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It snows the day after Christmas, and the day after that, and the day after that. 

“Do you think it will ever stop snowing?” You ask Bob as you slide his curtains closed. Outside the snow seems endless, blanketing everything in a layer of blinding white. 

“I don’t mind, it means we get to stay inside. Keep each other warm,” he responds as you lay on your stomach next to him and open up his Twitter. After spending the past three days pleading with you to just have a look at what people were saying, Bob had finally managed to get you to do it. He’s tweeted out a short clip and pinned it to his profile. 

@goldenboy: got a friend of mine to help with this year’s Christmas video :) something extra special to thank you all for getting me into the top 5% of creators. link in bio! Happy holidays everyone!

“You didn’t tell me you were in the top 5%!” you yell, hand stretching out to whack at him. “I would’ve got you cake or something.”

“I didn’t wanna brag. Why do you and Yelena hit so hard, you don’t even work out,” he complains rubbing at the spot on his chest where you hit him. 

“I work out,” you mumble, scrolling down into the comments. You ignore his scoff. “If you’re top 5% that must mean you’re making bank? Why on earth do you still want to have a roommate?”

“I don’t like being alone,” he says. “I’ve tried and it just… wasn’t good for me,” he shrugs. You don’t push it, just keep scrolling through comments.  

@jaytorres: god almighty… also congrats bro, you’re killing it out here. 

“God almighty is crazy,” you laugh. “Good to know he liked it though,” you nod. You don’t need to look at Bob to know he’s rolling his eyes like he’s done every time Joaquin has come up in casual conversation. 

“DM him, I’m sure he’d love to tell you in detail what he liked,” he says. You just give him a light shove, continue reading the comments out loud to him. 

@_luvrgirlsupreme: me next? 

@donotfollowplease: when are you gonna go live again? We miss your livestreams!

“You don’t go live anymore?” You ask. 

“Nah, not really. Friday used to be my livestream day, but obviously I’m busy on Fridays,” he shrugs, looking everywhere but at you. 

“Bob, you should’ve told me you were busy on Fridays we could’ve found a different day for movies,” you complain. 

“I’m telling you it’s fine. I’ll just find a different day to go live, or go live later. Don’t touch movie night, that’s like, sacred to me,” he says, almost sounding stern. “Go on, read some more.”

@softnsweet: what kind of friend is this?

@cutietron5000: my rose toy’s about to be sick of me!! thank you for the gift mr goldenboy!

@sportsbunny: congrats my friend :)!! Onwards and upwards!! and tell your friend she did really good too :)!! I hope you said thank you!

“Awww she’s so sweet, tell her I said thank you. And that you were a perfect gentleman who also said thank you.”

“I’ll tell her,” he smiles as you keep scrolling. 

@user6745098767: me and who?

        @bigdaddydon53876: @user6745098767 check dm, looking for someone to spoil, can send you proof I’m real. 

@terryrichardson99876546: do you have more videos with her? Can we see more? Does she have her own page????????????

@swagpilled101: my friend fucks me like this I’m asking them what we are btw. 

@goontastic: model’s name?

      @goldenboy: @goontastic she’s not a model, just my friend. 

      @goontastic: @goldenboy oh that’s sad… well I hope we get to see her again! 

@lovepilled: look at my Santa dawg, I need to disinfect my gifts before I open them. 

You laugh at that one while Bob defends himself. 

“We weren’t even in the workshop! We were in my office, that’s separate to my workshop,” he explains, hands thrown up in exasperation. “You know they do this under all my role-play videos? They pick them apart?”

“You have a heckler?” You laugh. He’s not amused, bottom lip pushed out in a pout as he watches you laugh. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry I shouldn’t laugh but you have to admit that it is a little hilarious. Just a little bit,” you giggle, imagining this same user under all the content he’s posted, pointing out the inaccuracies. “Did this person heckle you under the Creampie for Study Notes video too?”

He looks confused for a moment, brow furrowing as he thinks, and then he lights up after seemingly remembering. “First of all, yes you know they did, I’ll see if I can find the tweets. Second of all, you remember that video?”

“The premise is ridiculous. Of course I remember,” you say, holding up your free hand before he can say something sly and going back to reading comments. 

@user569886: real porn role-play is so back

@moonjunakgae: how do I get a job at Santa’s workshop???? Asking for a friend. 

@_luvrgirlsupreme: @moonjunakgae when you find out please tell me I also want this Christmas bonus. 

You scroll through more comments, most of the same; people asking if you had your own page, if you were going to do more with Bob. Some comments are very complimentary, and you don’t know what to do with the pride that swells in your chest. Others are just a simple “thanks!” Or “good stuff again, brother!” Which you think is quite possibly the weirdest thing to say under a video of Santa-elf role-play, but hey, who were you to judge?

“See? All good, no one’s gonna take you out back and shoot you or whatever you thought was going to happen to you, they love you,” Bob says, his fingers tracing little patterns on your back. You roll your eyes as you lock your phone, roll over so you’re on your back, your head resting on his arm. 

“I know. A lot of them wanna see me again,” you smile, eyes closed. 

“Do you want to be in another one?” He asks. 

“Maybe. This wasn’t too bad actually,” you say. 

“What kind of video would you wanna do?” He asks, his free hand sliding up the inside of your thigh. 

You close your eyes, try to focus on anything but the heat of his hand. He lets the question hang, waits for you to gather your thoughts as he continues moving his hand. 

“I can’t focus if you do that,” you sigh, but you’re disappointed when he stops, puts his hand on your knee instead. “Okay. Well most importantly no more role-play if you want me back on camera.” He seems to accept this, motions for you to continue. “I think maybe, I’d probably like to sit on your face if you wanted,” you mumble. It’s harder to get the words out than you think it should be. 

“Okay, sitting on my face. I can do that for you. Off-camera too if you wanted, whenever you want,” he shrugs, “anything else?”

“I don’t know, you can do pretty much anything to me, you look like you’re good at a lot,” you say, face hot. His hand is still on your knee but even that is making you squirm. 

“Aww thanks,” he flashes you a smile. “What about off-camera? We should probably talk about the off-camera stuff too,” he says as he moves so that he’s sitting up. You sit up too, cross your legs and face him. 

“Like what I want from you in bed or…” you trail off. You’re not sure you want to have this conversation, to have him remind you that you are strictly friends with benefits. It’s not really an issue, but for some reason you feel your heart tug. 

“What you want this to be. I already told you this but I probably couldn’t give you a real relationship,” he almost sounds sad, and just for a moment his eyes are downcast, the usual light confidence hidden beneath something else, but it comes back just as fast it went. “Not that I’m assuming you want more from me obviously, I’m your roommate and we’ve had great sex, I’m just you know… saying. If things change we have to talk to each other, because I really don’t wanna lose you as a friend if we stop doing this,” he mumbles, wringing his hands. 

You put your hands over his. “Bob, you are my friend. I also don’t wanna lose you as a friend. You’ve been upfront with me and that’s really all I can ask for so don’t worry about that okay?”

He nods. “Sorry, I’m really not trying to be an asshole, I just don’t want us to hate each other at the end of this.”

Hearing him casually mention your arrangement ending throws you for a bit of a loop but you snap out of it, just squeeze his hands. 

“Bob, you’re literally impossible to hate. I don’t think you’ve done a single mean thing while you’ve lived here,” you say, fixing him with a glare when he opens his mouth to argue, “I’m serious. You’re not being an asshole by setting boundaries. It’s okay I promise.” You squeeze his hands again and he visibly relaxes. 

“Okay so uh, what about what you want me to do to you. Let’s talk about that,” he asks. 

You groan. You were hoping he’d move on from that. He laughs as he pulls you into his lap while he leans against his headboard. 

“Wait, so you’ll let me fuck you on camera, but you won’t tell me what you want off camera? C’mon, this has to be fun for you, tell me what you want,” he says. He slides his hands under your shirt, presses a kiss to your throat. “What dirty dirty things does this sweet girl want me to do to her?” he murmurs as he ghosts his lips over yours. He pulls away, leans back, but he doesn’t take his hands off of you. 

“I’m not that sweet,” you mumble, trying to ignore the dull ache starting in your core. It doesn’t help that he has you sitting right over him. Or that once again, he didn’t give you your underwear back last night so you were sitting there with nothing but his shorts separating you guys. 

He laughs again. “You need to focus. Tell me what you want besides sitting on my face, or do you need time to think about it?”

“I don’t need time to think about it, it’s just I haven’t done some of it before so I’m just shy about it,” you finally admit. 

“Fair enough. Nothing to be shy about though, I guarantee you, I’ve probably been asked to do much weirder shit. I used to kick my old dealer in the balls until he came so I wouldn’t have to pay for my shit. Among other things.”

You grimace. “Okay, well, there will be no ball kicking over here thank you,” you say to him. You let your hands slide round to the back of his head, play with the hair at the nape of his neck. It’s growing long, curling at the ends. “Your hair’s longer,” you note, as you coil some of it around your fingers, pulling lightly. 

“Yeah, too lazy to get it cut,” Bob sighs out. “You like it?”

“Yeah, it suits you like this.” You card your fingers through his hair, feel him twitch beneath you. 

“Stop stalling. Tell me what you want,” he says, tone firm.  He can probably feel the way you’re throbbing on top of him but you don’t care, you’re well past that now. 

“I guess, we could try the mirror sex at some point?”

You lean your forehead on his chest when his eyebrows shoot up, but he takes your chin in his fingers, tilts your head back up so you’re looking at him. 

“Stop, don’t hide from me. How are we supposed to have mirror sex if you won’t even look at me when asking?” 

You close your eyes, then open them when you hear him tsk. 

“Better,” he says. “What else?”

“Bob,” you squirm under his gaze, eyes almost an electric blue even in the low light of lamp. There’s something different about him. He’s never pushed you for an answer quite like this, not without apologising profusely about making you uncomfortable.  

“Quit wriggling around or you’re gonna get me hard again,” he says, trying to hold your hips in place. “Tell me what else you want. Just one more thing okay, and I’ll let you go.” One of his hands travels up your torso, cups your boob. “C’mon, one more for me and I’ll let you go,” he says as he kneads it, slow but strong. 

“I want you to spank me, just a little bit,” you finally admit. You’d seen him do it on video countless times, watched the way he drew his hand back, soothed the area after landing a hard smack. It had turned you on more than you wanted to admit, but asking him to do it felt like torture. Felt needy. 

“You’ve never…” he trails off, hand coming back out of your shirt to caress your cheek. 

“I tried, but he was a bit heavy handed. I think I’d like it if it was something softer, you know,” you shrug, leaning into his touch. 

He nods. “Okay, that’s good, see. Three things we can try together,” he smiles, soft again. You’re about to press him for his preferences when you hear a pathetic mewl come from the other side of the door. You check the time. 

“Shit, we should probably feed her,” you say, getting off him, pulling on your pair of pants. “Bob, do you think I could have my underwear back?”

He looks flabbergasted. “Are you running out?”

“No, but I have three incomplete sets of lingerie, and that’s pretty much all the lingerie I own,” you say to him, arms folded over your chest. 

“You got plans that require lingerie?” 

“No, I just like having complete sets.”

He rolls his eyes, throws a shirt on. “C’mon let’s feed her before she starts climbing the walls,” he says, effectively ending the conversation. 

“Bob,” you huff. 

“Okay, fine.” He crosses his room, opens up the top drawer of the chest of drawers, and holds the lilac piece he’d taken off you when you filmed the test video in the air. He walks over and presses it into your hand. “Since you asked so nicely.” He doesn’t mention the rest, just opens the door and scoops Angie into his arms. “Let’s get you fed, we’ve kept you waiting for so long haven’t we?”he coos at her. She just mewls in response. You sigh. At least he’s washed them, you think as you pocket them. 

Once Angie’s been fed, the house is sufficiently clean, and you’ve showered you wrap yourself up and step outside so you can go water Yelena and Ava’s plants, and feed Yelena’s new guinea pig. They’d gone to Ohio to see Yelena’s parents and wouldn’t be back until way after New Year’s. Bob’s right behind you, beanie pulled down over his hears, Angie’s leash in a gloved hand. 

“Look at you, you’re a proper cat dad,” you say as you lock the door. 

“You know me, super responsible parent,” he mumbles through his scarf. 

When you get to Yelena and Ava’s, Bob waits outside, keeps Angie occupied in case she finds Yelena’s pet a little too interesting. He’s watching her roll around in the snow when you come back out, intensely focused as she shakes it off just to find a deeper patch that she can throw herself into.  He startles when he hears the click shut behind him, the mechanical whirring as you hit the lock button on the keypad. You hold your hand out for her leash, and he hesitates at first, but he gives it to you anyways, watching as you clip it back into her harness. The two of you walk your usual route to the park, then do a couple of laps around the park, stopping every now and then so Angie can cover herself in snow. 

“I swear I’ve never seen a cat like the snow this much,” Bob remarks, amused as she purrs, shakes herself off and does it all again. 

