohol and the excitement of the day. He’s doing the same with you, soft smile etched onto his face as he watches you gaze up at the stars above your heads.

A yawn escapes you, making both of you chuckle.

“I’ll walk you to your room?”

“Well, you better. I’m the only one of us with a key for that big door.”

He laughs even harder, shaking his head.

“Yeah, I forgot about that. If you weren’t here, I’d have slept on the floor in the hallway or something.”

“Probably wouldn’t be the first time,” you mutter, standing up and tucking your chair under the table.

“Sorry, what was that? Say it again? Hmm? Hmm?” he wraps his arms around your middle, spinning you so your feet are no longer on the floor.

“Okay, okay! Put me down before I throw up,” you shriek, giggling like a teenager.

He places you back down, hands on your hips to steady you. You look up at him, keeping your eyes fixed on his to steady yourself from the dizziness. When you feel ready to go, you clear your throat, willing yourself to walk away before you kiss him stupid.

“We should go to bed,” you whisper, afraid to ruin the moment.

“Yeah?”

“Separate beds,” you tell him sternly, chuckling when he cackles.

“Yes ma’am.”

Buck walks you back to your room in a gentlemanly fashion, looping your arm through his to keep you both upright. When you reach your door, your fingers linger on the handle, as if you’re not quite ready to go inside just yet.

Reaching out gently, he moves a strand of hair from your face, fingertips brushing your cheekbone as he does it. You sigh softly, eyes fluttering shut at the sweet contact.

“Goodnight, gorgeous,” he murmurs lowly. “Sweet dreams.”

“Goodnight.”

He takes a step back towards his door when you speak again.

“Evan?”

“Hmm?”

“Thank you.”

“For?”

“Everything, today. You’ve been a damn good best man.”

“Well, thank you. For being the best maid of honour.”

You nod, smiling like an idiot as you unlock your door and shut it behind you. You take a deep breath when you’re finally inside, throwing down your heels onto the floor and your purse onto the side table. Reaching behind you, your fingers tug at the zipper on your dress, attempting to pull it down.

It’s only now you realise your dilemma. The zipper is on an awkward place on your back, right where you can’t get to. You think quickly back to this morning - one of the bridesmaids doing the dress up for you, pulling the material taut as she fastened it. You’re not going to be able to get this off yourself.

Finding the purse that you discarded minutes earlier, you aim to find a hair clip. If you can loop a bobby pin into the zipper, you think, you might be able to pull it yourself. You root around in it for a second, before pulling out two phones.

Well, fuck.

You’d completely forgotten that Evan had given it to you earlier in the evening, worried that it was going to get broken if it stayed in his back pocket. You’d tucked it away and not thought about it again.

Until now.

Now, you’re realising that you’re going to have to go and give it back. He probably hasn’t remembered that you have it, otherwise you’re sure he’d be knocking on the door or yelling across the hallway.

You stand in the middle of your room, with two phones and a stuck zipper, wondering if the universe thinks this is funny.

You’re certainly not laughing.

✵  ✵    ·　 ✵ 　　 *  · ✵

“Evan?”

He swings the door open, facing you in his suit trousers with no shirt on.

“Hey. You okay?”

“Yeah. I, uh, I have your phone.”

Holding it out to him, his fingertips brush yours as he takes it from you, sending a shiver up your spine.

“Oh, shit. I forgot about this. Thanks, pretty.”

“Of course.”

You stand and look at each other for a second, so much left unsaid.

“Can I ask you for a favour?”

“Anything.”

His instantly willingness has butterflies fluttering in your stomach, flitting and lightweight and undeniable.

“Can you help me get my dress off?”

When he smirks and goes to speak, you cut him off quickly.

“The zipper is stuck, Evan. Alice zipped me up this morning and I can’t undo it by myself.”

“This is a very long winded way of asking me to get you naked, gorgeous.”

You scoff, rolling your eyes.

“If that’s what I wanted, I would just ask you, Buckley.”

“Uh huh. Sure.”

“Can you help me or not?”

He’s laughing, now, head thrown back with it. You hate the way it makes your heart sing.

