lily ⧗

Jason nervously toyed with the small box in his trouser pocket. It was perhaps the size of a peculiar walnut, yet despite its light weight, it felt so heavy in his hand. He let the lid snap open briefly, tracing the delicate stone with the pad of his thumb, before gently closing it gently.

Or perhaps he thought he was closing the lid gently.

He cursed softly when the stupid lid pinched his thumb. Surely it couldn't be that hard - why was he worrying? He didn't even shit his pants when he had the Black Mask standing right in front of him. But that hadn't been Jason. It had been Red Hood who faced the frightening reality of Gotham.

Maybe that was a lie. Maybe he was shitting his pants a little. He took a deep breath before exhaling slowly; his sweaty hands were already getting on his nerves.

For weeks - if not months - he had planned this evening. Down to every teeny tiny element. Meticulously: every single detail, every single scenario. A little too Bruce for his taste. But good God, what would he do if this evening went wrong? He would never be able to handle loosing his darling.

And how long had she been with him by now? No one would put up with his problems for five years unless they wanted to get married. Right?

He tugged at his shirt. He was Jason Peter Todd, for fuck's sake! Who wouldn't want to marry him, right? Right? He rose from his chair and cleared his throat.

Could it really take that long just to wash one's hands?

He turned in a semicircle, his heart pounding in his throat. What the hell was he doing here? He tugged once more at the table decorations and stared down at the bustling streets of Gotham. Up here on the roof, it almost seemed peaceful, silent. The small garden radiated an almost soothing atmosphere.

Dinner went well. Not just well or good, it was great. He had noticed that she had done her nails. Had she, perhaps, suspected after all what his plans for today was? That was a good sign, right? A woman caring about her nails, maybe even expecting a proposal.

His loud thoughts came to a halt when he heard the door open. Seeing her step out into the soft light of the lanterns (which he had lit specifically for the occasion) in her pretty dress, with those stupid kitten heels that somehow turned him crazy. Perhaps it was the way her legs stretched just a tiny bit more, that struck him as even more alluring.

She had reapplied her glossy lipstick. A broad smile was on her face as she walked towards him.

" 'M sorry, that took longer than expected."

He hummed in acknoledgement. He stepped a tiny bit closer and took her hand in his. Slowly, he rubbed his thumb over her soft knuckles.

"Did you like it?" he asked slowly, leaning down to plant a kiss on her cheek. "The food, I mean. I also have dessert downstairs in the fridge."

She smiled and leaned slightly toward him, nodding slowly. The meal had been simple. Jason Todd’s culinary skills left something to be desired - but pasta al pomodoro with Parmesan? That was something he aced.

"Hmmm, nothing compares to Jason Tood's spaghetti."

For a second he just stared at her and runs a hand through his hair.

"Great, good," he murmured, playing with the small box in his trouser pocket. "Fantastic."

She glanced at him, somewhat confused, and blinked toward his trouser pocket.

"You've been fiddling with your hand in your pocket all evening. What's in there?" she snorted, reaching out to tug his wrist curiously. He wriggled gracefully and gently out of her reach and chuckled softly. A tiny, displeased sound left his throat, but still soft. "It's a secret," he grunted.

"You're stupid," she said, her gaze following his. He took a glimpse at her so gently through his long lashes, as if she herself had hung the stars in the evening sky. He kissed her again on her temple.

"Wanna know?"

His words were barely more than a hum. The moment was perfect. They stood close to one another, amidst that familiar banter that so often passed between them. He had written a text of epic length, spanning from the very first moment he had laid eyes on her, and secretly, deep down, knew that she would become his wife.

Even though his mind told him that he shouldn't open up. Who would want to marry a man like Jason? With his many issues and mild aggression problems? From their first date right up to their first fight, after which he spent an entire evening in his apartment (before they moved in together) crying his eyes out.

He slowly sank to his left knee, yet did not let go of her hand. He watched as her eyes widened and her own hands grew warm. His own heart pounded in his throat. He felt as though he could not breathe. And not a single word of his memorized monologue would come to mind.

He opened his mouth, but nothing came out except a hoarse "I-" His hands were sweaty, trembling slightly as, with his free hand, he pulled the ring from his trouser pocket; and nearly dropped it onto the concrete of the roof.

"Sweetheart-"

He never claimed to be a nervous wreck or a helpless simp. But the way she looked at him, so full of anticipation, while barely holding back her own tears of joy… and the ring, looking a little lost inside its box, sparkled in the soft glow of the lanterns.

"Please...", he almost whimpered.

She laughed softly through a few tears that escaped her eyes. She herself couldn't manage to utter a coherent sound - only a wild nod - before leaping into his arms and sobbing, in broken gasps,

"Yes… oh God, yes."

Spencer was already three tangents deep into the geographic profile, talking fast, hands moving like the words were trying to escape faster than his brain could handle. (Y/n) had learned years ago to just let him go. He’d loop back around eventually. Usually.

“The spacing of the disposal sites suggests he’s sticking to a routine. All within a tight radius— three miles or so. That kind of pattern almost always means it’s familiar territory. Could be work, could be home base. Most likely night shifts, given the dump times— between 2:10 and 3:30 a.m. Which means fewer witnesses, less traffic—”

“Or he just likes moonlight and solitude,” (Y/n) said absently, scribbling something in her notebook. “Creepy guys tend to romanticize the weirdest stuff.”

Spencer didn’t look up. “That’s… statistically consistent with other narcissistic or compulsive offenders, actually.”

She glanced over at him. “You know you could just say ‘you’re right.’ It won’t kill you.”

He did look at her then, quick, with the faintest smirk pulling at his mouth. “I’m not sure I’ve tested that hypothesis thoroughly enough to risk it.”

She snorted. “Tragic. I thought you loved me.”

Spencer didn’t miss a beat. “I do. But not enough to sacrifice academic integrity.”

“Wow.” She pressed a hand to her chest. “Wounded. Devastated. Utterly betrayed.”

“Noted,” he murmured, turning back to his screen with an annoyingly smug look.

Derek leaned forward from his seat across the aisle. “Are y’all gonna do this the whole flight?”

JJ didn’t even look up from her file. “They’re gonna do this the whole case.”

“I’m sitting right here,” (Y/n) called over.

“And yet, you keep doing this,” Emily muttered, sipping her coffee. “Every case. Without fail.”

Spencer turned his tablet toward (Y/n), pretending not to hear them. “There are five possible buildings inside the comfort zone. Abandoned commercial spaces, all accessible. No cameras.”

She leaned closer, squinting at the screen. “That one. Tucked behind the construction site. No visibility from the road.”

He nodded. “I had that ranked third.”

“I outrank your list.”

“You outrank logic?”

“I outrank you, Reid.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Bold claim for someone who once tripped over their own shoelaces during a takedown.”

“You’re never letting that go, are you.”

“Absolutely not.”

(Y/n) sighed, grabbing her coffee and slumping back in her seat. “You’re lucky I find your chaos charming.”

Spencer, without looking up, murmured, “You’re lucky I find you charming.”

And just like that, she paused.

It wasn’t even the words— it was the way he said it. Like it was obvious. Like it wasn’t meant to land the way it did.

Her fingers stilled on the coffee cup. Just for a second. Then she shook her head, eyes narrowing. “You trying to throw me off before we hit the ground? Because that’s a dirty tactic, Reid.”

He smiled, faint. “If I wanted to throw you off, I’d bring up that time you accidentally used your taser on the vending machine.”

“That was one time.”

“I still have the video.”

Derek threw up his hands. “Okay, I need noise-canceling headphones or a fire alarm. One or the other.”

“Let them have their foreplay,” Rossi grumbled from behind his paper. “Just as long as it doesn’t slow down the case.”

(Y/n) rolled her eyes, but she didn’t stop smiling. Not even a little.

And Spencer? He didn’t say anything else.

But his knee brushed against hers under the table.

And he didn’t move it.

——————————————————————————————————

The precinct was pure, barely-contained chaos. Phones ringing, printers jamming, someone yelling “I said decaf!” from the breakroom. (Y/n) stepped in behind the team, her eyes scanning the flurry with the kind of calm that only came from years of being thrown headfirst into crime scenes that smelled like old pizza and adrenaline.

Then— like he was summoned by the gods of caffeine and chaos— a voice cut through the noise.

“FBI? Oh thank god. Tell me you’re the FBI. If one more lieutenant hands me a case file on raccoon-related vandalism, I’m going to start speaking in riddles.”

The guy had two coffees in one hand, a folder under his arm, and the kind of face that said yes, I’m sleep-deprived, but I’ve made it part of my personality now.

“Detective Jake Peralta,” he added, stepping forward and immediately handing one of the coffees off to a passing officer. “You must be the reinforcements. Welcome to our deeply unfortunate circus.”

(Y/n) stepped forward with a polite smile. “Agent (Y/l/n), BAU.”

Jake looked at her and forgot what vowels were.

“Oh. Cool. Yeah. Wow.” He blinked. “Hi. Sorry. That was… a very professional reaction to a federal agent. I’m super normal.”

(Y/n) raised an eyebrow, amused. “Totally. You look extremely normal.”

Jake pointed at her like he was confirming her existence for himself. “And funny. She’s funny, too. Great. Just awesome.”

Spencer, two steps behind her, tilted his head the tiniest bit. Not enough to be obvious. Just enough that Emily, walking next to him, noticed immediately.

“So,” Jake said, already spinning on his heel and motioning them toward the evidence board, “we’ve got three victims, matching M.O., a dump site triangle, and a ton of questions. I’d love to walk you through it. Bonus: I also know where the best snacks are hidden in this precinct. Critical intel.”

“Let me guess,” (Y/n) said, falling into step beside him, “you keep gummy bears in a murder folder?”

Jake gave her a wide-eyed, deeply serious nod. “Listen, I can’t solve murder with low blood sugar. That’s just biology. Forensics and fruit snacks— two pillars of modern justice.”

She actually laughed, bumping her shoulder lightly into his. “That’s what you’re going with? Fruit snacks and felony charges?”

“Look,” he said, glancing at her with a grin, “some people have badges, some have instincts— I have a snack drawer and a vibe.”

(Y/n) shot him a look. “And a lot of confidence, apparently.”

“It’s the only thing holding me together.”

Spencer, still watching from behind, clenched his jaw and stared very intently at the murder board— as if sheer willpower would make Jake Peralta spontaneously combust.

Derek leaned over slightly. “You good?”

“I’m fine,” Spencer said. Way too quickly.

“Uh-huh.”

(Y/n) looked over her shoulder, smiling. “Spencer, you coming?”

Spencer blinked. “Right behind you.”

Emily raised an eyebrow as he passed, giving him that look— the one that meant I know, and I’m about to say it out loud.

He walked faster.

Behind them, Emily whispered to JJ, “We have now entered full-blown Jealous Spencer territory.”

JJ winced sympathetically. “He doesn’t stand a chance.”

——————————————————————————————————

The dump site was taped off, abandoned and eerie in the late afternoon light. A narrow alley backed by cracked concrete walls, discarded furniture, and silence— except for the occasional buzz of Spencer’s pen clicking in his pocket. Repeatedly.

Jake and (Y/n) were walking ahead of the rest of the group, ducking under the tape, their steps crunching through gravel.

“Okay,” Jake said, scanning the alley. “I know it’s not exactly a five-star view, but I promise this is the cleanest murder site we’ve had all week. That’s a weird sentence.”

(Y/n) laughed. “It’s fine. We spend half our lives in parking lots and basements. Honestly, this is kind of charming.”

Jake pointed at a tipped-over dumpster. “Ah, yes. Classic small-town ambiance.”

She crouched near a drainpipe, tilting her head. “He’s dumping at night. No cameras. But the dumpster’s too obvious— too accessible. He’s not just hiding the bodies, he’s watching them.”

Jake blinked. “Okay. That’s… both creepy and very insightful. You do this a lot?”

She looked up at him, playful. “Solve murders? Yeah. Flirt at them? Not usually.”

He smirked, a little lopsided. “Hey, I haven’t even started flirting yet. That was just me being charming.”

“Oh, just charming?” she teased.

Jake leaned against the wall, watching her. “Let me know when you’re ready for the full Peralta experience. It includes sarcasm, emotional baggage, and an impressive knowledge of Die Hard trivia.”

(Y/n) stood, brushing off her knees. “That’s a lot to take in on a first crime scene.”

He grinned. “So you’re saying there’ll be a second?”

A beat. Just a pause. She didn’t answer right away.

Spencer, across the lot with Derek and Emily, had stopped mid-sentence, his entire expression shifted from mildly focused to openly horrified.

“She’s laughing,” he said flatly.

Emily glanced up from her notes. “Yeah, that tends to happen when people are enjoying themselves.”

“With him.”