“She loves it so much it’s almost scary, if you let her out in the backyard she will come back sopping wet and complain at you until you dry her, even though the only reason she’s wet is because she thinks she’s a fucking husky or something,” you answer as you watch her. He snorts, then smiles and starts waving at someone behind you. When you turn, two little girls with their hair in pigtails are waddle-running towards you, excited grins on their faces while someone you presume is their mother tells them to slow down, wait for her. They don’t seem to hear, excited shouts of “HI MISTER BOB,” echoing through the cold. Angie’s ears perk up, and you’re surprised when they get there and she immediately offers herself to them, eyes wide as they look at Bob. 

“Can we pet her again mister Bob? Are we allowed? Our mom says we must always ask if we are allowed,” one of them says, proudly puffing out her chest as she explains her mother’s rules. They’re twins, dressed in identical red and white snowsuits. If not for the small scar in one of the girl’s eyebrows you wouldn’t be able to tell them apart. 

Bob looks at you, and you nod. 

“Sure girls, go ahead,” he says as they kneel in the snow, small, mittened hands gently rubbing at Angie. She’s purring loud, writhing and moving herself around. Every time she stretches, you hear them giggle and whisper “biiiiiig stretch” to themselves. They’re engrossed in the act of playing with Angie by the time their mother catches up, slightly out of breath, and then a man comes up behind her pushing a stroller. 

“I’m so sorry, we tried telling them to calm down,” the mother pants, hands on her knees, her breath forming small clouds in front of her face. 

“It’s no problem, I’ve never seen Angie roll over like that for anyone if I’m being honest so as long as she’s happy, I’m happy,” you laugh. You introduce yourself to them, offering your gloved hand so they can shake. 

“I’m Marie, thank you so much for your patience,” she apologises again. 

“I’m Jordan,” the dad says, taking your hand in a firm grip. 

You’re about to introduce Bob when Marie says, “Oh we met, about two weeks back, before Christmas. He was here with her too. The girls have been obsessed ever since, keep asking us to ask him to let them come over and play with her for a little,” she explains.

“They almost gave me their address so I could bring her over,” he laughs, eyes bright. Jordan and Marie just shake their heads. 

“Kids,” they sigh, “do not take your eyes off them for even a second,” Jordan says. “If you do, they’re booking it to the nearest cat or giving out addresses,” he chuckles. 

“I’m surprised they saw us,” Bob squints. “Everyone looks like a vague human shape to me.”

“Angie’s harness got their attention,” Jordan explains, eyeing the bundle in the stroller nervously when it starts making fussy little sounds. Marie notices too, because she turns a little serious. 

“Girls, let’s go. Baby’s getting fussy and you don’t wanna catch a cold. You know, you guys should swing by the little bar a couple of blocks from here. On New Year’s Eve they show the ball drop on TV, do free fries until about 1am. We’ve gone practically every year for the past seven years and it’s never that noisy so you could bring Angie with you? They’ve never had a problem with pets in other years,” she says. You look at Bob. You guys hadn’t made plans for New Year’s, and free fries was always a win in your book. He smiles at you, and you have to tear your eyes away from him to respond to Marie. 

“That sounds great actually, we’ll see you there. We’ll bring some toys so the girls can play with her,” you say, and laugh when you hear high pitched squeals. 

They wave goodbye until you can no longer see them, and you and Bob continue your loop, stopping in at the café. You spend a good ten minutes defending yourself when the owners accuse you of being a workaholic and deadbeat mother to your cat. Bob is no help, just shakes his head pitifully as they level these accusations at you. You do get a free pastry out of it, and for that you are very thankful. Definitely worth the court case. 

You guys spend the rest of your day just lounging around, watching old movies and falling in and out of sleep on the couch, you nestled comfortably in Bob’s arms. 

When New Year’s Eve comes, the snow has stopped, and you’re so thankful. It was great to be able to see past your own hand while you were walking. You have Angie’s lead in one hand, and a bag of toys in the other. Bob keeps trying to take something from you, but you refuse to budge.

“You’re always carrying stuff for me, or taking my jacket or something, I promise you I will not die if my hands are occupied okay Bob?”

He sighs. “I guess. But only because it’s not that far.”

And he’s right, you guys are there in under twenty minutes. The bar isn’t too full; parents seated with their children, groups of friends playing pool. The music isn’t too loud and the lighting is a little dim. 

“You guys made it,” you hear Jordan say. He’s sitting at a table with Marie, the twins, and a couple of other people, couples maybe. He’s holding the baby from yesterday in his arms, gently swaying with him. 

“Yeah, we figured it would be nice… and we also love free food,” you say. You kneel down to take Angie off her lead and she beelines to the girls, hopping up and stretching herself across their laps. 

“That is incredible,” Bob whispers, “are they giving her catnip or something?” 

“They’re like five,” you elbow him, “Angie just loves attention, and there’s two very energetic sources of attention right there.”

Bob laughs, and then you guys shake the hands of the people around the table. Mostly people who lived near here, like you.

“How did I not know about this?” You ask an older lady to your left. Names are escaping you, and you’re not sure everyone here fully remembers who they’re talking to either. 

“It’s pretty small, and us talking about it tends to get lost in the chatter of announcements about other bigger things happening in the community this time of the year,” she explains. 

You flit through different conversations, talking about reality tv with one young couple and then moving onto a heated debate about whether the stock market is real or not with a pair of investment bankers. You don’t talk to Bob much, don’t even really see him much until you guy play a game of pool with Marie and Jordan while the twins brush out Angie’s fur. 

The game is slow, conversation dragging out the time between turns. Bob is surprisingly good, sinking ball after ball, redeeming your sloppy shots. 

“That’s going to go in the Bob files too you know,” you say when the turn ends and Marie goes to collect more fries. 

“Hm?”

“Pool savant. That’s going in the Bob files,” you say tapping the side of your head. 

“You give me too much credit you know. First extraordinaire, then savant. I’m really not that good,” he laughs. 

“You’re literally so much better than at me at pool, you got like three in one go!” you exclaim. 

“Yeah I am quite good at pool aren’t I?” he smiles. 

You just roll your eyes. At some point he stands behind you to give you pointers, immediately regrets it when you accidentally hit him in the stomach with your cue. Marie and Jordan don’t stop laughing, even while he’s doubled over in pain. 

The noise in the venue is picking up as it gets closer to midnight, nothing unmanageable though, just groups of friends talking amongst themselves. At five minutes to midnight you feel the excitement rising, everyone turning to the TV as the ball gets ready to drop. 

“I have a question for you,” Bob says. You guys are standing a little way away from the main crowd, leaning against a wall near the back of the bar. 

“Shoot.”

“Do you… on New Year’s … do you like, do the kissing thing?” he stumbles. 

“The kissing thing? Yes I do the kissing thing,” you laugh lightly. “Who’s asking?”

You can feel the excitement in your bones as the bar gets ready to count down. 

“Ten, nine…” the bar yells in unison. 

“Is it okay if it’s me?” He asks, stepping closer. You see his hands twitch at his side, pulling the sleeves of his sweater down. 

“Eight.. Seven… six…”

“Of course it’s okay if it’s you,”you say, taking his hands in yours, pulling him closer until you’re practically in his arms. 

“Five… four…”

He doesn’t wait until the end of the countdown, just puts his hands on your waist and presses his lips to yours. You can feel his impatience in the way your noses bump together at first, the way he can’t quite seem to get the grip he wants to on you, but when he works it out you feel that familiar tug of wanting in you, stronger than you think it has any right to be. You faintly register the cheering of the crowd, the shout of “Happy New Year!” that rings out across the bar as he presses his tongue into yours, hungry. He’s pulling apart too soon, leaning in, his lips dangerously close to your ear. 

“We should go home. Let’s go home,” he says. 

He’s already looking at the exit, ready to pull his jacket on.  

You guys say your goodbyes, get Marie and Jordan’s details and promise the girls that you’ll let them play with Angie some time in the near future. You and Bob practically speed walk home, ignoring the tension between you, like if you imagine that you didn’t high tail it out of a bar over a kiss, then it didn’t actually happen.  You’re going to ignore how nervous he was when he was asking, the way his fingers wouldn’t stay still. You’re absolutely not thinking about how impatient he was when he kissed you, how he couldn’t even wait for the countdown to end before he was pressing you to him. 

When you get home you put some treats out for Angie, and he just waits, patient as ever while you check the back door, make sure everything’s okay. Then he leads you into his bed, and takes you apart so soft and slow you can’t believe this is the same man from less than thirty minutes ago. He undoes you with slow drags of his tongue against your core, doesn’t stop until your pulling at his hair, begging him for more, trying to clutch at his shirt so you can bring him up. 

“Please Bob more, I need you,” you whine, and he listens. 

Pushes into you with slow deliberate strokes, just sucks at your neck when you beg him to go faster. He drags your orgasm out of you, groaning at the way you squeeze around him, stopping briefly so he can look at you beneath him, hair a mess, fresh marks blossoming across your neck. 

“Fuck, you’re so beautiful,” he’s sighing before he finally gives you what you want, fast and unrelenting. He doesn’t stop until you’re thoroughly fucked out and incoherent, a mess beneath him when he finally collapses next to you, spent. 

Two weeks after New Years you get your money from Bob, almost $2000.

“You’re joking,” you say to him when you see him at breakfast. “This can’t be half of what the video made, you promise me you’re not adding extra.”

“I promise,” he holds his hands up. “It’s a good video, people paid to see it, and some people tipped extra. Holiday themed stuff always goes over a treat, I swear. You can ask Joaquin the kind of money he makes around Valentine’s day,” he says. You just sigh, accept that you won’t get him to admit any different if he is lying.  “I know, it’s unbelievable right? It fluctuates like crazy though, just depends on what everyone’s feeling. The first time I made more than $1000 I blew it on an expensive new laptop and then had to scrounge like crazy for rent when the rest of the month’s earnings didn’t quite pan out,” he chuckles. 

“Shit, that’s a bit scary,” you say. 

“Nah, it’s fine now. I’ve been doing this for so long I kind of have a pretty steady subscriber base. And I try do something special each month to boost revenue, get new subscribers in the door. Also helps to sell individual videos I’ve found, sometimes people want something really specific but they don’t wanna come to your channel. I’ve done sex toy partnerships too, those are so much fun it’s unreal,” he explains, “sorry, none of this matters to you,” he stops abruptly.

“No, no it’s fine. I don’t know all this stuff. I don’t really research,” you cringe when you say this but he just laughs. 

“Well I’m your personal encyclopaedia if you ever have questions,” he responds. 

“Did you ever have a manager? Or sign to an agency?” You ask immediately. 

“Tried. Two guys I knew when I was doing more camboy shit said they were starting an agency, that they’d manage me for a fraction of what they charge other people, but then asked for almost 25% of my earnings before tax. Bullshit that only works on people who are brand new, and it sucks, you know. There’s a lot to do between planning, organising and pushing out content and to have absolute assholes drain your pocket before you even pay the tax on it?” He shakes his head, and you see the way he clenches his jaw, angry. “The last I heard of them, they were on reddit trying to get new models to sign with them, but it’s not going too well for them,” he smiles. 

“Oh so you’re pretty much self-made,” you say, “Mr. Entrepreneur over here. High value male.”

“Please don’t call me that oh my god,” he groans, putting his hands over his face. He just cringes as you laugh. 

“ Do you have any plans for today? Let me take you out, since I’m practically rolling in it now,” you say, miming making it rain. 

He just shakes his head, rolls his eyes as he takes your plate from in front of you. 

“You know you can just ask me to hang out like a normal person, I’m not letting you pay for anything because as luck would have it, I also just got paid,” he says as he washes dishes. 

“You’re so annoying.”

“Sure. I’m sure you just find me sooo annoying,” he says, washing his hands, wiping them on a dish rag. “But no,  I don’t have plans for today, and I would like to hang with you, thanks for asking,” he says. 

“Okay well, be ready to go in an hour,” you say hopping off the stool and making your way upstairs before he can ask you what you’re going to be doing. 

You put on your most comfortable outfit, just jeans and a cute top, and make sure to put in your best earrings. You’d be underneath a big old coat and wrapped up in a scarf and a beanie, so you weren’t sure any effort was truly needed but you thought it would be nice anyway. He’s downstairs waiting for you when you finally finish getting ready. He’s also got a nice top and nice jeans on, hands in his pockets while he rocks back and forth on his heels. 

“Ready?” You ask, slipping your coat on, wrapping your scarf around your neck. You bring an umbrella just in case it rains, but the weather app had said today was supposed to be cold but clear. 

It’s icy cold when you step outside, the sunlight outside too weak to do anything against the bite of winter. 

“God, I can’t wait for it to get warmer,” you say. Despite the scarf you can feel your lips freezing, you can feel your fingers and toes turning to ice in your gloves and thick socks. 

“Hard agree,” he says, “getting sick of all these layers all the time,” he mutters, muffled by the thick wool of his scarf. You can’t see but you know his ears and nose are tipped red. The ground beneath you is icy in parts, sludgy in others where the snow has been trampled, mixed with the soil from people’s lawns. Not so pretty when the snow was no longer falling, but you enjoyed being able to go outside like this, biting cold or not. You link arms with Bob, lean into him as you guys walk to the subway station, silent the whole way besides a few remarks about the leftover Christmas decorations still in shop windows. 

 “Okay where are you taking me?” He asks when he sits next to you. He’s looking at you, curious. 

“Guess.”

“I can’t guess. I don’t know what happens in that pretty little head of yours,” he smiles. 