“You coming in? Or you want me to undress you in the hallway?”

“You’re not undressing- fuck, you’re annoying.”

He’s still chuckling when he ushers you inside, shutting the door firmly behind you both.

“How do you wanna do this? Lights on, lights off? Curtains open or shut? Music? Candles?”

“Undo the damn zipper before I smack you.”

His laughter is rumbling through his chest, contagious in its nature. You want to be angry at him, but you just can’t seem to find it in you.

“Turn around, gorgeous.”

You spin to face the door, taking a deep breath as you anticipate his touch. You feel his warmth behind you, fingertips dancing over the skin of your shoulders before they reach your zipper. You can’t see him, but you can envisage the sight - his broad chest, thick neck, that beautiful sun kissed glow he’s developed over the past few days. Your lungs heave as the room suddenly feels like it’s a thousand degrees.

Buck slides the zipper down your back slowly, with intent and clarity. When it reaches your coccyx, he stops, resting his other hand on your hip to keep you steady.

You know you should step away, maybe throw him a quick thanks as you leave. But you do believe in fate, whether you like to admit it or not - and this entire night has felt like it’s been written in the stars.

Who are you to deny what the universe is so clearly gifting you?

You let your arms relax, sighing as the dress falls off of you and down to the floor. You step out of it, finally turning around to face Buck wearing nothing but your lacy white underwear. Surprisingly, there’s not an ounce of self consciousness in your body. The only thing you feel is desire.

For the first time since you’ve met him, Evan is completely speechless. His eyes rove over you, drinking in the sight in front of him, and he has to remind himself to breathe.

“You’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen,” he whispers in awe, fingers itching to reach out and touch you. “The minute I first saw you, I couldn’t believe you were real.”

“Evan?”

“Yeah?”

“Touch me, please.”

He grins, surging forward to cup your cheek with one hand while the other finds its home on your waist.

“Can I kiss you?”

“Please.”

“Finally.”

Buck leans in and presses his lips to yours surprisingly gently, testing the waters. You tangle your fingers into his hair, pulling him as close as possible. He gets the message, reeling you in and deepening the kiss until you can’t tell where he ends and you begin.

You’re being walked backwards and into the wall, pushed up against it for leverage. You hike a leg up over Bucks hip, groaning when the two of you grind forwards at the same time. His hands are everywhere - your face, tits, ass, waist - anywhere he can reach. It’s like he’s not quite sure where he wants them, as if he’s worried he’ll leave somewhere untouched.

“You’re all I’ve thought about for two days,” he’s muttering into your neck as he leaves open mouthed kisses on your skin. “Driving me crazy.”

“I got myself off last night,” you breathe, eyes fluttering shut when he sucks at the spot under your ear. “Thinking about you.”

“Fuck,” he moans, sinking down to his knees in front of you. “Tell me more. Please.”

It’s almost biblical, the sight of him. On his knees, practically begging, looking up at you like you’re his saviour. You’re dizzy with the power, blood rushing straight to your head.

Buck presses kisses into your leg, starting at your calves and moving up. When he gets to your inner thigh, he gazes up at you, pleading with his eyes for you to continue.

“Tell me more or I’ll stop,” he says sternly, hooking his fingers into your underwear to pull them down and off.

“Okay, okay,” you pant, dropping your head back against the wall. “I, I- I couldn’t stop thinking about your arms in that shirt. The, the, the-”

You’re stuttering as he licks a stripe up your core, diving in with no hesitation. His fingers are gripping your thighs so hard you know it’ll bruise, and you can’t wait to feel the imprints in the morning.

“The?”

He’s pulled away to look at you with his brow quirked, dirty smirk etched across his face.

“Keep going, gorgeous. You haven’t even got to the good part. Neither of us have.”

You scoff at him in defiance, but slide your fingers into his hair to tug him back to where you want him.

“You looked so strong,” you continue, sighing when his tongue finds your core again. “Kept thinking about how easily you could throw me around. Pick me up, sit me on your face…”

Buck groans, all deep and rumbled, and the vibrations have your legs going weak. He doubles down on his efforts, slipping his tongue inside as his nose nudges your clit. He’s a fast learner, taking mental note of the spots and pressures that make your knees buckle.