“Oh no,” Derek muttered. “We’ve lost him.”

The rest of the team returned to the SUV, but Emily stayed behind, as if she knew this wasn't done yet.

“She’s laughing at his jokes,” Spencer repeated, eyes still locked on the two figures across the alley.

“She laughs at yours,” Emily said.

“That’s different. She knows mine are objectively not funny.”

“Okay, you know what?” Emily snapped her folder shut. “We’re doing this now. Let’s go, Genius.”

Spencer blinked as she grabbed his elbow and dragged him toward the SUV.

“What? No— I’m working.”

“You’re spiraling,” she corrected. “And doing it in a crime scene, which is new.”

Behind them, (Y/n) was still talking to Jake, standing closer now, arms crossed and leaning in like she didn’t even realize she was doing it.

Spencer’s voice dropped. “Emily, I’m fine.”

“You’re jealous,” she said, eyes sharp. “And for a guy who can read microexpressions from thirty feet away, you are shockingly bad at clocking your own.”

“I don’t get jealous,” he said, almost insulted.

She gave him a look.

“…Okay, I am jealous,” he admitted under his breath. “But I don’t know what to do about that.”

Emily leaned against the SUV, watching Spencer like she was trying to figure out whether she needed to slap sense into him or hug him. Maybe both. Probably both.

He was pacing. Not frantically, just… tightly. Hands in his pockets, jaw tense, doing that thing where his eyes tracked the ground like the answers were written there.

“I mean, it’s fine,” he said finally, like he was trying to convince the air. “She’s allowed to laugh at someone else’s jokes. I’m not— entitled to anything.”

Emily stayed quiet.

He glanced back at the alley where (Y/n) was standing with Jake. She was leaning on one foot, comfortable. She looked happy. And it gutted him.

“It’s just— he’s charming,” Spencer muttered. “And funny. And he’s got that whole casual swagger thing going on. I mean, who even has swagger in 2025? Apparently, Jake does. And she’s… she’s smiling.”

“You’re allowed to be upset,” Emily said, her voice soft, even.

Spencer didn’t answer. His hands were twitching in his pockets now.

“I’ve had… crushes,” he said finally, like it was painful to admit even that much. “A few. Not a lot. But some. And usually they’re easy to understand. You think someone’s cute. You like their voice. You want them to notice you.”

He shook his head.

“This isn’t that.”

Emily just watched him.

“I notice everything,” he went on, his voice quieter now. “Not because I’m profiling her. Not because I’m analyzing anything. I just… do. I know when she’s about to make a bad joke because she gets this look— like she’s proud of it already. I know she only pretends to like black coffee when we’re around local PD because she thinks it makes her look tougher.”

A pause. His voice dipped even lower.

“I know the sound of her laugh when it’s real. I know when she’s tired, even if she’s smiling. I know when she’s faking being okay. And I know when she’s actually okay. And I know that right now…” He looked up, eyes fixed on her across the lot, where she and Jake were still talking, still laughing.

“…She’s really okay. With him.”

Emily stepped closer, gentle. “Spence.”

He didn’t look at her.

“I think about her all the time,” he said, like he was just realizing it out loud. “Not in a way I… planned. Just— suddenly I’m at a bookstore and wondering if she’d like the cover of something. Or I hear a song and I can’t tell if I like it until I know if she would. It’s— constant.”

He laughed once, breathy and humorless. “And statistically, I know crushes fade. The brain adjusts. The novelty goes away. But this? This has been over a year. Maybe longer.”

Emily tilted her head. “And?”

Spencer blinked.

“…And I think I’m in love with her.”

A pause. Then—

“Oh,” he breathed. “Shit.”

Emily smiled, just barely. “Took you long enough.”

He ran both hands over his face. “I don’t— what am I supposed to do with that?”

“You tell her,” she said gently.

“What? No, I can’t.”

“You can.”

“Emily, she's quite possibly the closest friend I have. What if it ruins everything?”

Emily didn’t answer for a second. She just looked at him— really looked at him— and said, “Spencer. You're already miserable. At least ruin it with some dignity, damn it.”

He looked back at (Y/n). She was saying goodbye to Jake now, walking back toward the team, tucking her hair behind her ear like she always did when she was distracted. She looked like home.

Spencer exhaled. “Yeah. Okay. I’m completely screwed.”

Emily nodded. “Yeah. You are. Oh, and for the record, I thought I was your closest friend, and honestly, I feel so attacked right now."

"You'll live."

"Hey!" retorted Emily, followed by a smack to his arm.

——————————————————————————————————

The sun had dipped low, casting long shadows across the precinct lot. The case was wrapped, files turned in, media dodged. (Y/n) was leaning against the SUV, arms crossed, sipping from her now-cold coffee like it was still doing something.

Jake jogged up to her, slowing as he approached. Not suave. Just… trying.

“Hey,” he said, offering a lopsided smile. “So, weird question for the end of a triple homicide, but— any chance I could take you to dinner sometime?”

(Y/n) blinked. “Oh.”

She smiled, a little surprised. “Jake, you’re— great. I had fun working with you.”

Jake’s grin faltered just enough to be human. “But…?”

“But—”

“Wait!”

Both of them turned.

Spencer was standing about ten feet away, looking like he had sprinted here but didn’t want to show it. His hair was windswept, his shirt slightly crooked, and his expression somewhere between resolute and deeply alarmed.

(Y/n) blinked. “Spencer?”

Jake glanced between them. “Should I…? I can come back.”

“No, no,” Spencer said quickly, stepping forward. “You’re fine. I mean— not fine, you’re not staying. I mean, yes, you’re staying right now, I just—”

He looked at (Y/n), all the air gone from his lungs.

“I need to say something.”

(Y/n) tilted her head, cautious now. “Okay…”

Spencer glanced at Jake. Then at her. Then back at Jake.

“This is going to be weird with him here,” he muttered.

“I can pretend to be a lamp,” Jake offered, backing up slightly. “I’m excellent at furniture-based camouflage.”

“Jake,” (Y/n) said, half-laughing, “you don’t have to—”

“I really think I do,” he said, hands raised. “There’s a lot of emotion in the air and I don’t want to get hit by it.”

Spencer ignored him. His eyes stayed on her.

“I wasn’t going to say anything,” he said softly. “I told myself it wasn’t the right time. That we had too much to lose. That maybe I was just… projecting.”

He swallowed. “But then I watched someone else get to make you laugh. I watched you lean in, and talk like he already belonged in your world. And I realized— I’ve been pretending that I didn’t already live there.”

(Y/n)’s breath caught.

Spencer took another step closer. “I know the way you look when you’re solving a puzzle you don’t know you’ve solved yet. I know how you take your coffee differently when you’re pretending you’re fine. I know that you hum when you’re reading case files, and that you’ll always find a way to make the worst days seem funny, just to keep us all going.”

He paused, voice low. “I notice everything about you. Not because I’m profiling you. Just… because it’s you.”

Jake mouthed oh my god to himself, backing up another step.

(Y/n) stared at Spencer, wide-eyed. “You— you’ve never said any of this.”

“I didn’t know how,” Spencer admitted. “But I’m in love with you. And it took me way too long to say it. So if you’re going to say no— please do it fast, before I combust.”

Silence.

Then—

“Spencer,” she said softly, stepping toward him. “You’re an idiot.”

His face fell— until she reached out and grabbed the front of his jacket and kissed him.

It was fast. Then slow. Then somewhere in between. Like they’d been waiting for years but were still trying to catch up.

Jake, standing off to the side, made a quiet choking sound.

“I am so intruding,” he muttered. “You know what? I’m gonna go. I’m gonna walk into the woods and never come back. I’ll start a new life. Join a wolf pack. Change my name. Just... yeah.”

They didn’t hear him.

(Y/n) pulled back just slightly, forehead still resting against Spencer’s.

“You’re in love with me?”

He nodded, breathless. “Deeply. Disastrously.”

She let out a laugh— half relief, half disbelief— as her forehead rested against his. “Oh, thank God. It was killing me thinking it might just be me.”

Jake was halfway to the sidewalk when Spencer called out— without looking—

“Thank you for not asking her out.”

Jake froze. “I did. You just… intercepted mid-sentence.”

Spencer blinked. “Oh. Sorry.”

Jake clapped once. “Well, that was the best romcom finale I’ve ever witnessed. I’m gonna go cry in my car.”

He turned again, walking toward his car like a man who had just lost a bet to fate.

A small noise escaped him, and you immediately pulled away a bit, not wanting to make him uncomfortable. "You okay? Did I get too close?" you asked in a worried tone.

Bob's moods could swing back and forth easily on hard days, and the last thing you would want was to make him feel uncomfortable. Neither of you pushed boundaries during these nights.

Bob averted his gaze, eyes wide with a hint of shame, "No-No...I just, it felt nice having you so close is all. Sorry-"

"No, it's okay," you leaned in a bit more, "Trust me, if you had bothered me I would have let you know."

A small laugh escaped him, "I don't doubt it." Awkwardly, he pulled you a bit closer, knowing you'd shove him off if you really wanted to. "This okay?"

You nodded, letting yourself settle against him, tracing a few freckles on his arm. His hold tightened, pulling you so close you were practically one giant blob on the couch as he clung almost desperately. Some nights, you could see the ache of being alone for so long in how frantic he got, hugging and squeezing. You tested touching his hair, which only made him let out a small whimper. A smug grin crossed your face as you kept combing your fingers through it, settling against him.

"That's nice," he sighed, wrapping his arms around you more as if knowing you were there was enough to keep those darker voices away. You were no stranger to those shadowy thoughts, whispering ghosts from memories you tried to keep tucked away in the spaces of your mind where they could not sink their claws into you any longer. Closing your eyes, you pushed them away, refusing to think back to the lab.

Focusing on the feel of his heartbeat steadying under your ear, the peace of the tower, and the noise of your breath. There was something about these moments. A void had been left between both of your humanities, and each touch felt like some attempt at picking up the pieces to feel a bit human again.

Something grew in your heart, and without thinking, you pressed a kiss to his forehead. Bob's eyes widened a moment, before a smile grew on his face.

"Bob, I'm sorry," you began, unsure why you had even done that. It was so unlike you, "That was stupid, forget it."

"Oh, yeah, stupid..." he wasn't very good at masking his disappointment. Time passed before he spoke up, voice barely there, "What if I don't want to forget it?"

"I'm not good at this whole, people thing," you replied, looking away before adding sarcastically, "I'm sure you couldn't tell."

"I don't think any of us here are," he answered, "And you're scary sometimes, but in a cool way."

"I'm not easy," you insisted.

Bob curled you into himself, as if he had to make sure you were real. "You're you...that's what matters."

Later, when the others had returned, they found you both asleep next to each other on the couch. Bucky muttered something about not wanting to deal with HR paperwork, and not to mention it to Val. Although, you noticed you were left alone with Bob more often. Well, you both could do for some more quiet nights after so much noise.

“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 ‧₊˚✧

By the time he finally does manage to drift off, it feels like barely five minutes before he’s woken by the sound of the shower running. He blinks a few times, vision bleary, before reaching for his glasses and his phone.

It’s Pearl Harbour day today, which means everyone needs to be in the lobby on time, in their dress blues, ready to take the bus to base.

When he hears the water shut off, Bob waits a few extra minutes, until he can hear your footsteps on the tile. Then—assuming you’re at least somewhat decent—he throws the bed sheets back and dives into his suitcase for his uniform.

“Morning,” you say softly, stepping around the other side of the bed.

Bob glances up, his breath catching when he sees you wrapped in nothing but a towel. “M-Morning,” he manages, before quickly turning his attention back to his case.

You clear your throat. “I—uh—I want to apologise.”

He can’t help but look up again, brows furrowing. “What for?”

It takes every ounce of self-control to keep his gaze on your face and not track the little droplets of water trickling down your collarbone.

“For being a jerk,” you murmur, cheeks turning pink. “I was just tired and—I mean, you didn’t do anything wrong. I don’t know why I lectured you about it. I’m sorry.”

Bob blinks. “Oh. It’s—uh—it’s okay. I wasn’t… offended.”

You nod, pressing your lips into a tight smile. “Good.”

He nods too. “Good.”

A beat of awkward silence stretches between you. You shift from foot to foot, knuckles white where they’re gripping the towel at your chest.

“I’m just—I’m gonna shower,” Bob says quickly.

You smile a proper smile. “Okay. I’m gonna get dressed.”

With one last nod, he grabs his clothes and moves into the bathroom, resisting the urge to glance back. He steps up to the shower and focuses on the wall, on the tile, on the simple act of twisting the handle.

But then he hears it.

A soft, almost imperceptible sound—the brush of fabric, the gentle thump of something dropping to the floor.

His hand stills.