You ignore the way your stomach turns when he says that. “I’ll give you a hint, you’ve mentioned it to me when we were Christmas shopping,” you say. You’re not sure if he’ll even remember, Christmas feels like that long ago. He thinks for a couple of seconds, eyes grave before his face clears up. 

“Winter Village?”

“Yup, got it in one!” You clap, for him as he mock bows. “You said you’d never been, and I did say I’d take you after New Year’s,” you explain, watching the stops to make sure you don’t miss yours. The train is quiet, people minding their business, eyes glued to their phones or closed as they listen to music. You lean your head on his shoulder, letting yourself just watch as you speed through the tunnels. You pull him up when it’s your stop, practically dragging him out the doors in your excitement. 

“Wow you might be more excited for this than I am,” he laughs, as you guys emerge from the subway station. 

“It’s nice being in the city when it’s not so full,” you explain. You link your arm through his again, drag him through the crowd of people. 

“I thought you said it wasn’t that full,” he says to you when the people have thinned a little bit. 

“Trust me, it can be so much worse,” you say to him. You drag him to a hot chocolate stand that claims to have the best hot chocolate in the city. Order two larges and pay for them before he can even think about pulling out his card. You stick your tongue out at him when he sighs. 

“Not so fun when the shoes on the other foot, huh?” You say as you wait in the collection line. Your order is ready sooner than you expected, two regular hot chocolates, no frills no nonsense so you guys could really judge whether they had the best hot chocolate in the city or not. It’s delicious,  not too sweet, and not too rich. It goes down smooth too, doesn’t taste watered down or too milky. You guys sip your hot chocolates as you peek into the various stores. There’s one having a sale on old Christmas stock, prices slashed so far down that you simply can’t resist buying yourself a beautiful pair of gloves from them. They’re soft, thick and you immediately swap from the pair you’re wearing to the new pair. The difference is unbelievable. You should’ve known your old gloves would do very little to actually keep you warm, but you’d held onto them anyway. Bob gets himself another scarf, some soft cream cashmere thing that looks super comfortable even before he’s put it on. You guys wander to the some of the craft stores, and Bob makes a point of buying you a crocheted two-headed calf throw. 

“Stop, you like it I know you like it, you have the poem pinned to the wall in the hobby room. Just take the throw. Please?” He asks. You give in, watch as the lady wraps it up real tight and packs it away in the cutest little bag, slips her card into the bag in case you want to buy from her store again. You probably would, she had some great stuff. When you’ve had a look in basically all the stores, you guys look for some food, opting to keep it easy with sandwiches  from a store that has a line going so far back you pray that they’re worth it. You eat them in front of the fountain, frozen over because of the cold, sunlight scattered by the frozen bursts of water. 

“God, this really was worth it,” Bob says through a mouthful of his sandwich. You nod, absolutely tearing into yours. When you guys are done, you just sit on your seats, watch the throngs of people lining up to take a picture with the frozen fountain. 

“Do you want one?” You ask him, holding your hand out for his phone. 

“Sorry?”

“A picture with the fountain. Do you want one?”

He hesitates, then nods. “If that’s not too much?”

“Of course it’s not too much,” you say, pushing yourself up. You guys wait for a family of what seems like ten people to finish taking their individual selfies, then watch as they make their way through various combinations of people until they finally take they group photo together and leave, scrolling through the pictures as they go. Bob stands in front of the statue, slightly to the side, and you have to motion for him to move a little closer to the centre multiple times before he actually does it. You snap a few, make him pose (“Get silly with it Bob, come on. Show me that goofy side!”) and only let him come back to get his phone when you’re satisfied with the pictures you have. 

“Your turn,” he says, pushing you towards the spot where he was just standing. You give him a few good poses — some cheeky over the shoulder looks, the classic peace sign — and then you’re telling him to come stand next to you. 

“Let’s get a selfie together it will be fun,” you say as you watch him drag his feet. An old man walking with a dog offers to take the picture instead when he sees the two of you struggling, trying to adjust the phone so it gets both of your in the frame and as much of the frozen fountain as possible. 

“There we go, come in a little closer,” he says to you and you do, stepping towards Bob cautiously, leaning in when he puts his arm around you. The old man takes a few, sticks around while the two of you make sure you’re happy with them.

Joel

God, you looked so pretty when you were mad.

That furious little glint in your eyes, the slight flare of your nostrils, the way your jaw clenched like you were deciding whether to kill him or kiss him. From across the room, you were a thunderstorm trapped in quite possibly the most incredibly addictive body Joel Miller had ever known. He couldn’t get enough of you, even when you were like this. Charged and seething, ready to level anything in your path. If you stood still long enough, he swore the air around you would spark and crack like lightning looking for a place to strike.

Your face was flushed, flushed enough that steam could’ve poured out of your ears. And in your hand was the source of it all—a harmless little card made of blue and white cardstock. It had a cheerful cartoon on the front and big, blocky letters that read Happy Father’s Day! The kind of thing you’d grab at the last minute while picking up toothpaste and a Gatorade. Joel had opened it, smiled a little at the sentiment, and tossed it on the dresser without a second thought.

That had been his mistake.

“Who is she?” you asked, your voice sharp and almost eerily calm, holding the card between two fingers like it had been dipped in something rotten.

“It’s from my neighbor,” he said quickly. “That’s all. She put it in my mailbox. I don’t even—”

“Does she give you cards for every holiday, Joel?” Your voice rose, the tone saccharine, but he only knew it as a warning. 

He blinked. “What? No.”

“Christmas?”

“No!”

“Valentine’s Day?”

“Would you quit it?”

“Sure, yeah. I’ll quit it,” you replied sweetly, and before he could stop you, you were reaching into your back pocket for your Zippo. You flipped it open, rolled your thumb over the wheel, and lit the flame with simple finality.

He watched you hold the card to the fire, watched it curl and blacken, the edges glowing orange as it turned to ash in your hand. You dropped the smoldering remains into the little blue trash bin by his dresser and brushed your fingers off like you’d just done something as ordinary as take out the trash.

“Happy now?” he muttered.

“Not quite,” you snapped back, arms folded, mouth drawn tight in a pout that made him want to bend you over his knee.

He stepped toward you slowly, the fight still buzzing in the room like a second heartbeat. “I got somethin’ that could make you feel better.”

“Oh yeah?” you countered, no playfulness to your voice yet, and not moving an inch.

He nodded, a grin starting to pull at his lips even though he knew better. Even though there were claw marks on his back from the last time you got jealous. Even though last week you keyed a heart into the hood of his truck. You were fucking insane. Certifiable. But so was he. Because he was no better when his temper got to him. And yet you both seemed bound to each other, always coming back like moths to a bonfire.

“C’mere,” he said, voice rough as he approached you.

You sighed as his arms came around you, wrapping them tight, hands smoothing down your spine. Maybe if he held you hard enough, you’d melt into him, forgetting about the stupid card.

“Only want you, you know,” he murmured against your temple.

You tilted your head, lips ghosting the side of his neck before you bit down hard—right into the tender skin at his jaw, teeth sinking into the beard where it hurt the most. He hissed, breath catching, jeans already going tight.

“Good,” you whispered, releasing your hold to kiss his earlobe.

Yeah. You were both fucked.

You

The next morning, you were all tangled limbs and mellow sunlight spilling through the slats of the blinds when Joel’s alarm started buzzing. He groaned, the sound deep in his chest, dragging a heavy arm from around your shoulders to reach for the clock. You rolled on top of him before he could, laying across his stomach and stretching to shut it off yourself.

“Just a few more minutes,” you whispered, your bare body melting across his, cheek against his beard as you pressed lazy kisses to the coarse scruff. The dark hair tufting his chest tickled your skin as you slid higher, lips brushing his mouth.

“Gotta get up,” he rumbled, kissing you back even as his voice betrayed how badly he didn’t want to.

“Tell the guys you’ll be late,” you purred, mouthing down the column of his throat, your tongue dragging over the warm salt of his skin. You felt him stir beneath you, his morning hardness nudging your thigh. “Tell them I kept you in bed, that I made you come so hard you forgot what day it was. They’ll understand.”

“Oh yeah?” His hand tightened on your hip, gravel-thick voice edged with amusement. 

You nodded against his skin as he added: “Now, if I tell ‘em that, you makin’ it worth my while? Or are these lies n’ empty promises?”

You smiled as you slipped down his body, sheets falling over your head as you disappeared beneath them. He was already half-hard when you kissed the trail of dark hair leading south, licking lightly at the ridges of his lower abdomen until his cock was heavy in your hand. You dragged your tongue up the underside, tracing the thick vein that wrapped around him, before swallowing his cock into the heat of your mouth.

“Christ,” Joel hissed, his head falling back against the pillows. The sound of your spit mixed with the wet drag of your lips filled the room, obscene and slick. His hips jerked when you moaned around him, throat working to take him deeper.

Before long, his hand was in your hair, tugging you up with a roughness that made your stomach flip. “Enough,” he muttered, pulling you to straddle him again. “I ain’t blowin’ my load down your throat when I should be fuckin’ you.”

He flipped you easily, pressing you forward until your knees dug into the mattress and your cheek brushed the sheets. The moment he pushed inside you, the sharp stretch knocked a gasp from your lungs. His hips slammed against your ass, heavy, rhythmic, the slap of skin echoing in the quiet morning.

That was when you heard a faint vibration against the nightstand and looked for the source—Joel’s phone. The noise rattled steady and insistent as his thrusts picked up, and you twisted just enough to grab it, shoving the buzzing rectangle into the pillows beneath you.

Joel groaned behind you, too lost in the velvet keep of your body to notice. You angled the phone so you could peek at the glowing screen. 

Tommy.

A wicked smile tugged at your lips as you swiped to answer. You didn’t say hello, or any sort of greeting. Instead, you moaned into the speaker, biting your lip as Joel’s cock hit deep, the bed creaking with every thrust.

“What the fuck—” Tommy’s voice muffled faintly before you let another wanton cry spill into the phone, pushing your face into the pillows. Joel’s pace never faltered, his groans mixing with the filthy slap of bodies colliding.

You clutched the phone tighter, muffling laughter against the sheets, savoring the delicious chaos as Joel fucked you hard enough to drown out everything else.

“Oh, fuck, Joel,” you cried out, “Yes!”

You’d really put on the show for his little brother.

“Yeah, baby?” Joel growled, his thrusts sharp and deep, “That’s it, take it. Nothin’ better than my cock stuffin’ you first thing in the mornin’, huh? Greedy little thing.”

Tommy’s muffled “Jesus—” was nearly swallowed by the wet slap of Joel’s thighs on yours.

He bent over you, mouth hot against your neck. “Listen to you. Cryin’ for it already. Can’t even start the damn day without this cock stretchin’ you open, can you? You gonna come for me, baby? Gonna come on daddy’s cock?”

Your grin curved wicked against the pillow, biting back a laugh as you let another loud moan slip free, feeding it to both men at once.

The thought of Tommy listening, hearing every filthy word, every cry that tore from your throat sent heat rushing straight through your belly.

“Fuck, Joel,” you sobbed, clenching tight around him. “I’m—god, I’m gonna—”

“Yeah, you are,” he snarled, thrusts growing rougher, desperate. “Come on my cock, darlin’. Make a mess for me.”

Your body gave way all at once, ecstasy ripping through you as you gasped into the pillow, your whole frame trembling as he fucked you through it. Joel’s rhythm faltered shortly after, his groan breaking into a ragged curse as he pulled out quickly, fisting his cock until you felt the warm spurts of him over your back.

The line went dead in your hand at the same moment Joel pulled out of you, pressing a kiss to the damp curve of your neck, never knowing his brother had been there to hear it all.

Later that night, the Tipsy Bison was loud and hazy with neon lights bleeding against the wood-paneled walls, laughter and clinking bottles ringing out above the low hum of music. You slid onto a high stool, legs crossed, ordering a gin and tonic while Joel lingered behind you, already scanning the room like he didn’t trust a soul in it.

When he finally joined you, the weight of his presence filled the space before he even spoke.

“You wanna tell me why my brother couldn’t look me in the eye today, baby?” Joel asked, his voice pitched low, almost swallowed by the noise around you. He tilted his head, eyes sharp, catching yours like a trap. “Got anything you wanna say?”

You lifted your glass, took a slow sip, and shrugged, the ice clinking as if to punctuate your indifference.

“Got no idea, hm?” Joel asked, shifting closer. He stood close beside you where you sat at the barstool, crowding into your space like he owned it, lifting his beer and throwing back the last of it in one swallow. His throat worked, the cool neck of the bottle glinting as he drained it, then he set it down with a final clink on the counter.

The chatter of other bar goers washed over him, but it didn’t soften the heat rolling off his body as he leaned in, towering above you. One hand found the back of your chair, his palm broad and firm, caging you in. The other skimmed casually over your bare knee, thumb brushing slow circles that made your pulse jump.

“You gonna keep playin’ dumb,” he murmured, his mouth so close you could taste the beer on his breath, “or you gonna confess about your little stunt?”

You shifted, turning so your legs were on the opposite side of the seat, “Sorry, I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

You slid off the stool, ignoring the heat of Joel’s stare as you weaved through the crowd toward the jukebox tucked in the corner. The din of conversation and clatter of bottles filled the air, but you could feel him trailing you, heavy footsteps never far behind.