“Keep going,” he mumbles into your core.

“You keep going,” you retort, pulling at his hair.

He chuckles but obliges your request, sucking your clit into his mouth with purpose. You’re shaking, holding onto him for dear life as you reach your climax. The moan you let out is borderline pornographic, and it has Buck palming himself over his suit trousers with a groan.

“Fuck, Evan,” you pant, chest heaving as you slump into the wall. “You need to grab me before I collapse. My legs are jelly.”

Laughing as he does it, he stands up and wraps his arms around your middle, holding you against him as tightly as he can.

“You okay?” he asks, pressing a kiss into your hair.

“Better than ever.”

He rests his lips on your forehead, both of you breathing each other in for a moment.

“Can’t believe you were right across the hallway from me, trying to be quiet while you were getting yourself off,” he murmurs, fingers running up and down your back. “You should have come over here. I would have helped you.”

“Where’s the fun in that?” you tease, cupping his face in your hands. “I was still acting like I didn’t wanna rip your clothes off back then.”

“Knew you’d crack eventually,” he winks, grinning when you laugh.

You pull him into you for a kiss that’s all teeth and tongue, clearly telling him exactly what you want.

“You gonna fuck me, Evan? Or are we just gonna stand here all night?”

He shakes his head with a smirk before throwing you onto the bed, chuckling when you almost bounce back off. As he starts to crawl over to you, you stop him with a foot on his chest.

“Nuh uh. You’re wearing too many clothes. Strip, Buckley.”

“Yes ma’am.”

He’s standing up immediately, unbuttoning his pants and pulling them off in one fell swoop. His boxers are next, leaving him stood bare and beautiful in front of you.

“Fuck. You’re not real,” you breathe out, eyes dancing over him.

“Oh I am so real,” he’s reassuring, situating himself on top of you.

You wrap your legs around his waist, pulling him down so you can grind your hips into his.

“I’ve been waiting two days for this,” you murmur into his lips. “Make it worth my while, please.”

“Careful what you wish for,” he teases, kissing you again with such a force that you’re dizzy.

Buck sucks a bruise into your collarbone, licking a stripe up your sternum and tasting the salt that sits on your skin. Your patience is wearing thinner and thinner, anticipation bubbling up in your veins.

“How’d you want it?” he whispers into your ear.

“Just- deep. Wanna feel you for the rest of the weekend.”

He groans, a breathless chuckle leaving his lips.

“Anything you want, gorgeous. I’ll give you anything you want. Anything in the world.”

His lust drunk rambling makes you giggle, wiggling your hips into his to hopefully hurry him up. You tug at his hair, pulling his face so it’s level with yours.

“Now, Evan. Can’t wait any longer. Please.”

“Fuck. You’re so pretty when you beg.”

He lines himself up, pressing his forehead to yours as the two of you connect. He’s big and he’s stretching you out just right and you think you might have died and gone to heaven. You both groan, panting into each others mouths.

“Fuck, baby. It’s like you were made for me.”

The baby sends warmth running through both your core and your heart, all the signals setting your nervous system on fire.

“Please,” you whimper, kissing him with desperation as you tangle your fingers in his curls and pull. “Please, Evan.”

“I’ve got you,” he’s mumbling, pulling his hips back and sliding them forwards with clear intent.

Reaching up beside your head, Buck pulls a pillow down and situates it under your hips, putting you where he wants you.

“Want you to feel me as deep as possible,” he murmurs, tucking his head into the crook of your neck. “Won’t be able to walk tomorrow.”

You can only moan at the promise, praying he delivers. There’s a shiny sheen of sweat covering his sun kissed skin, making him glow in the moonlight like some sort of angel. Sent just for you.

Buck sets a steady rhythm, not too fast but just fast enough. He clearly knows what he’s doing, and you ignore the pang of jealousy in your chest at the idea of him with another woman, even in the past.

Now that you’ve had a taste of this, you don’t want to let it go.