It takes a second for his brain to catch up, for the meaning to land—and when it does, it sends a sharp jolt straight through his spine. His pulse kicks hard, sudden and unhelpful, and his thoughts scatter all at once.

Don’t look. Don’t look.

He stares at the wall like it’s suddenly fascinating, like concentration alone might save him from himself. He turns the water on a little too fast, steps forward a little too quickly, heart racing for no good reason at all.

You're right there.

Barely a few feet away.

Naked.

The thought lands heavy and immediate, a physical blow that steals his breath for a second. And for one reckless moment all he wants—all he wants—is to turn around. Just to look. Just once. As if that wouldn’t undo him entirely.

His jaw tightens.

He keeps his eyes fixed on the wall, like discipline might drown out the roar of his pulse, the way his blood has suddenly rerouted in the most inconvenient direction.

He forces himself to breathe, to move, to strip his shirt off and step behind the limited privacy of the frosted glass.

He doesn’t look back. He can’t. Not even as he fumbles out of his shorts, awkward and half-wet now, and tosses his clothes onto the tile.

He doesn’t let himself.

Because wanting to is already dangerous enough.

Twenty minutes later—and after a very awkward attempt at getting dressed on wet tiles behind the shower partition—you and Bob make your way down to the lobby in total silence. Nothing but the tension of sharing a room, and whatever last night was, still crackling between you.

“Finally!” Maverick calls the second he sees you both. “I was about to send out a search party.”

“Sorry, Mav,” you say as you step onto the bus. “There’s no bathroom door in our room.”

Maverick opens his mouth to reply—then stops. Closes it again. His brows knit together, like he’s not entirely sure he heard you right—but by the time he looks like he's figured it out, you’re already moving down the aisle.

He looks at Bob. “What does that even mean? Why are you two sharing a room?”

Bob shrugs, but it’s stiff. “We—uh—I swapped with Phoenix so we could, um, quarantine the sick.”

Maverick is quiet for a beat. Long enough that Bob knows he’s just connected a few dots.

Maverick smirks. “Quarantine the sick, huh?”

Bob’s face heats. “Mhm.”

“So, that would mean you and Blink are in the couple’s suite?”

Bob nods. “Yep.”

Maverick lets out a disbelieving laugh. “Oh, great. And I bet that’s going—”

“About as well as you’d expect,” Bob mutters.

“God.” Maverick pinches the bridge of his nose. “Get on the bus, Bob.”

“Yes, Captain.”

Bob hurries up the steps onto the bus. He spots you immediately—because of course he does—sitting in the second row across the aisle from Bradley. Then his gaze flicks further back, catching Jake at the very back of the bus, brows raised expectantly. So, with a deep, centring breath, Bob moves down the aisle to the back seat.

“Alright. Listen up,” Maverick says, standing up the front as doors slide shut.

He waits until everyone’s quiet, eyes locked on him.

“Phoenix and Fanboy are still out for the count, which means you all have fewer bodies to hide behind today.” His gaze sweeps the bus, pointed and deliberate. “This is a base visit. A historic one. So please try—try—not to embarrass me, the Navy, or yourselves. In that order.”

Reuben’s hand shoots up.

Maverick gives him a flat look. “This isn’t middle school, Payback. Just ask your question.”

“Is this one of those times where you say don’t embarrass me, but then laugh about it later if we do? Or is there a zero-tolerance policy for—”

“Payback,” Maverick cuts in. “Shut up.”

“Yes, sir.”

Maverick sighs, exasperated, his eyes scanning the rest of the squad. “This is Pearl Harbor, guys. Act like you deserve to be here.”

Everyone goes quiet—serious, disciplined—as Maverick takes his seat at the very front. The bus stays quiet for a moment, the kind of silence that feels deliberate, everyone holding it for just a second too long before the tension finally begins to unwind. Then someone shifts in their seat, someone murmurs something under their breath, and the low hum of conversation slowly works its way back in as the bus pulls away from the resort and into traffic.

Bob exhales, shoulders easing, and it’s only then—right as the tight coil in his chest finally loosens—that Jake turns toward him, grinning.

“So,” he says, “what happened last night?”

Bob frowns. “What do you mean?”

Jake rolls his eyes. “Enough with the clueless act, Alicia Silverstone. I know something happened. I could feel the weird energy the second you two stepped on the bus.”

Bob hesitates, his brows drawing tighter. “Alicia Silverstone?”

“Yes,” Jake sighs. “You know—that nineties chick flick that very subtly encourages incest. I know you’ve seen it.”

“I mean, yeah, I’ve seen it, but how does—”

“Never mind,” Jake cuts in. “Just get to the part where you tell me what happened.”

Bob sighs, letting his head fall back against the bus window. “Nothing, really,” he says, lowering his voice. “I just—I got back to the hotel and she wasn’t there, so I assumed she was—” He hesitates.

“Boning Reuben?” Jake offers.

Bob shoots him a sidelong glance. “Yeah. That.”

Jake nods. “Mhm. Go on.”

Bob’s gaze slides back toward the front of the bus. Toward you. Where you’re chatting excitedly with Bradley—smiling, laughing, stealing all the air from his lungs with just the sparkle in your eyes.

He draws a slow breath and keeps going. “She came in a few minutes later. Said she was just checking on Phoenix and Fanboy, and then—” he pauses, frowning, “—then she said she was surprised I was back at the hotel. Surprised I hadn’t gone home with that woman.”

Jake’s brows shoot up. “She said that?”

Bob nods. “She also said that she could tell the woman was into me. I told her we were just talking, that I didn’t think she was interested—”

Jake scoffs, rolling his eyes.

“And then she said—” Bob pauses again, expression flickering. “She said she used to think it was just her, but now she knows I’m clueless about all women.” He shrugs. “Whatever that’s supposed to mean.”

For the first time in what might be his entire life, Jake Seresin is speechless. He stares at the side of Bob’s face—eyes wide, jaw slack. Bob can feel his stare burning into his cheek, but he doesn’t want to look. He doesn’t want to know why Jake is staring at him with the most incredulous expression he’s ever worn.

“She—she said that?” Jake asks after several painful seconds of silence.

“Yeah,” Bob mutters. “Why? Is it bad?”

Jake looks like he’s about to go into shock.

“Is it—is it bad?” he echoes. “Are you joking? Bob, please tell me you’re joking.”

Bob’s heart starts to race, a new kind of panic prickling beneath his skin. “No, I—wait, why is it bad?”

“It’s not bad, Bob,” Jake hisses. “My God, she practically confessed her feelings for you and you didn’t even realise.”

Bob freezes.

His mind races back to last night, replaying every word, every syllable, every damn letter, trying to find the moment where you confessed your feelings for him. But he can’t find it. Not in what you said. Not in the way you stood, or the look on your face.

“I—” he starts, then stops.

He remembers the way your eyes had dipped to his chest, his bare stomach. It was only brief. Fleeting. But it still happened. You still looked. Then you let out the tiniest breath—a gasp, almost—and told him he was clueless.

Clueless about women.

Clueless about you.

Bob draws a sharp breath and shakes his head. “No. No way. She—she didn’t confess anything. She just—”

“Floyd, I swear to God,” Jake mutters, voice low, “if you don’t kiss this woman today, I’ll throw you into the nearest active volcano myself.”

Bob pales. “Today?”

“Yes, today,” Jake hisses. “Phase Four. It’s titled: Don’t be a pussy and pucker up!”

Under different circumstances, Bob might’ve rolled his eyes at that—but right now, he’s too busy panicking. Too busy looking at you. At your mouth. At the way you catch your bottom lip between your teeth while you concentrate on whatever Bradley is saying, completely unaware that his entire internal operating system has just collapsed.

God. Jake has lost his mind. Bob can’t kiss you. He can’t just walk up to you and—

“Don’t think,” Jake says. “Just do.”

Bob finally turns to him, frowning. “You can’t say that about this. That’s what Maverick says about flying, not—”

“Same principle.” Jake shrugs. “It’s all instinct.”

Bob’s instinct is screaming at him to run. To forget Jake and his stupid plan and his stupid phases, to get on the next plane back to San Diego where he can hide in his apartment and pretend this whole stupid trip never happened.

But he doesn’t move.

He just sits there, breathing through it, trying to understand when things got this complicated.

The rest of the bus ride is too short. Honolulu slips past while Jake rambles about timing and technique and tongue—like he’s a qualified expert on spontaneous, romantic kisses. But Bob tunes him out, keeping his eyes fixed out the window on the opposite side of the bus, focusing on breathing through the panic tightening in his chest.

Before long, the bus pulls up in front of Pearl Harbor’s visitor centre, and Maverick stands before anyone else can, one hand braced on the seat in front of him.

“Alright, lieutenants,” he says, voice low but firm. “We’re guests here. That means we move together, we listen, and we follow instructions the first time they’re given.” His gaze sweeps the bus. “I want you paired up—no one wanders off alone. You stay with your buddy at all times. If you need something, you bring it to me or our escort. You don’t take it upon yourselves.”

He pauses, letting that settle.

“This isn’t a sightseeing trip. It’s a place people died. So you show respect, you keep your phones away unless told otherwise, and you don’t speak unless it’s appropriate. Understood?”

The whole squad responds in unison. “Yes, sir.”

Maverick nods. “Good. Let’s do this.”

The bus doors hiss open and Maverick steps out first, greeting the officer waiting for him. Everyone else follows more slowly, adjusting caps and straightening their jackets as they file off the bus.

“Blink, Bob,” Maverick calls. “I want you two up front.”

Bob’s pulse jumps as he steps forward, following his captain’s order without thinking. You’re beside him in a heartbeat, an almost imperceptible smile tugging at your mouth as you glance at him from the corner of your eye.

Once everyone is assembled, the base liaison steps forward and introduces himself as Lieutenant Commander David Nakamura. There’s a brief orientation—a quiet rundown of rules, emphasis on respect and silence, and a short overview of the day’s itinerary—before Nakamura leads the group from the visitor centre toward the ferry bound for the USS Arizona Memorial.

On board, everyone files toward the front, staying in a tight, quiet cluster along the railing. Nakamura waits until the ferry pulls away from the dock before speaking, his voice low and even over the hum of the engine.

“Once we arrive, you’ll be asked to remain quiet while on the memorial,” he says. “There will be a brief introduction from the National Park Service, and then you’ll have time to walk through on your own. Please be mindful of the space—and of the people around you.”

He pauses, letting the water and the steady churn of the engine fill the silence.

“This isn’t a museum,” he adds. “It’s a gravesite. Take whatever time you need, but take it respectfully.”

Then he nods once, satisfied, and steps back, folding his hands loosely in front of him as the ferry continues across the harbor.

Bob turns toward the railing, squinting out at the water sparkling beneath the bright morning sun. He’s still acutely aware of you beside him—of your shoulder brushing his, of the subtle shift of weight as you turn to face the same direction.

“So,” you say quietly, your voice pitched low enough that only he can hear. “Since when are you and Seresin best friends?”

He looks at you, breath catching at how close you are. “I—what?”

You shrug one shoulder, your arm brushing his as you do. “You two have been joined at the hip this whole trip. I just… didn’t know you were so close.”

“Well, I—I mean, we’re all close, right?” he says, keeping his voice low. “That’s what makes us a squad.”

You roll your eyes. “That’s not what makes us a squad—it’s what makes us a good squad.”

He turns back toward the water, trying to coax his heartbeat back into something resembling normal rhythm.

“But you and Hangman?” you add, teasing. “That one I definitely wasn’t expecting. Are you two official yet, or taking things slow?”

Bob shoots you a look that’s meant to be flat—but it softens, giving him away, because he simply can’t look at you and not smile. Not when you’re this close. Not when you’re looking at him like that.

“Very funny,” he mutters.

His eyes flick past your shoulder, toward Maverick and Nakamura, making sure neither of them are glaring at the two of you to shut up.

“Jake—uh, Hangman is actually just helping me with some... personal stuff.”

Your brows lift. “Personal stuff? Hangman? Really?”

Bob swallows hard and nods. “Yeah, he’s—uh—he’s surprisingly helpful.” He glances at you from the corner of his eye. “Sometimes.”

You press your lips together, clearly fighting a laugh. “Wow. Okay. Any chance you want to pass along some of this life-changing advice?”

Bob’s lips twitch. “It’s really better straight from the source.”

“Right. Of course.” You nod, still smiling like you’re trying not to laugh. “I’ll remember to call Hangman next time I’m in crisis.”

Bob turns back to the water, because if he keeps looking at you he’s going to laugh. “Exactly. There’s only, like, a forty-percent chance he’ll make it worse.”

You make a small, strangled sound—half laugh, half exhale—and then you give up.