You leaned over the jukebox, flipping through the glowing list of songs, when his hand landed on the edge beside yours, caging you in.

“You’re lucky it was just my brother,” Joel murmured, his voice pitched low, private. “If any other man knew how sweet you sounded takin’ my cock, I might’ve had to kill ‘em.”

Your jaw tightened, finger still hovering over the screen. “You’re infuriating.”

He stepped in closer, chest brushing your back, his mouth brushing your cheek. “That noise you make when I’m inside you—that’s all mine, baby. That’s the holiest thing I got. And you went and handed it off to my baby brother like it was nothin’.”

You rolled your eyes, but were unable to help the way your stomach flipped at his breath on your neck.

“Don’t tell me,” he mocked, kissing the edge of your jaw before you flinched away, “You liked my baby brother hearin’ you?”

“Ew, no.” You rolled your eyes deeper, your head starting to throb with it. 

“Don’t gotta be shy,” he said, and though it sounded playful, the low lilt of his voice was anything but sweet. He pushed into you, hips flush with your ass, your hand having to flatten on the screen to hold yourself from leaning too hard into it. His mouth dragged along your cheek, almost a nuzzle if not for the teeth grazing your skin.

“If you ever do that again with another man,” Joel growled, “if you ever try to show what’s mine, I will kill him. You hear me? If you ever even looked at another man, even thought about givin’ what belongs to me to anyone else…” His teeth scraped harder, beard rasping against your skin, making your stomach knot, your thighs press together. “I’d ruin it for you, baby. Burn it right outta that pretty little head.”

You scoffed when he pressed a sudden, gentle kiss to your ear, the tenderness a mockery after all that venom. Your song came on, the jukebox humming to life behind you, and you twisted on him, shoving him hard.

Joel’s back hit the wall with a muted thud as your palm shoved hard up under his jaw, fingers flexing against the thick muscle of his neck. He was solid and hot beneath your grip, that maddening pulse thumping steady against your thumb. And the fucker was smiling.

That lazy, half lidded, cheshire cat grin that made your blood rise and your fists clench.

You could still hear the chords of the Nirvana song bleeding through the speakers, some drunk bastard singing along, but all you could focus on was the wicked gleam in Joel’s eyes.

“I don’t belong to you or anyone else, asshole.” you seethed through your teeth. 

Mmmmm, he hummed low, the rumblings of it tickling the heart of your palm, “That’s it, baby,” he murmured, voice rich and gravelled, full of heat and poison as he adjusted his jaw in your grip. “Right there. God, I love when you get like this.”

Your fingers clenched harder around the trunk of his throat without thinking. But you began to pull away, knowing you wouldn’t win this way, “Oh, fuck y—”

His hand shot out, snatching your wrist and keeping it in place, tightening it against his throat as he leaned down further, his beer tinged breath fanning over you as he towered into your space. 

“What?” he smirked. “Gonna give up so easy? Thought we were havin’ fun.”

“Let go, you bastard,” you seethed, eyes blazing as you struggled in his grip.

And then, a voice came from behind you.

“Um… excuse me, miss?”

The words sliced through the heat of it all, unwanted and clumsy. You turned, slowly. A guy stood there, tall-ish, clean cut in that polo wearing kind of way, with a nervous demeanor and khaki shorts. His hair was gelled, his eyes a little too earnest. He looked like someone’s nephew on spring break. He could've been your age. But the Hey Dudes were the final insult.

You stiffened, though Joel didn’t move, just cocked his head in your periphery like a predator clocking fresh prey.

The boy glanced between the two of you with that same naive concern you’d seen in well meaning men your whole life. You thought he must’ve seen your hand at Joel’s throat and the heat in your cheeks and thought this was his cue. 

And then he brought his hand up, letting the clammy skin touch the heated crest of your shoulder.

Joel’s demeanor changed immediately. He went stiff, the playful smile dropping from his mouth in an instant, the fury in his eyes burning molten as he stared down at the man beside you. The grip on your wrist didn’t change, you only felt his fingers twitch as if he was thinking of using them to wrap around the man’s throat instead. 

When he finally spoke, his voice came low and even, no louder than it needed to be, but somehow clearer than everything else in the room.

“Best get your hands off ’er if you wanna keep ‘em, son.”

The kid faltered, hand tightening on your shoulder as if he wasn’t sure whether to drop it or double down. His brows knit, lips parting like he was about to stammer something out, and for a second you thought that would be the end of it—that maybe he’d mutter an apology and walk off into the haze of beer and neon and learn never to touch someone else’s girl again.

But he just kept looking at you. 

Eyes narrowed, caught on your face, and whatever brief flash of uncertainty had gripped him evaporated. Maybe he thought your silence meant hesitation. Maybe he saw the flush on your chest, the bright heat still crawling up your neck, and mistook it for distress. Maybe it was that earnestness again, that dumb, open-faced naivety that in someone else’s life, they might’ve thought was sweet.

“Miss?” he asked again, a little firmer, steeling himself, like he’d puff out his chest and be your knight in shining armor, “I’ll take care of you, I can call the police if—”

Joel’s grip shifted at the same moment your mouth opened. He didn’t yank you, didn’t jerk your arm, but he took your wrist from his neck and pulled you aside so you were out of the way. 

Once you were safely out of his war path, he was moving. His hand came up, not in a punch or a slap, not a shove or a poke to the chest. 

His big, calloused hand came up, swallowing the stranger’s whole face like he was catching a flyball in a baseball glove. Joel’s fingers splayed across his entire face, palm crushing into his nose, and with a force that looked almost casual, he shoved the stranger back.

But the sound that followed was anything but casual. The man’s body hit the edge of a nearby table with a sickening crack, sending pint glasses toppling, chairs screeching across the sticky floor, a half-eaten plate of wings flipping onto the ground as someone cursed nearby. A sharp burst of fry oil and spilled beer hit your nose, along with that sudden, unmistakable shift in bar noise—that pause that happens when everyone senses a fight is about to break loose.

“Jesus fucking Christ, man!” the boy started, breathless, one hand half lifted in placation, “What’s your problem!?”

Joel moved fast, stalking across the space between them like all that heat had been simmering under the surface, boiling over the edge and finally allowed to break.

He wound back his clenched hand, and the crack of his fist hitting the man’s nose rang out sharp and sickening, knuckle against bone, loud enough to turn heads even in a place like this, where fights were cheap and tempers cheaper. The guy’s head snapped back on impact, his knees buckling as blood burst from his nose, splattering across the grimy tabletop and the front of his pastel shirt like some cruel brand. His body crumpled into a graceless heap of limbs and shock and pain.

Joel didn’t seem done yet. 

He stood over him, looming, chest still heaving from the exertion, his hand still partially curled into fist, blood streaked across the creases of his knuckles. His lip twitched like he was gearing up for another.

And after a brief pause of surprise, of the entire bar watching, their little brains catching up with what was happening, the room erupted in noise.

Chairs scraped hard against the floor. A couple of voices shouted, some cheering, some cursing or jeering, and then multiple pairs of hands descended, grabbing Joel’s shoulders from behind, one of their voices snapping, “Hey—HEY! That’s enough buddy!”

Two men now, maybe three, trying to haul him back. Joel resisted at first— out of rage, out of something wild in him, like his body hadn’t gotten the message yet. His legs planted, weight low, still staring down at the stranger like he hadn’t finished making his point. It took a few seconds and a hard shove to get him to move, stumbling half a step back, shoulders flexed, chest rising and falling like a piston as they pulled at him.

You looked between the bleeding man and Joel being hauled out of the scene into the night air. And you couldn’t help the small smile that was playing on your lips as you skipped outside. 

The door slammed behind you, cutting off the last of the shouting. The night air brought a relief with the cool breeze, less stuffy than inside, but still thick with cigarette smoke and fried meat drifting from the open kitchen vent, the pavement still warm under your shoes. 

Joel was pacing like an animal just outside the halo of the entrance light, chest heaving, blood drying on his knuckles. 

“You’ve officially lost your fucking mind, Miller.”

He turned when he heard your voice. And God, he looked like he’d eat you just for speaking.

You ignored it, “I can’t believe you. And you think that’s somehow gonna make me want you? Bashing some guy’s face in like that?”

You started walking, scoffing and shaking your head, out into the parking lot. Anywhere but here, to get away from him and his simmering rage, his toxicity. It was too much. 

But you heard his boots before you could do anything about it, his heavy, broad hand catching your arm and pulling you back. And the thing was, he was never violent with you. Never too rough unless you asked him, but all the same, the air felt knocked out of you as he pushed you against the brick siding, the lights of the bar illuminating his face in red. 

You opened your mouth again to spit a retort at him, but his body was crowding yours, hips pinning you, chest crushing into yours, his knee shoved hard up between your thighs so fast you gasped, your balance gone.

"Where the hell d’you think you're goin’?" he purred, face just inches from yours.

You could smell the whiskey and the beer on his breath, the copper tang of blood, the sweat from the fight still drying in the crease of his neck. His hands found your waist, fingers bruising, digging in to hold you against him and the wall. 

"Think I don’t know your game by now, baby?" he rasped, voice low and knowing, hot against your cheek. “I know you love when I make a scene. That’s what all that was, huh? Wanted to see how far I’d go?”

His thigh flexed between your legs and your body betrayed you with a stuttered breath, your hand flying to his chest to shove him, grab him—something.

“Joel—”

"You watched like you didn’t fuckin’ love it,” he hissed, cutting you off. “You think I’d let you leave after that? After he touched you? Told you he’d take care of what’s mine?”

His head dropped, nose brushing your cheek, lips dragging along the edge of your jaw like a threat disguised as affection. You felt his breath in your hair, heavy and ragged, every inch of him pressed to you like a cage.

“He didn’t even—” you started, breath catching as he nibbled on your ear, “you were the one—”

“I told you I’d kill any man that thought he could take what’s mine,” he said, voice so soft it didn’t sound real. “You hear me, baby? You’re my girl, only mine. Say it now, be a good girl.”

“Fuck you, I can’t believe you!” you tried pushing him away, but his knee edged higher between your thighs, his chest pushing you into the wall even more, “Get off, Joel!”

“So you’re tellin’ me, if I reached down your panties right now, they wouldn’t be sopping wet for daddy, hm?”

You rolled your eyes, ignoring his question, “You’re a freak, Miller.”

He hummed against your neck, lips tracing your pulse, tongue darting out to taste the salt of you, lips pressing and suckling at your skin. You couldn't help the bend in your back as your body betrayed you. His hand moved from pushing your hip into the wall to unbuttoning the tops of your jeans, and before you could protest, he was reaching down, past the waist band of your thong and into the gusset of the lace, pushing it aside to run his finger between your folds. 

The moan he let out was guttural and feral, a man half animal as he shoved your legs apart, dipping his fingertips into your entrance.

“Oh fuck–” you gripped his shirt, no longer pushing him away but pulling him in. 

“Yeahhh…” he breathed, “there she is.”

And that smugness, something in that dark, satisfied grin, snapped the last of your restraint. With a furious growl, you wrenched his hand out of your jeans, planting both hands on his chest, and shoved him again, this time with finality. 

Joel fell back before righting himself, his grin nowhere to be seen as you spit the words at him: “Stay away from me.”

He froze, chest heaving, the feral edge in his eyes dimming with confusion.

“I hate you.” Your voice cracked, but you forced the words out. “I don’t want you. Not anymore. You don’t own me.”

For once, he didn’t come after you. He only stood there, jaw tight, swallowing back something ugly as you pushed past him, leaving him under the bar light with his hands curled into fists at his sides.

Joel

He told himself he wasn’t stalking you. He just… missed you. Needed to know you were safe. Needed to see you, even if from a distance.

So he’d started to park his truck down the block from your gym in the days that passed since the bar fight. Engine off, of course, and hat pulled low, watching through the windshield as you slipped inside the building in your leggings and hoodie, earbuds dangling, a bounce in your step that gutted him. Sometimes he’d wait the whole hour just to watch you come back out, the front of your little tank damp with sweat, forehead glistening, tugging at your bag strap as you crossed the lot. He memorized every detail from afar, from the way you tied your jacket around your waist and the way you bent your head to check your phone. 

Between jobs, he’d find excuses to pull over, thumb flicking to the Find My app he shouldn’t have still had. You hadn’t realized it was still on his phone. The tiny dot pulsed on the map and he felt calmer knowing where you were. At home. At work or the gym. The store. He told himself it wasn’t wrong…he wasn’t trying to control you. He just couldn’t breathe not knowing if you were safe.

One night, you were in a new spot he didn’t recognize. And suddenly, a kindling fire burst into flames inside him, molten with that green monster clawing at his chest as he jumped in his truck, phone still open, following the dot to the other side of town. His knuckles ached on the wheel, jaw tight, imagination running wild with pictures of you in another man’s house, some stranger’s hands where only his should be. The longer he drove, the darker it got inside his head.

If he found you there, if he drove up and saw another man touching what was his, Joel wasn’t sure what he’d do, except that it wouldn’t be pretty. He thought about fire. How quick a house could go up if you knew where to start it. How easy it would be to walk away with nothing but smoke curling into the sky behind him.