He’s pressing kisses onto whatever skin he can reach - your neck, your collarbone, underneath your ear. His hips never cease, determined to get you both to where you need to be. When he hitches one of your legs over his waist, you can’t help but drop your head back, eyes fluttering shut at the new angle.

He tilts his hips upwards, and hits a spot that has you keening. Speech has left you, and all you can do now is take it like you were made for it.

“Right there? Yeah? That’s it, isn’t it?”

You nod frantically, sucking in a shuddering breath like you’ve been under water. Your legs have started to shake, and Buck’s grinning when he thinks about how far he can push you before you’re at your limit.

“Come on, pretty girl. Give it to me.”

You’re so close you can taste it, desperate to find this release that’s been building for the last forty eight hours. When Buck moves his hand from your hip to your throat and squeezes just slightly, you snap.

You’re coming with a breathless moan, back arching into him to plaster your fronts together.

“Shit, you look so beautiful when you come. Jesus.”

You manage a soft smile, looking up at him to see those bright eyes staring into yours. He looks entranced, as if he’s staring at a piece in an art gallery. You swipe his hair back from his sweaty forehead, teasing your thumb across his bottom lip. When he sucks it into his mouth, your jaw drops open, mind foggy with arousal.

“Think you can give me another one? Let me see you come all pretty again?” he asks around your digit, tongue laving over your skin.

“Mhmm,” you’re agreeing before you can even process it, eager to please.

“That’s my girl.”

He moves your fingers from his mouth back into his hair as his find your throat once more, applying a little pressure. His hips pick up their pace, faster and harder than before. He’s fucking you into the mattress, strong arms keeping you from sliding off the bed.

He looks breathtaking, on top of you like this. He’s so broad, towering over you like he’ll shield you from the entire world if he has to. It feels like it’s just the two of you in the whole universe, unbothered by anything or anyone else.

“Buck- I… I-”

“I know, baby. Can feel it. Atta girl.”

You pull him down to kiss you as you reach your third climax of the night, arms wrapping around his neck so every inch of you is pressed together.

“There we go, good girl. That’s it, yeah. It’s yours, baby. It’s all yours.”

Buck finally finds his release, triggered by yours. His head drops into your neck, his frantic breath tickling your skin. You murmur sweet nothings into his ear, talking him through it as he shudders and shakes. Eventually, he collapses completely onto you, body weight pinning you down.

You’re both heaving for air, lungs burning as you try to regain an ounce of composure.

He murmurs something into your shoulder, the vibrations of it rumbling through your bones.

“Hmm?”

“You called me Buck.”

A breathless laugh escapes you, silvery and melodic.

“I’ve been trying not to for two days.”

“I know. You thought you were making a point.”

“I was making a point.”

“Sure, honey. Sure.”

“I hate you,” you grumble, but you can’t wipe the grin off your face. “I also hate that we’ve just made Lucy and Danny the happiest people ever.”

“Oh, shit. I hate it when they’re right.”

He pulls his head from your neck to look at you, resting his cheek against your chest so he can gaze up and into your eyes.

“I’m sure we can keep this a secret for a little while.”

“Yeah… we can’t.”

You quirk your brow at him in a silent question.

“I told Danny I was gonna marry you the minute you walked into the rehearsal dinner in that red dress. Can’t hide how I feel about you, gorgeous. It’s physically impossible.”

You can’t help but laugh, running your fingers through his hair to scratch at his scalp.

“Take me on a date first. Then we’ll talk about marriage, okay?”

“You did say forever, earlier.”

“That I did. Maybe my heart knew something my brain didn’t.”

Buck grins up at you, all blinding and giddy.

“The best man and the maid of honour, huh?”

“That old cliche,” you chuckle. “We weren’t the first, and we won’t be the last.”

“You’ll be my last, gorgeous.”

“Real smooth, Buck. Real smooth.”

“Buck,” he whispers, half in amusement, half in awe.

He could get used to this. You both could.

as always, reblogs are like gold to writers. if you enjoyed this, please reblog!! it’s invaluable <3