Before Bob can even process what’s happening, you turn slightly and lean your forehead against his shoulder, your face angled down like you’re trying to hide the smile you can’t quite suppress. Your laughter comes out silent this time, shaking through you in a way you’re clearly trying to contain.

“I’m sorry,” you murmur, barely louder than the wind. “I can’t—he’s ridiculous.”

Bob freezes.

Not dramatically. Not visibly. Just… completely.

Your weight is light against him, barely there, but it might as well be everything. He can feel the warmth of you through his uniform, the soft press of your forehead, the faint vibration of your laughter. His brain stalls, scrambling to catch up with the simple, undeniable fact that you chose him—chose his shoulder, his space—without hesitation.

His heart kicks hard, then forgets how to beat properly.

“Yeah,” he manages, voice lower than he intends. “He really is.”

But he doesn’t mean it. Not entirely. Because a little way across the deck, on the far side of the bow, Jake is watching with a grin.

And Bob can’t help it. He feels a small, unfamiliar swell of something in his chest. Not arrogance. Not confidence. Just the quiet sense that maybe—just maybe—he didn’t completely mess this up.

Now... he just has to figure out how to kiss you.

The USS Arizona Memorial is solemn. The second everyone steps off the ferry, the air thickens. The group falls silent. Nakamura leads everyone through the space, gesturing and murmuring when needed, but mostly staying quiet—letting everyone feel the weight of this hallowed place.

Bob moves through it slowly, hands folded in front of him, gaze drifting from the names etched into the marble wall to the dark shape of the battleship resting just beneath the water’s surface. Oil still beads up from below, rising in slow, shimmering drops that spread and disappear. Tears of the Arizona, someone once called them. He doesn’t know if that’s official or folklore, but standing here, it feels right. Around him, the squad remains silent. No jokes. No nudges. Just the low creak of the structure and the soft lap of water against steel.

No one speaks until the ferry ride back, and even then it’s subdued. Nakamura doesn’t say much else—there’s nothing left to explain—and no one fills the space he leaves behind. The harbor stretches out in every direction, bright and impossibly blue beneath the midday sun, the contrast almost jarring after the stillness of the memorial. When everyone disembarks, the group is issued audio headsets and follows Nakamura through a brief guided walk, past exhibits and pathways that trace history without dramatising it, letting the facts speak for themselves.

By the time the squad is directed back toward the waiting bus, the mood has shifted—not lighter, exactly, but settled. Grounded. Like everyone is carrying something quiet and heavy with them as they walk.

“Alright,” Maverick says, stopping in front of the bus doors. “Good work today. You represented the Navy well.”

His gaze sweeps the group once, approving—then it lands on you and Bob.

“Blink, Bob—before you get on, can you return the audio headsets to the visitor centre? Front desk. The bus will wait.”

You nod, stepping forward first. “Of course.”

Maverick hands you his headset while Bob turns and collects the rest from the squad. Then everyone starts filing onto the bus as the two of you head back toward the visitor’s centre together.

“Do you think it’s going to rain?” you ask, tipping your head back to look at the sky.

Bob follows your gaze. “Maybe.”

“Better hurry then,” you say, flashing him a quick wink.

And it knocks all the air from his lungs.

Once the headsets are returned, you both thank the NPS rangers—again—and head back outside. The air feels heavier now, thicker, and just as you clear the shelter of the awning, the sky rumbles low and distant, more warning than thunder.

“Shit,” you mutter, glancing up. “We might have to run.”

The bus zone is a short walk away—out of sight from the visitor centre doors and just far enough to be inconvenient. You both set off with quick steps, biting back giddy laughter and glancing up at the sky like watching it might somehow hold the floodgates. But you barely make it ten steps before the first drops hit—fat and warm, splattering dark circles across the concrete.

“Okay,” you say, breaking into a jog. “Yep. Running.”

Bob barely has time to react before you’re tugging him along by the sleeve, both of you laughing breathlessly now as the sky finally gives up the fight. The rain comes down hard and sudden, soaking through your uniforms in seconds, plastering fabric to skin and turning the neat path toward the bus into a slick, puddled mess.

There’s nowhere obvious to take shelter—no buildings, no overhangs—just open space and a line of trees too far away to be useful.

“Wait—” Bob says, spotting it just in time.

It’s not much. A shallow recess in the side of a building, a narrow alcove set back from the path, barely wide enough to count as shelter—just enough to block the worst of the rain. You both skid to a stop and squeeze into the space, face to face, chests heaving as the downpour lashes down just inches from your shoulders.

For a moment, neither of you says anything.

Rain drums against the concrete, loud and relentless, the world reduced to the breath of space left between you—too small, too warm, too dangerous. Bob is suddenly very aware of how soaked you both are, how close you are. He can see the water beading on your lashes, the droplets tracing slow paths down your jaw, the way the fabric of your uniform clings to your skin and makes even dress blues look sinful.

“Well,” you say, looking up at him with wide eyes. “So much for beating it.”

Bob lets out a breathless laugh. “Yeah. Guess that was optimistic.”

You shift, trying to give him space—but there isn’t any. The movement only brings you closer, your chest brushing his, your knee slotting between his legs. The contact sends a sharp, electric awareness straight through him. He can feel the heat of you despite the rain, the air between you suddenly charged and heavy with everything neither of you is saying.

The rain is still hammering down, loud enough that it feels like the rest of the world has fallen away. All Bob can hear now is the uneven sound of your breathing—the faint hitch in it as you realise just how close you are.

He feels it settle in his chest, that quiet, terrifying clarity. You’re right here, this close. Your eyes are dark with something he can't name, lashes clumped together, your mouth parted just slightly as you catch your breath. He can’t stop noticing the way your lips tremble when you exhale, or the way your gaze flicks—not away, not retreating—but down.

To his mouth.

His breath stutters.

He leans in without quite deciding to. Not much. Just enough to close the height between you, his shoulders dipping, spine curving instinctively toward you. The world narrows to inches. To the warm air between your faces. To the awareness of how easy this would be if he let it happen.

You don’t pull back.

If anything, you tilt your chin up—just a fraction—like you’re meeting him halfway without even realising it. Like your body has already decided something your mind hasn’t caught up to yet.

Bob’s heart slams against his ribs. Too loud. Too fast.

This is it.

And then panic hits him, sharp and sudden. Not fear of you, but fear of the moment—of crossing a line he doesn’t know how to uncross. Of doing this wrong. Of ruining something fragile before he even understands what it is.

He hesitates. Stops.

Then pulls back just enough to break the spell, breath leaving him in a rush as he straightens, his hands clenching uselessly at his sides. The loss of proximity is immediate and awful, like stepping out of warmth and into the rain.

“I—” He cuts himself off, shaking his head once, jaw tight. “Sorry. I—”

He doesn’t finish the sentence. He can’t.

He swallows hard, eyes dropping to the ground because if he looks at you again—if he sees anything that looks like disappointment, or relief, or wanting—he’s not sure he’ll be strong enough to stop himself twice.

Then, slowly, the rain eases. Sunlight breaks through the clouds.

And when he looks up again, you’re already gone.

- You -

“Do you think Bob’s gay?” you ask, pacing in front of the balcony doors.

Natasha—who had been right in the middle of telling you how much better she’s feeling—blinks at you. “What?”

“Bob.” You stop pacing and look at her, hands on your hips. “Do you think he’s gay?”

“Our Bob?” she asks. “Bob Floyd?”

You nod.

She snorts. “Uh—no. I don’t think he’s gay. He might be bi, I’m not sure. But I know he’s into women.”

“How do you know?”

Natasha looks you up and down, lips twitching. “Just—trust me. I know.”

With a dramatic sigh, you turn and flop down onto the small lounge, staring blankly across the room at the minibar like it might offer you answers.

Natasha shifts, moving to sit at the end of her bed—her twin bed, since she’s still stuck rooming with Mickey even though they’re both fully recovered.

She leans forward, curiosity sharpening her voice. “Why would you think he’s gay?”

You shrug, sheepish. “No reason.”

“Did something happen while I was busy dying?” she presses.

You shake your head. “Nope.”

She lifts her brows.

You sigh. “Fine. Yes. Okay. Something happened.”

“I knew it!” She jumps off the bed. “Oh, I knew there was something you weren’t—”

“Technically,” you cut in, “nothing actually happened. Something almost happened.”

She stops, slowly lowering herself onto the couch beside you. “Okay,” she says carefully. “What’s does that mean?”

You draw a deep breath and let it all spill out in one quick rush.

“I don’t know. He’s just—he’s been acting weird ever since we got here, and I thought it was because, you know, with work out of the way he was finally going to make a move. Which felt like it made sense. Except then he started spending a weird amount of time whispering with Hangman, and I was going to ask him about it, but then when we went out the other night he started flirting with some random girl—which is totally fine, he’s allowed to flirt with other people, I was just confused because—well, I don’t know. The signs. You know?”

Natasha doesn’t respond—she doesn’t have a chance.

“So I got a little annoyed about that, which I probably shouldn’t have, and I basically told him that I like him, except he definitely didn’t get it. Or maybe he didn’t want to get what I was saying. Then yesterday at Pearl Harbor he was almost normal again, and we had this really sweet moment on the ferry and—God, do you know how good that man smells?”

Natasha just shakes her head, lips pressed together like she’s trying not to laugh.

“But anyway. After all that, we got caught in the rain, and he pulled us into this little alcove and my heart was going absolutely insane. He leaned in and everything, I thought that was it, I thought that was the moment, and then—then he just… didn’t. He pulled away.”

You exhale sharply.

“And I don’t know why. Maybe my breath was bad. Maybe he saw me up close and decided I’m ugly, but fuck—I just—I practically ran after that because what am I supposed to think now?”

Natasha exhales, long and measured, then reaches out to squeeze your hand.

“Okay,” she says firmly. “First of all—you’re not crazy. Anyone would be confused by that. Anyone.” She tilts her head, fixing you with a pointed look. “And I don’t think this is about you being ugly or your breath or whatever spiral your brain is trying to run right now.”

Your brows pinch. “Really?”

She nods, lips twitching. “Really. I think Bob is just… spectacularly bad at knowing what to do with his feelings.”

You draw a deep breath—deep enough that your chest aches for a moment before you let it out.

“Fine,” you sigh. “But if you’re wrong and him and Hangman start hooking up—” You push off the couch. “I’m asking for a transfer.”

Natasha snorts. “If Bob and Hangman start hooking up, then we’ve got bigger problems—like the collapse of reality.”

You laugh, already halfway to the door. “Well, don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

She rolls her eyes. “Come on. Go get changed so I can start making up for lost time.”

You shoot her a playfully obscene gesture as you push the door open, then—just as she opens her mouth to shout after you—quickly slip out and dart across the hall to your own room to change into your swimmers.

The rest of the day passes in a blur of crystal-clear water and too many cocktails to count. Natasha makes good on her promise to make up for lost time, sprawled across a lounge chair beneath the shade sail for most of the afternoon, sipping from straw after straw of what feels like an endless supply of drinks.

The rest of the squad are off on some quad biking tour—even Mickey was well enough to join them—but Natasha had been adamant she needed a full day by the pool to fully recover, and you’d decided you needed a break from boys.

A break from Bob.

But that doesn’t mean you’re done talking about him.

You spend most of the afternoon driving Natasha insane with questions and half-formed theories about why Bob has been acting so weird. You recount every day of vacation shenanigans she missed—twice—searching for missed details and hidden meanings like some magical answer might reveal itself if you overthink it hard enough.

By the time the sun sets, you’re both tired and a little tipsy, and Natasha is in the middle of her third rant about why Bob hanging out with Hangman isn’t as weird as you think it is when the rest of the squad finally returns to the resort.

They’re all buzzing—high on adrenaline, sun-kissed, and already making plans to purchase quad bikes back in San Diego, as if Maverick would ever let that happen.

Bob barely looks at you, though. He hangs back at the rear of the group, a small smile on his lips as he nods along, but nothing more than a short huff of laughter escaping him. His arms stay crossed, shoulders tight, and when everyone finally agrees on dinner plans, he’s the first to turn and leave.

Great. Now he’s avoiding you.

At dinner, he sits as far from you as possible, never so much as glancing your way and carefully evading every conversation that might require him to acknowledge your existence. Then, the second his plate is empty, he stands and mutters something about being exhausted before bidding everyone a good night and leaving.

Just like that.

You want to go after him—because of course you do—but you know you can’t. It would be stupid, and worse, obvious. Everyone would see it for what it is if you went hurrying after him like some desperate ex.

And you’re not his ex.

You’re not his anything. You never were.

He’s making that painfully clear now. With the distance. With the silence. With the way he won’t even look at you, like if he does, something might crack.

Which is ridiculous, because for a second—just a second—you could have sworn there was something there. You could have sworn that when he looked at you, when you caught his stare or accidentally locked eyes, that maybe you were something he wanted. Something he was holding himself back from. Something dangerous enough to scare him.