Or maybe it wouldn’t need fire. Maybe it’d just be one body to move. He knew where the ground stayed soft outside of town, how deep he’d need to dig to make sure no dog or man ever found it. What was having to bury one man in a grave, if it meant keeping you?

But when he pulled up, it wasn’t a house. It wasn’t even a bar to pick up strangers. It was a tattoo shop, neon light buzzing above the door. His pulse thundered as he killed the engine, eyes locked on the entrance. He couldn’t see you through the windows, but he stayed, headlights off, waiting.

When you finally came out, his stomach flipped at the sight of you again, though you looked the same—no fresh ink peeking out, no sign of what you’d done inside. That fire in him stoked down to embers, quiet but still burning, banked hot beneath his ribs.

It drove him insane that he couldn’t storm across the street, grab your face in his hands, kiss you until you remembered you were his. It drove him insane that he had to sit there in the dark, invisible, while you walked past him like he didn’t exist. All he wanted to do was show you how much you were meant to be with him and no one else. To touch, to hold, to bend you over and…well, he kept those thoughts between him and God nowadays.

Every night, he’d lie awake, phone in hand, staring at that little pulsing dot like it was the only tether keeping him sane. Joel Miller was half feral without you, starved, aching, sick in love and in need. The longer you stayed away, the more convinced he became: you weren’t just someone he wanted. You were his.

And if he had to watch, if he had to wait, if he had to burn with it, he’d do it. Because sooner or later, you’d understand. Nobody could love you the way he did. Nobody would ever try.

You

It wasn’t until a few weeks later that you saw Joel Miller again. Well, the first time you’d seen him when he wasn’t trying—and failing—to hide in the dark cab of his truck. You’d known he was following you, but it thrilled you. Maybe it should’ve scared you. But knowing a man was lovesick and obsessed only stoked the fire in your belly as you caught sight of his black pickup. You’d even left on your location for him to come find you whenever he wanted.

So now, in the blaring haze of the nightclub, you knew he’d show his face. You’d even thought about risking another nobody to grab his attention, to force his hand again, but for once you caught a stroke of pathetic empathy for the sweet brown haired, blue eyed stranger who tried to buy you a drink. It wasn’t his fault you looked single. So you’d turned him down before he could talk to you for more than a minute.

The place smelled of sweet fog smoke, bass pounding hard enough to rattle your bones. Bright lights strobed across sweat sticky bodies, the DJ hunched in the corner, spinning the same four beats into oblivion as you danced with one of the girls you’d come with that night. That’s when you saw Joel, arms folded over his chest, leaning against the wall like sin incarnate, his gaze locked on you. 

But there was a girl.

Tattooed, tipsy, sticky lip gloss smeared at the corner of her mouth. She was pawing at his arm, nails digging into the muscle of his bicep where it peeked from his black tee like she was claiming him. All flirty smiles and fake giggles, pressing herself close.

Joel wasn’t even looking at her. Not even a glance her way because his eyes were pinned to you. And that made your stomach twist tighter. Because she was still touching him even though he clearly wasn’t interested.

You pushed through the crowd, closing the space until you were face to face, your drink sloshing onto the sticky floor. You tilted your head, eyes raking over her cheap dress, her smeared mascara, her trembling little smile.

“You must be drunk,” you said sweetly, venom dripping off every word. “Because if you were sober, you’d know better than to touch something that isn’t yours. Unless you’ve got a death wish.”

Her eyes narrowed, mouth opening like she wanted to speak, but you leaned closer, lips brushing her ear. “You don’t want me as your enemy, sweetheart. So take your last chance and fuck off.”

The girl’s breath hitched. Joel chuckled low in his throat, his grin splitting wider, and you didn’t even need to look to know he was hard as stone watching you lose your mind.

The girl finally yanked her hand away, muttering something weak as she shoved into the crowd, vanishing into the fog.

You turned back to Joel, victory singing in your veins as the lights flashed across his face. He was still grinning, eyes dark and shining.

“What’re you doing here, Joel?” you asked, feigning your annoyance despite your win.

“You just told that girl I was yours.”

“No,” you corrected, tilting your chin up, “I said she shouldn’t touch what isn’t hers.”

“Because I’m yours.”

You rolled your eyes so hard it hurt. “I’m so over this. I’m going home.”

You shoved your empty glass onto the nearest table and shouldered past the crowd. He followed instantly, slipping through the crowd like a shadow tethered to you, until the thump of bass gave way to the sharp night air outside.

“Baby, baby, c’mon,” he jogged up behind you, voice soft, coaxing. “Let’s just talk.”

You didn’t stop walking, heels clicking against the sidewalk, the neon buzz of the club sign painting the pavement in red and blue. “Talk about what? How you’re still following me around like some obsessed puppy?”

“Maybe,” Joel admitted, catching your wrist before you could slip further into the dark. His grip was warm, firm, but not rough, just insistent. “Because I can’t stand it. Because you’re mine, baby. You’ve always been mine.”

You stared down at his hand on your wrist, then back up at him, your lips curling into a cruel little smile. “If you’re so desperate, then maybe you can drive me home.”

His jaw tightened, eyes searching yours. “Okay.”

“Don’t get any ideas.” you said, snatching your hand back. But your heartbeat ricketed up a beat, betraying you. 

And on the way home, Joel kept his hands to himself, which both surprised you and made you fidgety. He asked about your day, about the past couple weeks at work with that coworker you hated, like things were normal again. His voice was even, steady, and for a moment it almost felt like it used to. Maybe he was just grateful to be close again. You weren’t sure. You hated that you liked it, though — hated how easy it was to slip back into his gravity.

As you pulled up to your apartment complex, the glow outside your door sputtered and crackled, flickering like a mosquito zapper about to short out. The pale light buzzed, flashing on and off, making the walkway look eerie and stuttered.

“When did that start?” Joel asked, his voice soft, too soft, as he frowned at your door.

“Dunno. Thanks for the ride,” you said quickly, sharper than you meant, pushing the door open before he could say more. But Joel cut the engine and got out after you, boots crunching on the gravel.

“I told you not to get any—”

“I know, darlin’,” he said gently, that maddening lilt curling around the word. He was infuriating when he was sweet, like he wasn’t the same tornado that ripped through everything you touched. “Just let me fix it. Might be the bulb, might be somethin’ with the wiring. I just wanna make sure you’re safe.”

You narrowed your eyes, arms folding over your chest as you stood planted in front of your door. “Fine.”

Joel nodded once, hazel eyes locked on you for a beat too long before he turned to the light. He reached up, big hand twisting the bulb, hissing when it burned his fingertips, but working at it anyway. He jiggled it loose, studied the socket, then shook his head.

“Gonna need to check your breaker.”

“Seriously?” you sighed, dragging the word.

He shrugged, looking annoyingly unbothered. “Sorry, baby.”

“Quit callin’ me that, Miller.”

“Yes, ma’am.” He smirked at you, eyes glinting, and you rolled your own so hard it almost hurt.

You unlocked the door, muttering under your breath, letting him follow you inside. He didn’t even need pointing, he went straight for the coat closet like he’d lived there. The faint scent of him filled the space around you, leather and cedar, impossible to ignore.

Joel studied the breaker, flipping the switches with practiced ease. He went outside to replace the bulb, then came back in, wiping his hands together like a job well done.

“Should be good now.” He hit the switch, and sure enough, the porch lit up in a steady blaze, no flicker at all. Like it had never even been broken.

“Great,” you muttered, pushing your hair out of your face. “See you later, then.”

Joel chuckled, low and sure, shaking his head. “Not so fast.”

You groaned, leaning your shoulder into the doorframe. Here we go.

He stepped in, the porch light humming steady behind him as he came closer in the doorway, casting him in a gold halo. The irony wasn’t lost on you. His voice dropped, softer than you’d expected, almost shy. “Missed you.”

Your eyes narrowed as his arms came up to cross over his thick, wide chest, mirroring your stance. He looked down at his boots, sucking in a tight breath as if to steady himself before looking at you again. “Haven’t been sleepin’. Haven’t been eatin’ right. Nothin’...nothin’ feels right without you,” His gaze flicked down, then back up, unguarded in a way that made your chest ache. “I don’t know how to do it without you, darlin’.”

You shifted, uncomfortable, heat crawling up your neck. “God, you’re so—” You huffed, throwing your hands up, unable to look at him straight on.

“Tell me you ain’t been feelin’ the same,” Joel pressed, his voice rough but steady. “Tell me to leave, I’ll leave. But look me in the eye and tell me you haven’t missed me too, baby.”

You glared up at him, your eyes raking over his face, searching for a crack you could wedge your anger into. “I haven’t—I—” The words snagged in your throat, the lie choking itself before it could reach the night air.

His mouth twitched, flattening for a beat before curling slow around the edges, that cocky grin sliding back into place like it had never left.

“Shut up,” you muttered, sharp and breathless, before fisting his shirt and lunging for him.

You kissed him with messy furiosity, all teeth and tongue, like you were trying to silence him with the only weapon you had left. Joel groaned into it, arms locking around you instantly, his body swallowing yours whole as if he’d been waiting all this time for you to finally break.

He shoved forward, making you stumble back a step before scooping you up in his arms, slamming the door shut with his boot and clicking the lock without ever breaking the kiss.

“Christ,” he panted against your mouth as you dragged kisses down the thick column of his neck, tasting soap and sweat and the pounding pulse beneath. “Missed you so fuckin’ much.” His groan cracked when your teeth sank into his throat.

“Fuck, please,” you gasped, grinding against his stomach where he held you aloft. Joel swallowed your moan into his mouth, tongue rough and hot against yours as he carried you up the stairs, each step jarring but never breaking the fever between you.

“Please what?” he rasped, his voice shredded thin. “Tell me, baby. I’ll give you anythin’ you want. Give you the damn moon if I could.”

“Fuck me, Joel, please, I can’t—” your words tumbled out, frantic, the heat of his body a furnace that would never be close enough. You clawed at him like you’d crawl inside if you could, just to be closer. “I hated seeing that girl all over you tonight,” you choked out, voice venomous. “Hated it. I could’ve—I wanted to—”

“Shh.” He tightened his grip in your hair, pulling your face back just enough to meet his eyes, steady and molten. “I know. I know, baby. Ain’t no one takin’ me from you. Ever.”

He set you down on the bed with a care that clashed with the storm in his fists and mouth. He quickly undressed himself, wholly bare before you as you stayed clothed before he descended onto you. His weight hovered over you as he kissed down your throat, over your collarbone, dragging his teeth along bare skin. His hands slid under your shirt, pushing it higher, calloused palms cupping your breasts through the thin fabric before tugging it over your head in one smooth pull.

“Pretty girl,” he muttered against your sternum, his mouth closing over a peaked nipple, teeth grazing before his tongue soothed. He palmed the other breast roughly, greedy, groaning into you like he was starving. You arched beneath him, your hands in his hair, pulling him closer, closer.

His mouth traced lower, down your stomach, his thumbs catching in the waistband of your pants.

“What’s this, hm?” Joel murmured, voice dropping low as he tugged them down, lace catching on his knuckles. The scrolled letters became visible slowly, unveiled by lace and Joel’s calloused fingers.

He stilled.

The script stood out stark and clean against your skin, perched right between the gentle curve of your hip and the bone just above your cunt.

𝓙𝓸𝓮𝓵

In black ink, just a couple weeks old and still healing.

Joel reeled back a little—not in shock or horror but in reverence, in something like awe, and when his eyes met yours, there was only heat. Dark and thick and heavy, the kind that filled the space between your lungs and made it hard to breathe.

"You’ve been hidin’ this from me, baby?” he asked, his voice light and lilting, like he was speaking to something fragile. But the edge of it curled mean. Sweet like syrup over a knife. “Tattooed my name on you like a good little girl, huh?”

You whimpered—surprised by your own nerves. You’d been proud of it when you got it. Smug, even. But now? Under his eyes? Under his hands?

Joel lowered his head.

His mouth found your skin and pressed his lips softly against each letter, tongue dipping out, licking over the lines like he wanted to taste every stroke. He kissed it, again and again, lips dragging across your skin, open-mouthed and worshipful. His tongue was hot against the sensitive skin, kissing it like he was kissing into your mouth and not the skin of your pelvis. 

“Fuck, baby,” he whispered, breath warm and thick as it sank into your skin. Your hips jolted up against him, thighs twitching, need bleeding out of you like your body couldn’t hide it anymore.

“Can’t believe you got my fuckin’ name branded on you.”

You mewled, the sound raw, half formed in your throat as heat crawled up your spine now, your whole body alive with tension, every part of you sparking as his mouth trailed lower. Joel pulled your pants down the rest of the way, slow and greedy, and your legs opened for him without thought, a helpless thing begging to be touched.

He kissed down to your pubic bone, taking his time, all slow and reverent. He inhaled your scent, his nose brushing right up against your clit.

“Ohhh, baby,” he mocked, dragging the words out. “You’re soaked, huh? Pretty pussy just aching for daddy.”

“Shut up, old man,” you groaned, pushing the heels of your hands into your eyes, desperate and annoyed, thighs clenching with frustration.

He laughed low in his throat. “But you love this old man, don’t you, honey? Tell me how much you love me.”

You bit down hard on the inside of your cheek. “I love your cock, old man. Not you.”