Hell, forty-eight hours ago you would have sworn that.

But now? Now you don’t know what to think. You don’t know where you stand, only that it’s not beside him—and whatever you thought you saw, whatever you thought you felt, wasn’t enough to make him stay.

By the time you get back to your room after dinner, all the lights are out and Bob is fast asleep at the very edge of the mattress—just like every other night. You stare at the expanse of bed left for you, too wide and too lonely, even though the one person you really want is just a few feet away.

You don’t fall asleep until the early hours of the morning, when your body is too tired for the endless thoughts to win. And when you wake—to the sound of your phone vibrating on the bedside table—Bob is already gone. He’s even made his side of the bed, like the freak he is.

With a heavy sigh, you grab your phone and open the group chat, already overflowing with messages. Apparently Jake has booked surfing lessons for everyone today—even Maverick—which means you’re supposed to be down on the sand in less than twenty minutes.

Perfect.

Open water, crashing waves, eight-foot fibreglass boards, and all this tension—what could possibly go wrong?

When you finally make your way to the beach, to the little hut Jake had pinned as his location in the group chat, it’s already chaos. Mickey is arguing for a bigger board because he’s not that short, Jake is chatting up another group’s surf instructor while her surfers struggle to attach their leg ropes, and Reuben is drawing inappropriate zinc pictures on Bradley’s back.

Bob is the only one actually listening to the instructor.

Or maybe he’s just trying really hard not to notice you.

Either way, you notice him. You notice the tension in his shoulders, the white of his knuckles as he grips the board—and you definitely notice the way his wetsuit leaves very little to the imagination.

It’s hard not to.

Once everyone finally settles, the instructor gives his well-practiced introductory speech and has everyone stand on their boards in the sand. There’s laughter and teasing, sand flicked in faces whenever Maverick isn’t looking, but you barely register any of it. You’re too far gone to notice anything that isn’t Bob.

In the water, you try to concentrate. You try to listen to the instructor shouting over the swell, try to manoeuvre the board so you don’t end up face-first in the sandbank. But on your second attempt, you wipe out—spectacularly. Swallowed by white water and shoved under by the force of the wave.

You swear you hear someone shout your name before you go under, but by the time you surface again, everything is spinning and your ears are ringing.

Your board knocks into you as you rub your eyes, stinging from the saltwater. It bumps your side twice before you reach out to stop it—but when you find it, it’s already steady.

You blink hard, forcing the water from your lashes, and—

Bob.

Of course it’s Bob.

He's right there, close enough that you can see the tension in his face before he schools it, his eyes flicking over you in quick, precise passes like he’s checking you for damage. His mouth is set, jaw tight, concern written all over him in a way he doesn’t seem to realise he’s broadcasting.

“You okay?” he asks, voice low, already bracing the board as another wave rolls through.

You nod, still catching your breath. His grip stays firm for a beat longer, holding the board steady while the water pulls at it, while you get your bearings.

Then he seems to realise where he is. Who he's talking to.

A faint flush creeps up his neck, his grip loosening as he steps back, suddenly unsure of what to do with his hands.

“Sorry,” he says, already turning away. “Just—be careful. Please.”

And just like that, he’s gone again—lost in the surf and the noise and the rest of them.

Your focus is completely shot after that. You bail out halfway through the lesson—at which Jake shouts some unnecessarily colourful opinions—and resign yourself to watching the rest of them wipe out from the sand.

Natasha is—predictably, but annoyingly—good, and so is Maverick, but of course he is. He can do everything. Bradley and Reuben hold their own fairly well, and when Jake isn’t showing off, he can stay upright long enough to call it surfing. Javy and Mickey are hopeless, though. You don’t know how they’re still out there considering they’ve spent most of the last hour underwater.

And Bob? Well, if Bob would stop overthinking it and actually try to catch a wave, then you might be able to judge his ability. But he doesn’t. He just keeps floating beyond the breakers, a few feet from the instructor, eyes fixed on the horizon like it holds the answers to all of life’s questions.

He’s doing what he does best, you think. Hesitating.

By the end of the lesson, everyone is exhausted—so exhausted that Mickey doesn’t even clap back at Bradley when he makes a size joke about their boards.

It doesn’t take long for everyone to peel their wetsuits off, thank the instructor, and start trudging back along the sand toward the resort. Bob walks fast, staying just far enough ahead that you can’t quite keep pace, the soft sand slowing you with every step.

“Quiet dinner tonight,” Maverick says as he steps through the resort’s lobby doors. “I’d like you all to come to the walkthrough at the venue tomorrow morning, and I don’t want any hangovers.”

He shoots a pointed look at Jake.

“Seven a.m. at the Royal Hawaiian,” he adds. “Then you can do whatever you want until the ceremony—which starts at seven p.m., but I want you all there at least an hour earlier.”

Everyone nods, tired and slow.

“Good.” Maverick claps his hands together. “I’ll see you at dinner.”

Then he’s gone, marching down the hall toward the other block of elevators. The rest of you turn and drag your feet toward the lifts, the whole squad too exhausted to manage even a single sentence.

Bob reaches the room before you, and by the time you step inside, you can see his silhouette on the balcony through the sheer curtains. He’s leaning on the railing, head bowed, clearly giving you space to take your shower and do whatever you need to while he plays the gentleman.

And sometimes—more than sometimes—you really wish Bob would just give in to his base instincts and perv on you like any other guy might in this ridiculous room-sharing situation.

But no. He just has to be polite.

Perfectly polite. Like the stupidly perfect man he is.

-

“Hey, could you—uh—could you maybe give me a hand?”

Bob appears in the bathroom mirror behind you, and your mascara wand pauses mid-lash. You’ve seen him in a suit before. You’ve attended black-tie events together before. But you’ll never get used to how unfairly good he looks like this—dark jacket, crisp white shirt, his tie hanging loose around his neck like some off-duty James Bond.

You clear your throat. “Um, yeah. Of course. Just—let me finish this.”

You quickly finish your mascara before stepping back to make sure there’s nothing left to fix, keeping your eyes firmly on your own reflection until you’re sure. Then you toss everything back into your cosmetics bag, take a steadying breath, and turn around.

“Tie?” you ask, stepping toward him.

He nods, eyes flicking up to the ceiling to avoid meeting yours.

You step in close, close enough that the warm, smoky scent of his cologne cuts through the floral soap still clinging to your skin. He stands still—very still—shoulders squared like he’s bracing for a frisk, not help tying his tie.

“Uh. Just a Windsor knot, I think,” he says, still not looking at you. “Please.”

“Relax,” you murmur, adjusting the loose lengths of his tie. “I’ve got you.”

Your fingers brush his collar as you straighten it, knuckles grazing warm skin at his throat, and you feel the way he swallows. He exhales slowly through his nose, like he’s trying to make his body relax—but it doesn’t listen.

You work carefully, methodically, the motions familiar enough that you don’t have to think about them. But Bob does. You can tell by the way his hands hover uselessly at his sides, by the faint tension still locked in his shoulders even as you smooth it from the fabric.

“You’re—uh—really good at this,” he says, nodding once, awkward.

You huff a quiet laugh. “It’s not hard, Bob.”

As you tighten the knot, your fingers linger for half a second too long at his chest, flattening the tie to make sure it sits right. That’s when his gaze finally drops—down to your hands, then your face, lingering at your lips—before flicking away again just as quickly.

“Sorry,” he says, immediately, even though he hasn’t done anything wrong.

You frown. “For what?”

He opens his mouth, closes it, then shrugs. “Nothing. Just—thanks.”

You step back, brushing imaginary dust from his shoulder. “There. Presentable.”

He gives you a small smile, eyes not quite meeting yours as he turns away and pretends to fix his cuff links. It takes you a few seconds to remember how to move, but when you finally do, you tighten the hotel robe around your waist and turn back to the mirror to finish getting ready.

It doesn’t take long to do your hair and add the finishing touches to your makeup, and by the time you turn to tell Bob you need to get dressed, he’s already out on the balcony.

With a deep sigh, you reach for your dress hanging on the highest towel hook beside the bathtub and slide it off the hanger, the silky fabric pouring over your hands like water. It’s deep navy satin, cut on the bias so it skims your body without clinging, with a soft draped neckline that falls low and elegant across your chest—and a single slit cut high along one thigh. It’s simple, fluid, and devastating in motion, the kind of dress that doesn’t need embellishment to make a point.

You turn your back to the bedroom—and the balcony—and let the robe slip from your shoulders. Then you step into the dress and draw it up your body, shivering at the cool fabric gliding against your skin. You reach to your side and pull the zipper all the way up before turning back to the mirror.

You’re not conceited—not really—but you can’t deny that you look good. And better yet, you feel good. Good enough to maybe—just a little—torture the man waiting out on the balcony who’s barely said more than fifteen words to you in the past three days.

“Bob,” you call. “You ready? We need to leave—like, now.”

You grab your purse from where you’d left it at the end of the bed and slip into your shoes, bending over to fasten the little buckles. When you straighten again, smoothing the front of your dress, Bob is already inside. Frozen. Just a few steps from the balcony doors like he walked in mid-thought and forgot how to function.

Your brows lift. “You good?”

His throat bobs, colour creeping up his cheeks as his eyes rake over you—slow and unguarded, like he’s forgotten how to look anywhere else. Forgotten that he’s supposed to be avoiding this—avoiding you.

“I—I’m good,” he says, too quick. “Let’s—um—let's go.”

The second he turns away, a small smile tugs at your mouth before you can stop it.

Whatever tonight turns into, it’s already off to an interesting start.

The whole squad—except Maverick—are already waiting in the lobby when you and Bob arrive. Mickey lets out a low whistle when he sees you, Jake mutters something inappropriate that he somehow makes sound charming, and Natasha just smirks, her eyes flicking between you and Bob.

Everyone is dressed to the nines—boys in suits with perfectly gelled hair, and Natasha in a sleek black gown that’s earning the attention of every passing male. Maverick will be in uniform, of course, but since the squad isn’t technically on duty or part of the ceremony, dress uniforms aren’t mandatory.

“Alright,” Bradley says, already moving toward the lobby doors. “Let’s get in a cab before Mav starts blowing up my phone.”

Everyone splits between two cars, piling in carefully, mindful of creasing jackets and skirts. The drive isn’t long, but you’re already regretting choosing the same cab as Jake before you’re even out of the resort’s driveway.

“So,” he says, twisting in the front seat to face the back. “Good holiday, Phoenix?”

She rolls her eyes. “Aside from the days I was dying? Yeah. Magical.”

He grins, unfazed. “I’ve missed you, you know? I feel like we haven’t spent any time together.”

Natasha snorts. “Yeah, because you’ve been too busy corrupting Floyd and flirting with random women who, by the way, are rarely interested.”

His brows shoot up, lips twitching. “Corrupting? That’s a strong word.” Then he looks at you. “Is that what you think, Blink?”

You lift one shoulder. “He’s been spending more time with you and acting kind of weird. Feels connected.”

Jake hums, like he’s filing that away. “Weird how?”

You don’t answer. You just look at him.

“Wow,” he says after a beat, shaking his head as he turns back to face the front. “You wound me. Both of you.”

Javy, sitting on Natasha’s other side, muffles his laughter with his hand.

“You know,” Jake adds without looking back, “you might thank me one day.”

Natasha scoffs. “Doubt it.”

Jake’s eyes catch yours in the rear-view mirror—and he winks.

You stare at his reflection for a beat longer than you should, then quickly look away. The cab suddenly feels too warm, too cramped, your pulse pounding in your ears as you turn to face the window.

And you realise—Jake knows something you don’t.

Eventually, the cab slows to a stop beneath the glowing awning of the Royal Hawaiian Resort. You shove the door open like you haven’t breathed fresh air in years, dragging in a deep breath as you practically spill out of the car. The others are already there, waiting by the entrance, smoothing suit jackets and checking their hair in the reflection of the glass doors.

You all know where to go thanks to the morning’s walkthrough, so once everyone’s gathered, Bradley leads the way through the main doors and into the extravagant lobby. A pre-ceremony cocktail hour is already underway on the terrace, where the whole squad immediately make a beeline for the bar while scanning the crowd for Maverick.

“Mav’s got an oceanfront suite here for the night,” Bradley says. “Honouree perks.”

“Damn,” Mickey sighs. “Bet it’s nice.”

“He’s got a room here?” Jake asks, suddenly interested.

You lean one elbow on the bar and let Natasha order your drink, too invested in the conversation to look away.

Bradley nods. “Yeah. That’s why he brought his uniform here this morning. He’s probably still up there now.”

Jake’s brows lift. “Is he staying here tonight instead of our resort?”

Bradley shrugs, a faint crease forming between his brows. “I don’t know. Why do you care?”

“I don’t,” Jake says lightly—then glances at you, something almost smug flickering across his face. “Just curious.”

Reuben snorts. “You just want to know if it’s free so you can take a girl up there later.”

Jake scoffs like he’s offended. “I would never.”

Bradley rolls his eyes. “You definitely would.”

You open your mouth to press him—to ask why he really wants to know—but you don’t get the chance.

“Lieutenants,” Maverick says, stepping up beside his godson in his perfectly pressed dress uniform. “You’re all looking very sharp this evening.”

There’s a chorus of greetings and a few teasing comments in response, but Maverick brushes them off with that signature cool confidence he seems to have perfected. He looks relaxed—proud, even—though it doesn’t take long before he’s pulled away by a pair of organisers eager to walk him through last-minute details.

Once everyone has a drink, the squad slowly disperses across the terrace. Glasses clink. The music shifts and grows louder. Mickey gets distracted by a tray of canapés and disappears entirely. Natasha drifts between conversations like she’s collecting impressions, and at some point you realise Jake has stationed himself near Maverick, deep in conversation, nodding along with an attentiveness that feels almost responsible.

Almost.

You try not to think too much of it. Jake talks to everyone. But something about tonight just feels… different.

Bob, on the other hand, is nowhere to be found.

You notice it only after a few minutes have passed—after you’ve scanned the terrace once, then again, expecting to spot him hovering near the railing or pretending to read the cocktail menu like it holds the secrets of the universe. But he isn’t by the bar. He isn’t with Bradley or Reuben. He’s just… gone.

You’re still debating whether to go looking for him when Jake appears at your side, drink in hand, expression carefully neutral.

“Hey,” he says. “Quick favour.”

Your brows knit. “What’s up?”

“Mav realised he left his speech cards in his room,” he continues easily. “He asked if you’d mind running up to grab them. He’s stuck talking to about six people who all think they’re more important than the ceremony.”

You hesitate, glancing back toward the terrace.

“Uh, yeah,” you say after a beat. “Sure. Which room?”

“Ten-eleven,” Jake says, already pressing a keycard into your palm. “Try not to get distracted.”

Then he winks—again—and disappears before you can question any of it.

You linger for a second, watching him slip into the crowd, before deciding not to overthink it and turning back toward the lobby. You hit the elevator button at least twice, turning the keycard over and over in your hand until the lift dings and the doors slide open.

It doesn’t take long to reach the tenth floor, then you follow the arrows until you find room 1011 and swipe the card against the reader. You shove the door open, step inside, and—

“Oh. Hey.”

Bob glances up from the side table drawer he’d been rifling through. “…Hi.”

You tilt your head. “What are you doing here?”

“Um.” He rubs the back of his neck. “Mav asked me to come up and find his speech cards.”

Your brows lift. “Oh.”

He hesitates, then looks at you again. “Why are you here?”

“Uh.” You step further inside, letting the door fall shut behind you. “Hangman said Mav asked him to ask me to come find his speech cards.”

Bob frowns. “He did?”

You nod. “Yeah. Weird.”

The silence that follows is heavy and uncomfortable, the kind that makes you want to say something—anything—just to break it.

You clear your throat. “Maybe Mav’s starting to lose it in his old age.”

Bob huffs a quiet laugh through his nose. “Yeah, maybe.”

“So…” You take another step into the room. “Have you found them yet?”

He glances back at the drawer. “No. And this room’s basically untouched, so I’m not even sure they’re here.”

“Did you have a boy-look?” you ask.

His eyes flick back up to you. “A what?”

“A boy-look,” you repeat. “My middle-school P.E. teacher used to say boys could never find anything because they were having a boy-look instead of a girl-look.”

Bob chuckles softly. “Wow. Your middle-school P.E. teacher sounds like she had some stuff to work through.”

You shrug. “Yeah. Probably.”

You glance around the room.

“Anyway. I’m here now, so I might as well help you look.”

He nods slowly, gaze dropping back to the drawer. “Okay.”

You move to the other side of the bed and start pulling open drawers—even though he’s probably already checked them. Neither of you speak. You don’t even look at each other. You just move wordlessly around the room, opening cupboards and drawers, lifting anything that isn’t bolted down—even flipping couch cushions after ten minutes of coming up empty.

“Okay,” you say finally, flopping onto the edge of the bed. “Either we start cutting the mattress open, or we tell Mav the cards aren’t in here.”

Bob stops rifling through the desk drawer—for the third time—and turns to you. “Where else would they be?”

You shrug. “I don’t know. But Mav’s not replying to my text, and we can’t miss the ceremony.”

He thinks for a moment, gaze drifting around the room—everywhere but you.

“What if you go down and ask him where they could be,” he says slowly, “and I keep looking?”

You draw a deep breath and push off the bed. “Okay. Let’s do that.”

“I’ll text you if I find them,” he adds.

You don’t answer, you just nod and head for the door.

Your hand closes around the handle. You push it down, and then—

Nothing. The handle moves, but the door doesn’t budge.

You frown, turn the lock, and try again. This time the handle doesn’t move at all.

Okay. So that’s locked.

You turn the lock back. Try again.

Nothing.

Weird.

“I think there’s something wrong with the door,” you call over your shoulder.

There’s a pause behind you. Then the soft sound of footsteps crossing the carpet.

Bob comes up close—close enough that you can feel his presence before you see him, the space behind you warming, shrinking. He doesn’t touch you. He just reaches past, carefully, his arm sliding into your periphery as he takes hold of the handle above your hand.

“Let me try,” he says quietly.

His knuckles brush yours as he presses down. The contact is brief, accidental, but it’s enough to make your fingers curl reflexively against the metal. The handle moves again. The door still doesn’t.

Bob exhales through his nose, slow and controlled, his chest almost—but not quite—brushing your back as he leans in a fraction more to test the latch.

Nothing.

For a second, neither of you move.

You’re acutely aware of how close he is now. Of the warmth at your back. Of the way his arm is still braced beside yours, trapping you between him and the door without meaning to.

“Well,” he murmurs, stepping back just enough to give you room. “That’s… weird.”

You swallow, forcing yourself to breathe normally as you turn slightly to face him.

“Yeah,” you say. “Weird.”

“We should—uh—we should call the front desk,” he says, already turning away.

You watch him grab the phone from beside the bed and dial whatever number calls reception, pressing it to his ear. Your hand is still on the door, your heart still lodged somewhere in your throat, and for some ridiculous reason you find yourself hoping that maybe—just maybe—you might get to stay stuck in here a little longer.

“…Hello?” he says, voice low, tentative.

He pulls the phone back from his ear, frowns at it, then lifts it again.

“Hello?”

He waits a beat—then exhales hard through his nose.

“It’s disconnected,” he says. “Or something. It’s not working.”

Your brows lift slowly. “Oh. That’s… convenient. But it’s fine, I’ll call Nat. You call Mav.”

His eyes widen like you’ve just solved an impossible equation, and he darts for where his phone is sitting on the desk. You pull yours from your purse, tap Natasha’s contact, and press it to your ear.

You both stand there, waiting.

The silence stretches.

The dial tone hums, steady and unhelpful, until—

“Hey, it’s Nat. I’m not available right now. If this is urgent, leave a message. If it isn’t, reconsider your choices.”

Shit.

You pull the phone away from your ear and scroll to another contact. Bradley.

“Mav didn’t answer,” Bob mutters. “I’ll try Fanboy.”

You keep trying. Keep dialling. One name after another. Again. Then again.

Nothing.

Eventually, Bob sinks down onto the edge of the bed, elbows braced on his knees, phone hanging loose in his hand. He stares at the carpet for a long second—too long—before lifting his head slowly, eyes narrowing like something has finally clicked into place.

“Did you—” He looks at you—really looks at you for the first time in days. “Did you say Hangman told you Mav asked him to send you up here?”

You nod slowly. “Yeah. Why?”

“Why didn’t Mav just ask you himself?” he asks.

“Jake said he was caught up with some important people.”

“So why wouldn’t he just ask Jake to go?”

You shrug. “I don’t know. Maybe Mav doesn’t trust him.”

“Or—” Bob pinches the bridge of his nose beneath his glasses, “—this was Hangman’s game all along.”

Your brows knit. “Hangman’s... game?”

Bob lets out a short, incredulous laugh. It isn’t amused. It’s tight, almost breathless.

“I should’ve known,” he mutters, pushing to his feet again. “This is exactly what he said he’d do. Proximity. Orchestration. Strategic intervention.”

He starts pacing—one step, two, then back the other way—like the room suddenly isn’t big enough.

You blink at him. “Bob.”

He doesn’t stop. “It’s probably Phase Five or something,” he says, talking to himself now. “He’s probably made up some stupid name for it too.”

“Phase what?” you ask, baffled.

He gestures vaguely between the two of you, frustration bleeding through the composure he’s been clinging to all night—all week. “Hangman doesn’t do anything without an angle. He doesn’t just accidentally send us both up here at the same time with a disconnected phone line.” He stops pacing and looks at you. “You think the door is a coincidence?”

You take a step toward him. “Okay, slow down. You’re saying Jake locked us in here on purpose?”

“Yes,” he says, emphatic—then, quieter, like every word costs him something. “I think so.”

Your brows draw tighter. “Why?”

He opens his mouth.

Closes it again.

His jaw tightens. He looks past you, then back, like he’s searching for the safest place to put his eyes and finding none of them acceptable. Then he exhales slowly, the sound controlled to the point of strain.

“It’s nothing,” Bob says. “Really.”

You tilt your head. “Bob.”

He shakes his head, already backing off, already retreating into that careful, maddening calm. “It’s just—Hangman being Hangman. He’s messing around. That’s all.”

“That didn’t answer my question.”

He shrugs, but it’s tight. “There’s nothing to explain.”

You hold his gaze, waiting for him to say something—anything—but he just stands there, shoulders tense, expression carefully blank.

You step closer. “Okay,” you say, measured, patient. “Then help me out. Because from where I’m standing, you’ve been really weird this entire trip.”

His jaw tightens.

“You’re nice,” you continue, voice steady but rising. “Then you’re distant. Then you’re nice again. Then you barely look at me. And then—” You stop yourself, a sharp breath cutting in. “Then I have to watch you flirt with some random girl at the bar.”

His head snaps up. “I wasn’t—”

“And that’s fine,” you cut in, heat finally cracking through. “If that’s what you want to do, that’s fine. But I swear to God, Bob, I’m getting whiplash trying to keep up with these mood swings.”

It’s your turn to pace now, a tight line across the carpet, the hem of your dress brushing your ankles. “And then there’s you and Hangman. Which—great. Fantastic. Love that for you. But if you’d asked me back in San Diego whether I thought you two would be this close, I would’ve laughed in your face.”

You stop in front of him again. He hasn’t moved. He looks like he’s bracing for impact.

“I thought I knew you,” you say, quieter now, the words pressing in harder for it. “And now I feel like I’m going crazy. Like I missed something. Like I’m standing here trying to read a map that keeps changing.”

You drag a hand through your hair, frustration finally spilling over.

“And honestly, you can tell me to shut up if this is just—what—Vacation Bob? And Vacation Bob is just a more awkward version of Hangman with worse timing? Fine. I can deal with that.”

You look at him—really look at him—heart pounding, chest tight.

“But I don’t think this is any version of you.”

You take one last step forward, close enough now that the space between you feels charged and unbearable.

“So please,” you say, breathless, heated, honest. “Will you tell me what the hell is going on?”

He looks at you like he’s trying to say something careful.

Like he’s still searching for the right words. Like he thinks he has time.

“I just—” he starts, voice rougher now, “I mean, it’s—”

Something in you finally snaps.

“Oh my God,” you breathe, half a laugh, half a sob. “You are unbelievable.”

Before he can ask what you mean, before he can retreat again, your fingers curl around his tie—the one he’d asked you to knot earlier, the one he’s been pulling at ever since you stepped into the room—and you yank.

He stumbles a half-step forward, breath catching, eyes flaring in surprise—and then you’re there, up on your toes, mouth crashing into his before he can find another excuse.

It’s not gentle. Not careful.

It’s hungry.

All the frustration you’ve swallowed for days crashes into him at once, your mouth pressing to his like you’ve been waiting forever and you’re done pretending otherwise. His name is still burning on your tongue when his body reacts—instinctive, immediate—hands coming up to catch you, to hold you, like his knees might actually give out if he doesn’t.

He makes a sound—quiet, wrecked—and it sends something sharp and dizzy straight through your stomach.

The kiss is messy. Urgent. All heat and ache and finally. His mouth moves against yours like he’s been holding himself back for far too long, like he doesn’t know whether to slow down or pull you closer so he does both at once.