“Mhm. Sure, sure,” he chuckled, kissing your hip again. “That why you got my name written in ink across your sweet body?”

“Drunken mistake.”

Joel shook his head slowly. “I don’t think so.”

Then he kissed your clit—so softly you almost missed it. Just a brush, feather light, enough to drive you insane. You looked down and saw the bastard smiling.

“Tell me you love me,” he murmured, gravel in his voice, dragging his mouth just to the side again, pressing another kiss to your inner thigh. You twitched, whined, your body betraying you completely.

“No,” you gasped, your head rolling back. “No, I’m not saying it.”

“But I love you, baby,” he said, eyeing your glistening folds, “Fuckin’ obsessed with you.”

You whimpered, mouth twisting, a broken frown pulling at your face and Joel mirrored it, mockingly.

“Aww, poor thing can’t even talk now? Too many needy thoughts?” he crooned, pressing his lips right beside where you wanted him, tongue flicking out to trace the crease of your thigh. “Come on, sweetheart. Tell me why you got that tattoo. Tell me why you keep crawling back to me.”

“‘Cause—‘cause—” You were stammering, hips searching for friction, clenching around nothing.

“You’re so fuckin’ cute like this,” he said, dragging it out, “Could make you squirm for hours.”

His tongue still hadn’t touched you where you needed it most. He leaned down, breathing against your clit, tracing the sensitive skin just outside of your folds with his nose—

“I love you, Joel,” you gasped, eyes squeezing shut. “I love you, I love you—”

His lips hit your soaked skin with just a wet peck and you jolted in surprise.

“Aww, baby. You mean it?”

“Yes, yes—I mean it!”

“Say it again.”

“I love you! I got it tattooed because I’m in love with you, you fucking bastard!”

Joel laughed, low and mean. “That’s my girl. But c’mon, I know you can be sweeter than that.”

You cried out, half with need, half with fury as your hips rolled in search of any kind of relief. Joel’s forearm slid hard across your hips, locking you in place, keeping you from grinding up against his mouth. You thrashed once and he held tighter.

“Please,” you begged now. Your voice cracked, tears burning the edges of your vision. You propped yourself up on your elbows, looking down at him. “I love you, Daddy, I love you. Love you and everything about you. I’m obsessed with you too.”

Joel moved fast.

He surged his body upward, leaning in to crush his mouth to yours, his tongue deep and hungry, bypassing any kind of gentle pretense to devour you fully, kissing like he could never get close enough. You moaned into it, wild, grabbing his hair in tight fists, dragging him closer, pulling like you were starved.

“You make me insane,” he panted between kisses. “Make me fuckin’ crazy, you know that?”

“Yes—yes—I know,” you gasped. “You make me crazy too, Daddy, please, please—”

“Okay, baby,” he rasped, his voice dark and reverent as he moved back down, stopping to kiss your navel before saying: “Okay. Gonna give you what you need. What only Daddy can give you.”

And then his mouth was finally on you.

Tongue thick and wet, sliding out of him like something obscene, starved, pressing heavy against your folds as he licked an open, shameless stripe up the whole slick length of your cunt. No teasing now. No trace of mercy. Just filthy, hungry mouth, slathering spit all over you like he was trying to wear you.

He buried his face in it, lips sealing around your clit, dragging it between them with a deep, needy suck that made your vision blur, made your hands fly to his hair like you needed to anchor yourself to him. And the sounds he made between your legs, those wet, slurping groans, breath snarling through his nose as he devoured you, tongue moving in greedy circles, then sharp flicks, then back to that flat, full pressure that had your thighs snapping tight around his head.

He groaned into you like he couldn’t breathe without it. The vibrations rattled through your clit, right up into your spine, your hips jerking helplessly against the strength of his hold. He fucking growled, the sound thick and low and furious as he sucked hard enough to bruise, and when he pulled back just enough to spit on your cunt in a thick, warm, filthy glob before dragging his tongue through it again, you sobbed. He was sloppy, nasty, mean and loving all the same when he ate at you.

"Messy little pussy," he muttered against you, his chin already soaked, beard shining with your slick. “Look at this, baby.”

You couldn’t think or breathe. You couldn’t stop shaking. He was licking like he meant to ruin you, to split you open with his mouth alone. Your clit throbbed under the attention, swollen and pulsing with every pull of his lips, every lewd moan, every inch of his tongue gliding through the slick, messy heat of you. 

Your thighs were trembling, belly fluttering and your voice was lost somewhere between a scream and a gasp and a high, cracked wail of his name. White stars burst in your vision as you crested over the edge, the coil wrapping around your spine tightening and slackening and twitching until you started to come down. Your thighs shook as he kept licking at you, softer now, more careful, drinking you down like every drop was sacred, his tongue pushing inside you for one last taste.

He kissed your thighs and up your body until he was hovering over you, pressing his mouth to yours. The taste of you was dizzying—honey, salt, sweat—and his tongue swept through your mouth gently, moaning like he was the one coming down from the high.

His cock twitched heavy between your stomach and his as you bit his lip, your hand sliding down to wrap around him. He drew in a sharp breath, leaning his forehead to yours, eyes wild as you both watched your fist stroke up and down.

“Where you gonna get my name tattooed, Daddy?” you whispered, voice sweet and melodic.

He chuckled low, then groaned as your thumb swept across the leaking tip, spreading it around his length.

“Anywhere you want,” he said roughly, kissing you harder, before sitting back on his haunches to watch your hand work him. Your fingertips didn’t even meet around the thickest part of him.

“I think right here would be cute,” you cooed, releasing him so his cock slapped heavy against your pelvis, then dragging your fingertip just above the thatch of hair where he disappeared.

“Yeah? Your property, huh?” he teased, but his grin was sharp, hungry.

You nodded, tucking your bottom lip between your teeth.

“All yours,” he agreed hoarsely, and began to drag himself through your glistening folds, the wet schlick obscene. He tapped the fat head against your clit, playful, before notching at your entrance.

Ohhh, you sighed as he pushed in an inch.

“Now,” he groaned, gripping your thigh to push you open wider, watching himself sink deeper, “wanna hear you say it again.”

“Ah–ah—say what?” you hiccuped, clutching at his forearm as he continued to disappear into you slowly.

“Why you got that little tattoo, baby.”

“I love you, Joel,” you whispered, eyes squeezing shut as he bottomed out.

“I love you too, sweetheart,” he breathed, voice breaking, hiking one of your legs over his shoulder, the other hooking at his waist as he leaned forward above you. He pulled out slow, then slid back in deep, kissing your nose. “So much it hurts. Hurts in my chest, hurts in my fuckin’ bones.”

You moaned, eyes rolling back, arms circling his neck. His mouth crushed to yours as he moved, and he groaned into your mouth like a man who’d die without you.

His pace quickened, thrusts sharper, deeper, until the slap of skin was drowned by your ragged cries. Joel tore his mouth from yours, panting against your cheek, his voice rough, low, wrecked. “So damn tight around me. S’like this pussy was made for me, huh angel?”

“Yes, Joel,” you gasped, nails scoring down his back, desperate to keep him inside you.

“God, baby…” His teeth grazed your jaw as his hips sawed back and forth harder, his voice breaking with a new hunger. “You’re mine. You’ve always been mine. Say it.”

“I’m yours,” you sobbed, head tipping back against the pillow. “Yours, forever.”

His hand caught your throat, not quite squeezing, just steadying you, his thumb brushing your pulse as if to remind himself you were alive, here, his. His cock pushed impossibly deep, kissing your womb, and he groaned against your ear. “I’d kill any man who even dreamed of you. I’d burn the whole world down if it meant keepin’ you here safe with me.”

Your thighs quivered as he drove into you, stars bursting white-hot behind your eyes. “I know,” you whined, broken on his rhythm. “You’ve already ruined me, I’m all yours.”

“That’s my good girl,” he growled, pressing his forehead hard to yours, sweat beading where your skin met. His thrusts grew frantic, almost pained, his voice unraveling. “And what if I knock you up, hm? Gonna hate me if I fuck a baby into you too?”

You clutched him tighter, delirious, babbling your devotion against his mouth, you should’ve never said those awful words, the ones you never meant outside the bar. “No, no, I could never hate you. I need you, I love you—keep me, keep me, Joel—make me yours.”

He kissed you like a vow, broken moans spilling hot against your lips. “Yeah, yeah, that’s it, gonna fill you, gonna put a baby in you, sweet girl, then you won’t be able to go anywhere,”

Joel’s hips snapped in merciless rhythm as if carving himself into you was the only prayer he knew, every word he spoke a fevered gospel, every thrust a confession of love so twisted it bordered on holy. 

The words seemed to stoke the fire in both of you at once, toppling your second orgasm over the peak, your back bowing into an arch you never thought possible as the world went white behind your eyelids.

Joel groaned above you, his body shuddering as he stilled, pressing as deep as he could, spilling into you with a sound that was half gasp and half curse. His arms locked tight around you, crushing you to him as if he could fuse you together.

For a long moment, the world was just the heat of him inside you and the rough sound of his breath against your skin. His mouth brushed your cheek, his voice ragged as he said: “Don’t ever leave me again,” he muttered, words splitting like they’d been torn straight from his chest.

Your nails scraped lightly through his hair. “Never,” you whispered back, your lips ghosting his ear. “I’m not going anywhere.”

He let out a broken groan, holding you tighter, burying his face against your neck. His weight pressed you deep into the mattress, his chest rising and falling against yours in uneven bursts. You stroked his hair absently as he stayed inside you, the damp ends sticking to your fingers, soothing him with gentle touches.

Little by little, his breathing evened out, the frantic edge fading until the two of you were just a tangle of limbs and sweat, cocooned in the heavy quiet that always followed the storm. The haze of arousal began to thin, leaving you raw, dazed, but not entirely unsteady. Your fingers kept combing through his hair, softer now, more thoughtful, until they slowed to a halt.

“Joel?” you murmured into the dark.

He answered with a low hum, the sound muffled, half asleep, content.

Ever since you and Bob broke up, you’d been trying your best not to visibly mope too much. It had been almost three months since the breakup, and it was easy to avoid Bob when you went on missions and he stayed behind at the Watchtower. You did everything you could to throw yourself into work and volunteer for missions with barely any breaks in between to avoid the pain of seeing him. 

Everything was going to plan until Bucky put his foot down after you almost got shot in your exhaustion. Luckily, John had gotten there just in time, but it was a closer call than any of your teammates were comfortable with. 

So, for the last week, you’d been locked in your room to avoid Bob. You tried desperately not to run into him, only using common areas when you knew he was scheduled for training. 

That was how Ava and Yelena got the idea to have one of their famous Thunderbolts—you never did quite feel like the “New Avengers” label fit you, much preferring your inside joke team name—girls’ nights out. 

And boy, were they regretting that now. 

You were something of a dark horse when it came to alcohol tolerance. 

At first, Yelena and Ava were blown away by your ability to throw back drinks. For the first hour, Yelena was banging on the bar top and yelling for you to chug while Ava cupped her hands around her mouth and cheered. During the second hour, you hit the dance floor, closed your eyes, and let your hips sway with the pulsating beat of the 2000s dance track playing. 

It was the third hour when all your drinks caught up with you. 

You were delightfully sweet when you were drunk; they had to give you that. 

Even though you were leaning against the bar, blinking slowly at your friends, you had a honeyed smile on your lips. Your already short dress was riding up your thighs as you slumped on a bar stool, and the eyeliner Yelena had carefully applied for you at the start of the night was smudged at the corners.

The nightclub had already started winding down. The dance floor that was buzzing only half an hour ago was now a cluster of stragglers clinging to the last songs. You could taste salt on your lips, from sweat or the rim of some forgotten glass. 

“Yelena, your hair looks soooo good slicked back,” you said, just slightly slurring your words. Yelena, whose love language was exchanging insults and making fun of you, stared back emotionlessly. “Like—like a sexy seal. Ava, tell her she’s a sexy seal.” 

“Yes,” Ava deadpanned. “She is a very attractive aquatic mammal. Happy?” 

You laughed, delighted. “See? You get it. Yelena’s the prettiest seal in the sea. If seals wore blue eyeliner and were trained to kill.” 

You blinked slowly. The lights in the room had gone softer, pink, purple, and blue lights smearing at the edges like a watercolour painting. Your body was slow to obey you, limbs heavy and skin hot, a pleasant hum under your skin where alcohol loosened your nerves. 

Yelena snorted, then sighed as she watched you wobble on your stool. “Okay, dorogaya, time to go,” she declared. In your inebriated state, you had no idea this was the fifth time she’d said this. “Drink’s empty, party’s over. Up you get.” 

You pouted, clutching your glass protectively. It was empty, save for some ice left behind, condensation wetting your fingers. “Noooo, I’m not leaving until Bob gets here!” 

Rubbing her forehead, Ava tried not to lose her temper. “Bob didn’t come out with us tonight,” she reminded you. “He’s back at the Watchtower.” 

You leaned across the bar top, whispering like you were telling them a secret. “Liar. He never misses girls’ night out!” 

Yelena rolled her eyes, muttering, “I am not paid enough for this.” Then, more gently, she tried to urge you out of your stool. “Come on, you’ll see him tomorrow.” 