Your knees go weak. Genuinely.

He feels it, curses under his breath, and tightens his grip, anchoring you to him, forehead dipping toward yours even as his mouth stays on yours like he’s afraid to stop.

You pull back just enough to breathe, lips still brushing his.

He looks wrecked.

Eyes blown wide behind his glasses, chest rising too fast, hands still holding you like letting go isn’t an option anymore.

He doesn’t let you pull away far.

Not really.

His hands stay on you, firm now, certain in a way they’ve never been—like something finally clicked into place and he’s done pretending he doesn’t want this. His forehead drops to yours, breath uneven, glasses nudging your temple.

“I just—” he says again, but this time it’s rough, laced with new meaning. “I—”

Your hands slide up his chest, fingers curling into his jacket, feeling his heart racing beneath the fabric.

“Oh, no,” you murmur, voice low and raw. “You don’t get to stop now. Not after all that.”

His breath stutters. You feel it—how close he is to losing whatever control he’s been clinging to. His thumb brushes your hip, slow, almost reverent, like he’s checking whether you’re real.

“You have no idea,” he says quietly, voice low and strained, “how long I’ve been trying not to—”

You kiss him again.

Slower this time. Deeper. Intentional.

He responds immediately, like the restraint finally snapped clean through, pulling you closer until there’s no space left to argue with. You feel it everywhere—the way his body lines up with yours, the way his hands learn you in real time, like he’s been imagining this and still can’t quite believe it’s happening.

The room feels too small. Too quiet. Every breath loud, every touch electric.

When he finally pulls back, it’s only to look at you—eyes dark, blown wide, utterly undone.

“We should stop,” he says, weakly. “The ceremony—”

You don’t answer right away.

You just watch him for a beat—breath unsteady, hands still gripping you like he hasn’t realised he never let go. And then you smile. Small. Slow. Wicked.

“We’re not stopping now, Floyd.”

The words barely land before you shove him—gentle but decisive—until the backs of his legs hit the bed and he drops onto the edge of it with a startled breath. You’re between his knees instantly, like there was never another option, like this is exactly where you’ve been heading all along. His hands find your hips on instinct, greedy and sure, thumbs digging in like he needs the contact to stay upright.

You look down at him, hands cradling his jaw, taking in the dark, wrecked look in his eyes—the way his lips are still swollen from your kiss, the way his mouth parts like he’s already waiting for more. His chest rises and falls too fast, and he doesn’t try to hide it.

“I think I’m in love with you,” you whisper, leaning in until your forehead meets his. “You know that?”

His breath stutters.

He doesn’t answer. He just tips his chin up and closes the distance between your mouths again—and this time it’s desperate, almost frantic, like the words knocked something loose in him. You barely have time to react before you’re kissing again, harder now, chasing the heat of him as if it might disappear if you don’t.

Your fingers slide into his hair and tug, and the sound he makes—low, broken—goes straight through you. His mouth parts under yours and you take full advantage, kissing him deeper, hotter, until there’s nothing left between you but breath and want and the taste of him on your tongue.

He’s flustered now, completely undone, hands clutching at your hips like he’s afraid you’ll change your mind if he doesn’t hold on tight enough. The kiss turns messy, your mouths dragging together in a rush of heat and need. When you nip at his lower lip, he exhales sharply against your cheek, the sound rough enough to make your knees threaten to give.

His grip tightens—then shifts.

Before you can process it, his hands slide lower, bunching the satin of your dress up as he pulls you in. You stumble forward with a soft gasp, and suddenly you’re straddling his lap, his thighs solid beneath you, his body pressed close enough that there’s nowhere left to breathe.

“Jesus—” he mutters against your mouth, hands firm at your hips now, holding you there like he’s done pretending he has any control left.

Your hands slide down the front of his shirt, fingers working open the buttons faster this time, patience gone, urgency taking over. You feel the hitch in his breath with each one, the way his grip tightens when your palm drags lower between you.

“We—uh—we’re gonna have to be quick, though,” you say, voice wrecked and breathless.

There’s no space. No distance left. Just heat and friction and the way his head tips back when you shift instinctively in his lap, drawing a low, wrecked sound out of him.

“That—” he pants, words catching when you rock against him, “that won’t be a problem.”

One of his hands fists in the gathered fabric of your dress, the other braced behind you like he needs the leverage to stay upright.

You pause for half a second, forehead pressed to his, both of you breathing too hard.

Then he kisses you again—hard and hungry—pulling you in like stopping was never really an option.

Your hands move fast, frantic across his chest and shoulders, shoving his jacket back. His hands only leave your waist long enough to free his arms—then his palms are back on you, tugging the silky fabric up until they can slide beneath it.

You sigh against his lips, breath stuttering as his hands roam possessively under your dress, fingers digging into your waist. He bucks up against you, needy and unrestrained, grinding himself into you until you feel the thick, hard press of him right where you need it.

The heat between you sharpens—filthy, hungry, dangerous.

He groans into your mouth, hands sliding down to your thighs. His grip tightens as he drags you impossibly close, holding you there, driving his hips up again and nearly choking when you press yourself down against his clothed cock. You can’t help it. You need him. Need it.

You grind down again, and again, the slick fabric of your panties pressed against you in the most ridiculously delicious way. Your breath catches sharply in your chest.

Bob hears it.

“You—you’re killing me,” he pants, mouth dragging down your jaw in wet, open kisses.

You whimper, words dissolving into the heat of having Bob Floyd hard and heavy against your core.

His mouth is everywhere and nowhere all at once—down your neck, over your collarbone, back again—like he can’t decide where to kiss you first and refuses to stop long enough to choose. His hands slide up your dress in a rush, skimming your ribs, your breasts, fingers catching on the fabric before he shoves the sleeves down your shoulders, impatient and a little clumsy.

You scramble to get your arms free, breath hitching, and the second you do your fingers are buried in his hair, twisting in his curls. You tug harder than you mean to, desperate, and he groans into your skin like he’s barely holding himself together.

His hands move back to your chest, unsteady now, fingers trembling as they curl into the cups of your bra. Then he tugs them down with zero ceremony, not wasting a second. His fingers find your nipples quickly, rolling them gently—once, twice—like he’s checking if you’re really that sensitive, and the sharp gasp you make answers him immediately.

“Fuck,” he mutters, wrecked, the word dragged out against your throat.

You arch into him without thinking, chasing the contact, hips shifting in his lap as your head tips back. You feel his cock twitch beneath you—harder, more insistent—and the way he whimpers into your skin tells you he felt it just as sharply.

“Bob,” you whine, needy and unguarded, the sound falling apart as everything starts to blur.

His mouth is hot and open against your skin, moving across your chest in hungry, unfocused kisses. He cups your breasts like he’s been thinking about this for far too long—like his hands already know exactly where they want to be—and there’s nothing hesitant about it. His thumbs drag over your nipples, slow and deliberate, coaxing until they’re tight and aching, and when you gasp he makes a low sound against your skin that feels dangerously satisfied.

He bites at your collarbone, teeth grazing just enough to make you jolt, then soothes it immediately with his mouth as he works lower—lips, tongue, breath—until he seals his mouth around your left nipple.

Your hips jerk. You don’t mean to, but you can’t help it. Desperation coils hot and deep in your core, tightening with every flick of his tongue, every broken sound he makes against you.

“Please—” you gasp, voice thin and breaking. “Need you. Please.”

His hips rock up in response, dragging the heavy, solid length of him right against your soaked core, and the sound that leaves you is wrecked and helpless. There’s too much friction, too much heat, nowhere near enough relief. Your thighs tighten around him on instinct, clinging like your body’s already begging for more.

“Bob—fuck,” you breathe, eyes fluttering shut.

The sound barely leaves you before he shifts to your right breast, mouth closing around it as he sucks hard, deep, unhurried—like he’s intent on taking his time ruining you anyway. The sensation pulls another groan from you, louder and needier, and your thighs clamp tight around his hips, anchoring yourself against the solid press of his body, the friction of his pants against your bare skin, the relentless hardness wedged between them.

He moans into you, the sound vibrating straight through your chest, and then he’s dragging his mouth back up to yours—kissing you hard and deep, claiming in the way he does everything.

Your hands slip free of his hair, sliding down the warm line of his neck, over his chest, his stomach—until they reach his belt. You work it loose quickly, tugging the leather free, popping the button, easing the zip down. His hips jerk forward when your hand brushes him, thick and hot beneath his briefs.

“Are you—are you sure?” he rasps against your lips, the words barely holding together.

You know he would stop if you said no. You know he’d do it without hesitation. And the thought tightens something in your chest, because Bob Floyd is devastatingly good—even now, sitting beneath you, shamelessly grinding his hard cock against your soaked core while you take your time answering him.

“Yes,” you say, nodding, breathless. “I’m sure.”

His mouth crashes back to yours, and then his hands leave you for just a second—just long enough to lift his hips and shove his pants and briefs down—before they’re back again, gripping your thighs, spreading you wider like he’s done waiting.

You reach between your bodies without breaking the kiss, breath tangled with his, and he jerks sharply at the first touch. Your own breath stutters as your fingers curl around him—bare, hot, impossibly thick—your grip firm but careful, like you’re testing just how much he can take.

“Jesus—” he chokes, voice wrecked. “Don’t—I won’t—”

You stroke him once, slow and deliberate, feeling the way he twitches hard in your hand. Your body clenches around nothing, needy and aching.

“Won’t what?” you whisper, teasing right against his mouth.

Then you stroke him again, thumb brushing over the sensitive tip.

He groans, low and broken, the sound punched out of him. “I won’t—won’t last.”

His forehead drops to your shoulder on the third stroke, breath shuddering as he gives in to it, and you can’t help the way your legs tighten around him. Your hips rock instinctively, against nothing, desperate for friction—for him—for anything to ease the low, aching heat coiled tight in your stomach.

“Please,” he whispers into your skin. “Please.”

His hand slides between your legs, pushing aside the thin scrap of fabric still separating you, fingers brushing through the slick heat there. The gasp that leaves you catches halfway up your throat, turning into a soft, pathetic whine.

“You’re already—” He swallows hard, words faltering. “You’re so wet.”

And you are—slick and aching, pulsing with need, practically dripping onto the bedsheet between his thighs. You shift your hips, lifting just enough to line yourself up, desperate for the pressure, the stretch, the feeling of him filling you. Every inch of your body feels tight and hot, begging.

His hand grips your thigh, steadying you as he lines himself up. The tip brushes against you—slick and hot—teasing right at the edge.

Your breath hitches.

Your eyes lift to his, wide and pleading.

“Please,” you whisper, the word breaking. “I just—fuck—I need you.”

He groans against you, deep and unrestrained, as you start to sink down.

You gasp when the tip breaches you, hot and thick, stretching you more than you expected right from the start. Your head drops to his shoulder, breath coming fast and uneven, every nerve lit up and buzzing. All you can feel is him. All you can think about is him. The rest of the world is already forgotten, because all you care about right now—forever—is him.

“Oh fuck,” you whisper, clinging to his shoulders. “You’re so big—”

“I’ve got you,” he murmurs, lips brushing your neck, breath shuddering with the effort of holding still.

Your fingers dig into his shoulders, nails dragging as your legs tighten around his hips, pulling yourself closer. You sink down a little more—and then you still, chest heaving, forcing yourself to pause. To breathe. To adjust. To feel every inch of him.

He’s rigid beneath you, muscle locked tight with restraint, holding himself back, giving you the time you need even though it’s clearly costing him something.

You sink lower again. The stretch burns, pressure building low and tight, but it’s good—too good—making your head spin.

“So tight,” he groans, voice rough. “You’re doing so good, sweetheart.”

You’ve never been with anyone this big, and suddenly the idea of anyone else feels impossible. Nothing else could ever compare to this. To the way your body feels right now—like fire and need and desperation wound tight, right to the edge.

You draw in a deep, shuddering breath and lift your head from his shoulder, eyes meeting his. They’re dark and unfocused, fixed on you like you’re the only thing he can see. Like you’re the most beautiful thing he’s ever looked at.

Then you finally—finally—sink all the way down with a broken, half-choked moan that tears out of your chest. Bob swallows the sound with a kiss, slow and deep, his hands sliding to your waist, fingers digging in—holding you still. Holding you there.

“I—uh—” he pants against your lips, breath breaking. “‘m not gonna last long.”

Your mouth curves against his. “Me neither.”

He nods once, sharp. “Good.”

Then he lifts you—just a little, like you weigh nothing at all—and snaps his hips up, driving into you hard enough to knock the breath from both of you.

You cry out together.

Your head falls back, his name tearing out of you in a broken moan. It’s too much and not enough all at once—him everywhere, holding you, filling you, claiming you in the deepest, most overwhelming way.