You shook your head furiously, words dragging together. “Nooo, I need him now! I miss him. I love you both sooo much, but you’re not Bob. Nobody’s Bob but Bob.” You pointed very seriously at Ava, who blinked like she wasn’t sure how to answer.

“True,” is what she went with. “I’m not Bob.” Then, below her breath, Ava muttered, “Who’d want to be from Florida?” 

You giggled, throwing your arms around her anyway. “But you’re my best ghosty-shadow girl. I love you.” Ava had to admit that it was nice to get a hug. If there was one thing the Thunderbolts were starved of, it was physical affection, but you gave it out freely and happily. “But I need Bob to take me home.” 

Yelena lowered her voice while you nuzzled Ava’s shoulder. “She’s going to break him in half,” she declared. Even though he was the one who broke up with you, everyone knew it absolutely destroyed him. “He’s just barely standing, and now this?” 

The pinched expression on Ava’s face suggested she agreed. “I don’t like it either. But she’s not going to move for anyone else. She’ll stand here all night long, hoping Bob will show up.” 

You lifted your head suddenly, eyes bright and wet. “Did I ever tell you? Bob makes the best midnight snack noodles.” A faraway, glazed-over shine filled your irises. “He always stirs them with chopsticks because he thinks it makes the soup tastier.” Your voice grew tender. As your eyelids grew heavy, each blink lasted a second longer than the last. “Nobody makes noodles like Bob…” 

Yelena tried not to let the stab in her chest show on her face. “You are killing me.” 

You perked back up, grabbing Yelena’s hand and kissing it. “But youuu, you’re the absolute best. You’re my girl forever, Lena. Even if you make me drink water when I don’t want to.” 

Taking the opportunity, Ava suggested, “Maybe drink some now? Before you declare your love for the bartender.” 

You gasped, genuinely scandalised, clutching a non-existent string of pearls. “I would never! Only Bob.” Your gaze fell to the bartender, eyes narrowing as you studied him. “…Also, maybe the bartender a little bit. He gave me free fries.”

Yelena muttered something under her breath in Russian, and Ava was glad she didn’t understand the profanity. “She is impossible,” Yelena complained. 

“She went all krav maga on my arse when I tried to drag her out,” Ava reminded her flatly. “I vote we surrender and text him.”

You were the most experienced out of the three of them at hand-to-hand combat, and you nearly tossed Ava over your shoulder the first time she tried to help you out the door. Even drunk, you weren’t going to let anyone carry you anywhere. 

Yelena pinched the bridge of her nose. “He’ll come. And then what? We get front row tickets to his heartbreak?” 

“Better than a broken wrist,” Ava retorted, but she didn’t look happy about it.  

You leaned across the bar again, all wide-eyed with sincerity. Some of your body glitter was smudged across your cheek. “You guys always take care of me. You’re my family.” Your voice wobbled, suddenly heavy with emotion. “But I just— I need him, okay?”

Yelena shut her eyes, inhaling sharply. “Text him the code,” she told Ava. “Before she starts crying.” 

Ava, who was already pulling out her phone, muttered, “He’s going to kill us for letting her get this drunk.” 

“At least we’ll leave in one piece,” Yelena said.

AVA: code safety net. she’s fine, just refuses to leave the club without you.

When you and Bob first started dating, he set up what he called a “safety net” with the rest of the team. If anyone sent him a code safety net, he’d come running. The idea was that it was for non-emergencies, moments when you needed him but couldn’t ask him yourself. 

The last time anyone sent him that code was over four months ago, when you were still his girlfriend. 

Now, Bob sat on the edge of his bed, tugging his sneakers on one at a time. Getting that code used to mean rolling out of bed, grumbling half-heartedly to himself about how you’d gotten yourself into trouble, and loving that it was his responsibility to come and help you. 

Reading the code word now felt like stepping into dangerous territory. Bob didn’t know if he was allowed to be the person who came to your aid now that you’d broken up. 

When he got the text, he’d already had the messages app open, scrolling through an endless exchange of texts between the two of you. He knew he shouldn’t have reread them again, but it was like pressing on a bruise to see if it still hurt.

Spoiler alert: it did. A lot.

Even months after the breakup, letting you go was something Bob hadn’t quite figured out how to do, no matter how hard he tried. 

He had to remind himself that he had reasons to break up with you; good reasons. Bob reminded himself of these reasons constantly, just to stop himself from taking it all back. 

At the end of the day, it wasn’t fair of him to drag you into his mess. He was still trying to learn what it meant to be Sentry, still doing his best to tame the thing inside him that one day might crack open and release Void into the world again. He couldn’t risk that, not with you sleeping beside him every night. 

Whether he was Bob, Sentry, or Void, he would burn the world down if he ever hurt you. 

And then there was his sobriety. Even in the best of times, it was a fragile, fickle thing. Bob had been in and out of programmes enough to know how it worked: no new relationships for at least a year, not until his feet were steady under him. He had broken that rule the moment he kissed you, but he couldn’t let his feelings for you be the reason he fell apart this time. 

You were the right person at the worst possible time. 

Bob knew meeting you was the kind of kismet people only got once in your life, and that’s if they’re lucky. He never considered himself particularly lucky, so he’d held on tight when he first found you. 

Bob wondered now if that made it worse. Now that you were broken up, he knew exactly what he was missing. 

When he arrived, the club was almost empty. The music was quiet, a few people were slouched against the walls outside, and the bouncer didn’t bother checking his ID when he walked in. 

The smell hit him first. The scent of cheap spirits was soaked into the bones of the club, leaving the floor sticky and tacky beneath his shoes. Even though nobody was smoking, cigarette smoke clung to the walls, making his throat tighten. The air was heavy with memories Bob didn’t particularly want to relive. 

He’d never been much of a drinker, but chemicals were chemicals, and his body recognised the promise of it even if his mind didn’t want it. 

Bob’s mouth went dry, a phantom bitterness gathering at the back of his tongue. His thumb rubbed compulsively across the ridge of his palm, a nervous tick he’d barely registered unless you pointed it out to him. 

He spotted you sitting on a bar stool beside an exhausted-looking Ava and Yelena, and the way your eyes lit up when you saw him made something in his chest shatter. In seconds, you were there, arms flung around Bob’s neck with the easy warmth of someone who didn’t remember they were supposed to keep their distance. 

“I knew you’d come,” you murmured so sweetly that he felt his knees buckle a little.

You smelled of his favourite perfume, sweat, and alcohol, and it was so dizzying that it was almost like another type of intoxication. Bob’s breath hitched. He nearly folded into you without thinking, fingers twitching with the urge to hold you before remembering he wasn’t supposed to anymore.

His heart pounded against his ribs, too fast, too loud, and he irrationally you’d hear it. He forced his muscles to stiffen, every nerve screaming at him to let you go while every neuron insisted he hold you like he wanted to. It was the most delicious sort of agony. 

Yelena and Ava’s eyes flicked his way, because of course they noticed his turmoil, so he took a heavy step back. Inside, everything screamed. Bob tried to mask his face in calmness, knowing his teammates could see right through his efforts. 

“Sorry about this,” Ava said, grimacing at the way you pressed your face into Bob’s neck. “We wouldn’t have dragged you out if we had any other choice.”

Nodding drily, Yelena added, “She refused to leave. We tried everything short of a tranquiliser dart.”

“I’ve never seen her like this,” Ava mused. Now that Bob was here, your shoulders had completely relaxed. “She said she’d only go home if you came.”

Forcing a smile, Bob waved away their concern. “S’alright. Don’t worry about it. I’m glad you texted.”

“Don’t you think Yelena looks like a sexy seal?” you asked excitedly. Bob wasn’t quite sure what that meant, but nodded anyway. 

As you babbled drunkenly about what you got up to that night, Ava and Yelena shared a weary look. “He says he’s glad,” Yelena mumbled, “But he looks like he swallowed glass.”

“Yeah. I noticed,” Ava agreed.

“You know I can hear you, right?” Bob cut in, brows pulled together, offended. “I’m fine.”

When you moved back just enough to peer at him with glossy, adoring eyes, Bob audibly gulped. “I missed you so much, Bobby,” you said sweetly. Your voice was a little husky and tired, and it made him shiver. 

Stiffening slightly, Bob gently patted your back with one hand. The other was still busy doing his usual nervous tick, rubbing his thumb across his palm. “Yeah, I—I missed you too,” he stammered, shooting Ava and Yelena a concerned look.

Yelena softened, her expression regretful. “She doesn’t remember,” she explained, cadence uncharacteristically tender.  

It felt as if someone had punched Bob in the gut. He couldn’t actually feel anyone’s punches with his impenetrable skin, but God did he remember what it was like. His breath gushed out of him all at once, and his organs felt like they were being crushed together. 

Incredulous, he looked at you with wide, questioning eyes. And there you were, grinning at him like you’d never broken up. “You look soooo good tonight, handsome,” you told him. The familiar nickname was like a second blow to his stomach. “D’you know that?”

Bob’s eyes darted to the others. “Uh…”

You frowned, unhooking your arms from his neck and catching his hand in yours. “You’re doing it again. The thumb thing,” you noted. “You only do that when you’re worried. What are you worried about, Bobby?”

He choked a laugh, trying to pull free gently. “Nothin’, sweetheart. I just— don’t worry about me.”

Suppressing a laugh, Ava commented, “She’s sharper drunk than half the team sober.”

Yelena was slightly less tactful; she didn’t even try to hide her smirk. “Only when it comes to Bob,” she sang. “A tragic gift.” 

“Very inconvenient,” Ava agreed. 

Still holding Bob’s hand, your voice wobbled a little. “You didn’t answer me. I missed you. Did you miss me?” Your head tilted as you took on a seductive tone that used to make Bob do whatever you wanted. “You do, right? You always do, especially at night…”

Heat curled low in Bob’s stomach, and you thought you might have caught a familiar glimmer of gold in his irises. “Of course I missed you,” he admitted hoarsely. 

You hummed happily, lacing your fingers together and resting your other hand on his solid chest. “Knew it. You always say as long as you miss me, you love me. You still love me, right?” 

Bob swallowed loudly. “You’ve… had a lot to drink tonight.”

You offered him a bright, tipsy laugh. “Only enough to tell the truth,” you teased. “You’re my Bobby. Always my Bobby.” 

When you leaned in and started pressing kisses to his neck, Bob jerked back, turning scarlet. He shot Ava and Yelena a look that said, For God’s sake, how much did you let her drink? 

“Don’t look at us,” Ava exclaimed defensively, hands up. “We tried cutting her off hours ago. She just kept sneaking off and getting more.”

“We told the bartender to deny her orders, but she caught the next guy once his shift ended,” Yelena added, straight-faced. “It’s a miracle she still has a functioning liver.”

Bob huffed out of breath, blowing the hair from his face. “Okay.” He started steering you toward the exit. “C’mon. Time to head home now, yeah? Fresh air’ll do you good.”

Dopily blinking at Bob, you smiled. “If you think so, Bobby.”

Yelena and Ava trailed behind, keeping an eye on you. As you stepped into the cool night, the music dulled behind you. You closed your eyes contentedly as the breeze soothed your warm skin. New York City air wasn’t exactly fresh, but Bob said it’d help, so you basked in it regardless.

“Easy now,” he said, holding you steady. “One foot at a time.” You nodded, clinging to his arm and taking careful steps. 

“She does exactly what he says,” Yelena said, partially impressed. “We spent almost an hour arguing with her to switch to water.”

“Tell me about it,” Ava groaned. “I nearly pulled my hair out.”

“I told them I wouldn’t go without you,” you told Bob sincerely. “I knew you’d come. You always come when I need you, and I really needed you tonight.”

All Bob could do was nod, smile, and try not hide how much his hands were shaking. It was ridiculous how he still remembered the sensation of your weight against him. Muscle memory was a cruel thing, and this one came with a sharp jab in his chest. 

“Yeah. I’m here,” was all he could say.

Warmth pooled under your skin, not from alcohol but from leaning against Bob. His skin was always hot, bleeding into you until you felt safe and cosy in his arms. 

You paused as Ava lifted a hand to flag down a cab. Bob could feel the burn of Yelena’s stare and pointedly ignored her. While you were the person who knew Bob best, Yelena was his best friend. The two of them were inextricably bonded after everything they’d gone through, and he knew he’d fall apart if he saw the pained sympathy on her face. 

“For the record, we did try everything,” Ava said as a nearby cab slowed to a stop beside them.

“At one point, she sat on the floor and said she lives in the club now. That was our breaking point,” Yelena added. She hurried to open the back door, watching Bob carefully manoeuvre you inside the cab. 

“Alright, careful now,” Bob warned, careful to put his hand out so you wouldn’t hit your head as you got in.

“Let’s go before she decides she’s staging another sit-in,” Ava sighed. She took the passenger seat, giving the cab driver the address for the Watchtower. 

The middle-aged man stared at her in shock, clearly recognising the address and the team in his car. Without making a big deal about it, he started the meter once Yelena slid into the last available seat in the back, shutting the door behind her. 

The cab rattled softly, city lights flickering across the windows. You were half-curled against Bob’s side, still talking despite your heavy eyelids. Yelena watched you with a conflicted frown.

“Knew you’d come for me, Bobby,” you murmured again. Your heartbeat slowed when your head tipped against his shoulder. “Always do.”