Your gasp rips through the room when he thrusts again, raw and desperate, your back arching as your nails drag across his shoulders. The stretch is relentless, searing, addictive. You’ve never felt anything like it—so full, so deep, like he’s carved out space inside you and decided it’s his.

“Jesus,” he groans, forehead dropping to your shoulder. “You feel—you’re so—”

His words break off when you roll your hips, shifting your weight onto your knees for leverage, meeting him without hesitation.

“I’m what?” you ask, breathless, teasing even now.

His eyes lift to yours, dark and intent, and he gives you that look—the one that makes your stomach tighten in anticipation—like your teasing isn’t getting you out of anything. Like if you’re lucky, he’s going to make you pay for it later.

You hold his gaze, daring him to say it—daring him to do something about it.

Then you lift your hips just enough to make a point and drop back down. The broken groan it punches out of him sounds like it’s dragged straight from his chest.

And whatever patience he had left disappears.

His arms lock around you, pulling you fully flush. One wraps tight around your waist, unyielding, the other sliding up the back of your neck to tangle in your hair—holding you there, all of you, not allowing you even a breath of space.

Then his hips start driving up into you, fast and desperate. Your thighs tremble as you struggle to stay steady, every thrust dragging you closer to the edge. The sound of skin on skin grows louder, wetter, messier—perfect.

He’s relentless now, rough in his urgency, but there’s a tenderness in the way he holds you that makes your chest ache. Like this matters. Like you’re something precious even as he fucks into you with fierce, burning need, the noises clawing up your throat raw and unfiltered.

Every drive hits exactly where you need it, leaving your vision hazy, your skin lit up and buzzing. You hear his breath coming apart, feel the slick heat between you, but his rhythm never falters—steady, punishing, inevitable.

Your slick coats his thighs—soaking your panties, dripping onto the damn bed—and still it’s not enough. You want more. You want everything.

You bury your face in his neck and moan—loud and shameless—the sound echoing through the room and probably the corridor beyond it. You wouldn’t even be surprised if someone out on a balcony hears you now.

He drives into you deep, hitting that perfect place every time, and the heat—God, that unbearable, beautiful heat—builds fast. Sharp and coiled, lightning-hot up your spine.

“Close,” you gasp. “I—I’m so close—”

He groans into your shoulder. “Me too.”

The way he fucks up into you grinds perfectly against your clit, the pressure relentless and just right. Your nipples drag against his dress shirt, your thighs start to shake, your back arches, and the coil inside you winds so tight your lungs forget how to work.

You can feel how close he is too—in the way his rhythm stutters, the way his breath breaks apart. The way his arms crush you to him until it almost hurts, until there’s nowhere else you could possibly be. You want to be closer than skin allows—closer than the world will let you be.

You’re both panting, right on the edge, hips meeting his thrusts as you cling to each other like letting go would break you apart. He pulls back just enough to see your face, and the look he gives you—wrecked, awestruck, completely fucking gone—undoes you.

“Fuck—baby—” he chokes, eyes dark and soft all at once, and the way he’s looking at you makes your stomach flip.

That’s all it takes.

The coil inside you snaps, and your orgasm rips through you like a live wire—white-hot and all-consuming. You cry out, shaking, clenching, blinded by the heat tearing through you.

And Bob’s right behind you—one, two more thrusts—and then he’s groaning low, spilling inside you as he buries his face in your shoulder, thrusting through it, riding the high with you. You're both shaking, bodies slick, hearts pounding, still grinding, still clinging, still desperate to be closer than skin will allow.

And for a long moment, neither of you moves. You just breathe—ragged, uneven, still a little dazed—wrapped up in each other like the world outside this room doesn’t exist. Your legs stay tight around him, your body heavy in his lap, his arms locked around you like letting go isn’t an option yet.

Then, slowly, he lifts his head just enough to look at you. His glasses are crooked, curls damp, cheeks flushed in a way you’ve never seen before. You brush your thumb over his jaw, push his hair back, and lean in to kiss him—slow this time. Soft. Open. Sweet.

He kisses you like it’s instinct now. Like it’s familiar. Like it’s something he’s been waiting to do forever.

“I love you,” he murmurs against your mouth, almost absentminded. “By the way.”

The words land warm and easy, like they’ve always belonged there.

He kisses you again—your lips, the corner of your mouth, your jaw—unhurried, reverent, like he’s committing you to memory now that he finally can.

And for just a second, everything is perfect.

Then—somewhere distant and muffled—you hear music.

You freeze.

His brows knit. “Is that…?”

Your eyes widen. “Oh my God.”

The ceremony. The speech cards.

Maverick.

The spell breaks all at once.

“Oh—shit,” you breathe, untangling yourself with a reluctant little sound, already missing the warmth—the stretch—of him the second you pull back.

“Oh my God,” he mutters, hands scrambling uselessly for a second before he remembers how limbs work.

He drags a hand through his hair, pushing his smudged glasses back up his nose, blinking like he’s still trying to re-enter his own body. He pushes off the bed, a little awkward, a little stiff, fixes his briefs, then hauls his pants back up.

You step back and smooth your dress down with shaky hands. Fix your bra. Fix your straps. The satin is wrinkled now, beyond saving, but there’s no time to care.

Then you catch sight of the bed—and stop.

“…Holy shit,” you whisper, eyes locked on the dark, unmistakable patch where you’d just been.

He follows your gaze—and huffs out a breathless laugh, half horrified, half amused. “Jesus. Okay. That’s—” He clears his throat. “We—we can’t tell Mav.”

You snort despite yourself. “That’s if we’re not already found out, which…” You trail off, cheeks burning. “Fuck. They’re all gonna know.”

He swallows hard, nodding once. “Yeah. They’re all gonna know.”

You just look at each other for a moment, the silence stretching, hearts still racing—not from what you did, but from what it means. For you. For the squad. For whatever comes next. You wait for the weight of it to drop. For that familiar twist of panic, the sickening sense that you’ve crossed a line you can’t uncross.

But it never comes.

The warmth in your chest doesn’t fade. It doesn’t sharpen into anxiety or curdle into regret. It stays exactly where it is—steady, grounding, right.

Because nothing feels wrong.

You don’t feel like you’ve ruined anything. You don’t feel like you’ve made a mistake. All you feel is the quiet, unshakeable certainty that there is nothing in this world—no fallout, no teasing, no future complication—that could make you wish this hadn’t happened.

There is nothing you want more than the man standing in front of you.

“I really mean it,” you say finally, the words simple and sure. “I love you.”

Something in his face softens completely. He steps toward you—not rushed, not hesitant—just Bob. No awkwardness. No deflection. No borrowed confidence. Just him.

Sweet Bob. Steady Bob. Yours.

“I know,” he says gently, lifting his hands to cup your jaw. “I mean it too.”

Then he leans in and kisses you—not hurried this time, not hungry. Just sure.

It’s slow and lingering, the kind of kiss that doesn’t need to prove anything—warm and steady and full of promise. His thumb brushes your jaw, grounding you there for a heartbeat longer, like he’s imprinting the moment before the world comes rushing back in.

You kiss him back just as softly, smiling into it, letting yourself have this. The certainty. The quiet joy of knowing.

Then—somewhere outside the suite—you hear the music swell again.

You both freeze.

He pulls back first. “Okay,” he says, a little breathless. “Yeah. We—we really have to go.”

You laugh, short and disbelieving. “Yeah. We really do.”

There’s a flurry of movement—he grabs his jacket, you smooth your dress as best you can, grab your purse, fix your shoes. Then he reaches for you again, quick this time, stealing one more kiss like he can’t help himself.

“For the record,” he murmurs, forehead pressed to yours, “worth it.”

You grin. “Completely.”

Then you’re out the door together, half-running down the hallway, trying—and failing—to look composed as you mash the elevator button like your lives depend on it.

When the doors slide open, you step inside, hands linked, biting back laughter at the utterly telling reflection of you both in the mirrored wall.

“Hold this,” you say, pressing your purse into Bob’s hands.

He takes it without question, brows knitting as you start bunching your dress up in a hurry.

“What’re you—”

“My underwear are soaked,” you say plainly. “I can’t keep wearing them.”

You make quick work of tugging them down your legs, stepping out carefully before bunching them in your fist. When you lift your head, Bob has gone very still—like his brain stalled halfway through a thought. His grip tightens on your purse, his throat works, and his eyes track the movement of your hand like he’s not entirely sure where to look.

You smirk. “You good?”

He clears his throat. “I—uh—I’m—yeah, that’s—” His gaze flicks back to your hand. “That’s kind of hot.”

You laugh softly. “Yeah? Then hold onto them for me.”

You step closer—close enough that his shoulder brushes the side wall, close enough that there’s no pretending this is accidental—and slide your hand into the pocket of his pants. His chest lifts fast, breath hitching, eyes locked on yours as the air in the elevator thickens, heat sparking sharp and unmistakable between you.

For half a second, you forget where you are.

Then—ding.

The doors slide open.

You step out into the lobby and are immediately swallowed by motion—guests drifting in every direction, staff moving with practiced efficiency, the low hum of conversation rising and falling like background noise. No one looks twice at you. No one slows you down.

Bob stays close at your side as you walk, his hand hovering at your back, not touching but present. Neither of you speak. There isn’t time. You just keep moving, heels clicking softly against the marble as you cross the lobby.

There’s a security guard standing by the entrance to the Grand Hall—but he’s turned away, distracted, caught mid-conversation with one of the resort staff. It’s brief, but it’s enough. You and Bob slip past quietly, unchallenged, unnoticed, and through the doors into the dimly lit hall beyond.

Maverick’s voice carries through the space, steady and familiar, echoing beneath the high ceiling. Rows of tables fill the room, guests seated and attentive, the stage lit at the front. You slow instinctively, eyes flicking toward the podium as you take it all in.

Bob exhales softly beside you—and you feel it more than hear it.

You spot your table easily, guided by memory of the morning’s walkthrough, and grab Bob’s hand, tugging him along with you.

You don’t look at the others. You don’t dare.

You keep your eyes down as you slide into your seat, heart lodged high in your throat, cheeks burning, acutely aware of every pair of eyes at the table turning toward you.

Then, with effort, you force yourself to look up.

At the podium.

At Maverick.

At the damn speech cards in his hands…

“Because at the end of the day,” he says, voice booming through the microphone, “the mission only matters if the people beside you do.” He pauses, smiling out at the room. “Thank you for letting me serve.”

The room erupts in applause. Chairs scrape as people stand, whistles cutting through the noise as an admiral you don’t recognise joins Maverick onstage and shakes his hand. The moment is loud and bright and ceremonial.

But you barely see any of it.

You turn sharply toward Jake, leaning in so he can hear you over the clapping. “Maverick was in on it?!”

Jake’s grin stretches impossibly wide. “You two just fucked in Mav’s room, didn’t you?”

Bob immediately sinks lower in his chair, shoulders curling inward like he’s trying to disappear into the upholstery.

“Wait,” Mickey says, still clapping, eyes wide. “They fucked?”

“Jesus, Mick,” Reuben mutters. “Keep up.”

Your eyes stay narrowed at Jake. “How did you lock us in there?!”

His gaze flicks to Bradley, then Javy. “We leaned on it.”

Bob looks up, horrified. “You leaned on it?”

“For the record,” Natasha says coolly, “I was not a part of this.”

Jake snorts. “You still ignored their calls.”

You whip toward her, eyes wide. “You did?!”

She shrugs, smirking despite herself. “Didn’t hear it ring.”

You let out a small, breathless laugh and look back at Jake. Then Bradley. Then around the table, one familiar face after another, until your eyes finally land on Bob.

He’s redder than you’ve ever seen him, ears flushed, shoulders tight, clearly wishing he could disappear and also very aware that he absolutely cannot. And something in your chest does this soft, stupid little flip.

Even now.

Even like this.

Even surrounded by your squad, swindled by your captain, very publicly exposed, and very definitely panty-less in the middle of a U.S. Navy sponsored event, your heart still skips.

Because there he is.

That man. That gorgeous, earnest, mortifyingly sincere man who looks at you like you hung the moon and stole his breath in the same afternoon. The man who makes everything feel steadier just by being close. The man you somehow stumbled into loving without even realising it had already happened.

There’s no panic. No second-guessing. No what-ifs waiting to pounce once the adrenaline fades.

Just certainty.

Just the quiet, unwavering knowledge that whatever comes next, you want it with him. That the rest of your life suddenly feels less like a question and more like a direction. And God, you cannot wait to start it.

Because that man? That gorgeous, embarrassed man is the love of your life. And God, you just can’t wait to start the rest of forever with him.

“And that, ladies and gentleman,” Jake says, standing like he just won an award himself, “is Hangman’s Guide to Getting the Girl.”