“Yeah, sweetheart, I’ve got you,” he assured you. The old anxiety ticks were back before he could stop them, thumb worrying the side of his index finger, shoulder giving the faintest twitch every time your hand shifted further up his thigh. “Let’s just get you home, alright?”

You smiled at him, eyes half-closed and gleaming with exhaustion. “Home’s wherever you are, silly.”

Bob felt his pulse jump in that ugly, uneven way it used to when he was strung out—except this was worse, because there was nothing to take the edge off. Just your eyes, devoted and pure, looking at him like he was still yours.

Noticing the shift towards the kind of honesty you wouldn’t be verbalising if you were sober, Yelena leaned forward a little. “You should rest,” she suggested. “Save the poetry for the morning.”

You giggled tiredly. “S’not poetry. S’the truth.” Your skin tingled deliciously where it touched Bob’s. It wasn’t sexual so much as the electrical spark of recognition, like your body was sighing in relief. “Missed you so much tonight, Bobby. Like my chest was hollow until I saw you walk in.” 

Ava turned from the passenger seat to glance at Yelena. 

Beside you, Bob stiffened. “You’ve, uh, you’ve had a long night,” he said, soft and strained. “Just close your eyes, yeah?”

You shook your head clumsily, words slurred but earnest. “Can’t. Gotta tell you.” You touched his chest softly, with all the care in the world. “For the first time in what feels like forever, I’m not empty anymore,” you confessed. “And we’ve only been apart for a few hours. Isn’t that wild?”

Silence filled the cab. Even the driver flickered his eyes to the rear-view, then looked away.

Bob kept his jaw locked, molars grinding so hard he knew they’d crack if his body was still capable of breaking. It was better than letting his mouth soften, better than letting something slip that he couldn’t take back. There was a low, burning ache behind his sternum. Not sharp or panicked, but heavy, like his heart was collapsing in on itself.

Ava cleared her throat, trying to cut the tension. “Hey, maybe we all just… take a breather, yeah? Get some rest.”

You pouted, trying to keep your eyes open. “I love you. I always will.” Your laughter came out fond and warm, almost dreamy. “My Bobby…”

Bob looked stricken, eyes darting helplessly to Yelena. His thumb rubbed harder against his palm, and he was sure that if his skin could still chafe, it would have. Yelena shook her head slowly, silently urging him not to answer.

Still, there was an almost imperceptible shift toward you when you drifted off to sleep, his body betraying what he wouldn’t let himself admit aloud.

The worst of it was the relief. That tiny, treacherous thought whispering: you still loved him. You still wanted him. It made Bob light-headed, sick with hope he knew better than to trust. 

You can’t love me if you don’t remember why we ended things, he thought. You can’t. But God help me, I want to believe you.

Bob’s head tilted towards you as you dozed, the old instinct to shield you from the world kicking in even when he was supposed to have stopped. This was a masterclass in containment. He didn’t explode or crumble; he absorbed your confession, keeping it together while his heart split down the middle.

Bob effortlessly helped you out of the cab and up to your room in the Watchtower. It had taken a few months to get used to the newfound strength that came with the Sentry serum. But at least he wasn’t accidentally ripping doors off their hinges or breaking dishes when he picked them up anymore.

With uneven steps, he guided you into your room, setting you down on the bed. Seated, you blinked up at him, drowsy and smiling like he’d hung the stars. It was a look that was overfamiliar; an intimate expression he’d missed seeing.

“I’m not tired,” you mumbled, resisting his help.

“Love, you’re half asleep already,” Bob tried, coaxing but awkward. He gave a short, nervous laugh. “C’mon, let’s just get you sorted out.”

You squinted like he’d offended you. “Sorted? I don’t need sorting. I need… food.”

With a huff of laughter, he shook his head. “Face first. Food later. That’s—uh, that’s how it works. Pretty sure.” Then, mostly to himself: “If you’re still awake by then, which… yeah, probably not.”

Disappearing into the bathroom, Bob kept an ear out for any noises as he grabbed your makeup remover and wet a washcloth with warm water. He returned and crouched in front of you, carefully starting to wash your face for you. 

You leaned into the touch happily, taking the opportunity to admire your ex-boyfriend. “You always do it nicer than me,” you mumbled, grinning. “So good to me.”

Quietly, Bob admitted, “Old habit.”

You pouted playfully. “You love taking care of me,” you teased. “I always think it’s so hot when you—”

“Okay, I think it’s time for pyjamas,” Bob blurted, pushing up to his feet a little too fast. He turned away, ears pink, and wondered briefly if his poor heart was as conflicted as his mind was tonight. “Don’t fall over, alright?”

After taking your favourite pair out from your dresser, Bob turned his back to you as you wriggled into your pyjamas. His back was unnaturally stiff, listening for the sound of you stumbling. When you flopped back against the pillows, hair mussed and smile loose, he finally glanced over.

“See?” you said proudly. “All sorted. I can sleep now.”

Relieved, Bob nodded. “Good.” He moved to tuck the blanket around you. 

You blinked up at him, suddenly urgent. “Wait,” you said, loud and high-pitched. “Snack!”

Bob sighed. “But—”

“No, Bob, listen,” you hurried, sitting back up with wide eyes. “If I don’t eat something right now I’ll die.” Your confession wobbled, tears starting to form as your eyes became glassy.

Oh boy. If there was one thing that was Bob’s Achilles heel, it was you crying.

There was something so heart-wrenching and wrong about seeing you in tears. The way your cheeks puffed up and your eyes widened, lips curving down into the most perfect frown, was enough for him to agree to do anything to make it stop.

“I’m so hungry now,” you whined, the first few tears cascading down your cheeks. Bob caught them without thinking, chest aching at the sight. He was torn between wanting to maintain some semblance of ex-appropriate boundaries and the dull twinge in his chest.

Eventually, his soft heart couldn’t take it any longer. “God, sweetheart,” he groaned. “You can’t do that. You know I’m useless when you cry.” He tried to laugh, but it came out as a thin sound.

You sniffled, only a touch dramatic. “You wouldn’t let me starve. You love me too much.”

He shut his eyes at that, steadying himself. “You don’t play fair,” he said under his breath.

Triumphantly, you offered Bob a teary smile. “So… snack?”

“Fine,” he agreed. “Yeah, okay. But you stay put, alright? Don’t you dare try and follow me.” Bob wasn’t sure what he’d do if you kept looking at him like you still loved him. “Just stay here.”

You huffed, visibly offended. “As if I’d follow you.”

Bob arched his brow. “You absolutely would.”

“Nu-uh!”

You padded into the kitchen after Bob, clutching the back of his sweatshirt like he’d disappear if you let go. He was resigned but soft with you, guiding you towards the counter. The fluorescents hummed overhead faintly. 

“Midnight feast!” you whisper-yelled excitedly, pumping your free fist in the air.

“It’s a quarter to two,” Bob corrected.

You gasped, delighted. “Even better,” you declared. 

Bob wasn’t sure what your metric was for deciding what time was better to have a snack, but he laughed anyway. He went through the fridge while you rummaged noisily through the pantry. 

Moments later, your tiny gasp of joy filled the kitchen. You held up two packets of noodles like they were a rare treasure. “Bob, noodles!” You held them out for him, already climbing onto the counter deftly. Even your drunken state couldn’t stop years of practised agility. “It’s perfect.”

Bob gave a half-laugh, shaking his head. “That’s… yeah, sure. Wild, right? Cosmic destiny.”

Midnight noodles were something of a weekly ritual when you were dating. You usually had dinner early with the rest of the team, then stayed up late chatting and cuddling. By the time the two of you were tired enough to sleep, you were hungry again. 

You narrowed your eyes. “Don’t mock.”

He smiled, rubbing the back of his neck. “Oh no, hey, I’m serious. I swear.”

Taking the packet from you before you tore it open with your teeth, Bob took out a saucepan and set the water to boil. You sat swinging your legs, watching him with lazy admiration. 

Bob’s shoulders hunched, stomach tightening each time you called out to him affectionately. His face was schooled into neutrality, but he didn’t know how much longer he could hold it. He was hyper-aware of your position in the room. If you swayed, even slightly, his whole body tensed in case he needed to catch you.

“You like this,” you mused, teasing him. A lazy, fizzy happiness bubbled in your chest. You couldn’t quite figure out why, but you felt truly happy for the first time in a long time. “Taking care of me.”

Bob ducked his head shyly. “I like when you’re not sad. Or mad at me. So,” he motioned awkwardly to the stove, “noodles.”

You nodded. “You’re good at making sure I’m not sad,” you said fondly. “Can’t ever feel sad around you.”

It was a compliment that meant more to him than you could imagine. 

Bob chuckled lowly. “No, I’m good at screwing stuff up, mostly. This is just hot water and noodles. Even I can’t—” he faltered, jaw tightening. “Well, I probably could mess it up.”

You frowned at his characteristic self-deprecation. “Don’t be mean to Bob,” you scolded.

Bob raised an eyebrow, dropping the noodles in the boiling water. “Pretty sure I am Bob.”

“Exactly,” you huffed. “Don’t be mean to my Bob.”

He nearly dropped his chopsticks at that. Clearing his throat, Bob bought himself some time by stirring the soup base into the water. To himself, he mumbled, “Didn’t know I was still yours.”

You smiled, still oblivious to your break-up. “‘Course you are, Bobby. You’ll always be mine, and I’ll always be yours. That’s how the whole ‘forever’ thing works.”

Bob busied himself with the noodles, but when you started humming, he couldn’t stop glancing at you. You leaned your cheek against the cupboard beside you, watching him as if he’d strayed out of a dream. Reaching for him without thinking, you tugged carefully at Bob’s sleeve, pulling his free wrist closer.

“Miss you tonight,” you told him, longing to hold his hand.

Bob laughed softly, deflecting. “I’m right here.”

You shook your head stubbornly. “Not like that. Missed you in my bones, y’know?”

His chest squeezed. He cracked the chilli oil packet open to have an excuse to take his hand back. “Yeah, but you had your thing, right? Girls’ night. Shots. Dancing. Didn’t need me standing awkwardly in the corner.”

“Always need you,” you argued.

Bob’s hand tightened around the chopsticks. Still facing the stove, he begged, “Don’t say that.”

Your brows pulled together. “Why not?”

“‘Cause it’s— you’re drunk, okay?” It was tough to maintain a firm boundary and not get lost in how you treated him like he was still your boyfriend. “You say stuff like that—”

“Because it’s true,” you said happily. “You’re shy tonight. What’s the matter?”

“I’m,” he gestured at himself, voice breaking, “I’m Bob. I’m the guy who ruins every good thing he touches. And you’re…” he trailed off, swallowing hard. Bob couldn’t bring himself to say, You’re the last person I wanted to hurt.

You slid off the counter, stepping closer. Bob finally looked at you, wincing like it hurt to meet your eyes. For a second, all the noise in his body stopped—no fidgeting, no rambling. Just raw, aching stillness.

“You are something good, Bob,” you declared. It would have been sweet had your words not slurred together, reminding him of your tipsiness. 

Bob reached for the bowls and poured noodles and soup into them. “Okay, so, noodles—uh, one for you, one for me,” he rambled, passing you the bowl with a noticeably bigger portion.

Bob returned to your room, balancing a glass of water and some painkillers for the headache you were sure to have in the morning. You were curled beneath the duvet, hair a mess, cheeks warm, still blinking against the low light. The noodles had settled in your stomach without making you nauseous, which you were both grateful for. 

He set the glass on the bedside table, fingers twitching like he wasn’t sure if he should tuck you in or back away. “So,” he cleared his throat. Your eyes drifted up to his. They looked like the ocean during a storm, and you were transfixed. “There we are. One water, one magic pill. Not as fun as tequila, but you’ll thank me in the morning.”

You grinned sleepily. “You’re bossy.” You were comfortable in Bob’s presence, letting your guard down entirely.

He huffed a shy laugh. “M’not bossy, I’m being responsible. Someone’s gotta keep you from feeling rotten tomorrow.”

“Bossy,” you sang, pulling the duvet higher. Bob rolled his eyes fondly. He perched at the edge of the bed, hands clasped so tight in his lap his knuckles paled. You noticed. “Why do you look like you’re waiting for your turn at a job interview?”

Startled, Bob stammered, “Wh—what? I’m not— this is just how I sit.”

You giggled. “We’ve been dating for, like, nine months. I think I know how you sit.”

Bob bit his lip, glanced away, then reached down to straighten the corner of the duvet to keep his hands busy. “Just making sure you’re settled,” he said. “That’s all.”

You hummed, dubious. “You’re fussing. You only fuss when you’re nervous.”

His cheeks turned pink at that. “Maybe I’m always nervous around you,” he diverted your question. You blinked up at him, a little too fuzzy to catch the weight of it. “Right. You’re all tucked in. No more sneaking around for snacks, okay?”

You opened your mouth to argue, but a muffled sound at the door caught your attention. A soft little purr. Both your heads turned. “Apine!” you gasped, ecstatic to see Bucky’s feline companion entering your room.

The little white cat slipped in, tail high, and leapt onto the bed. You sat up straighter, arms out, laughing as Alpine bumped her head against your chin and curled beside you. Your smile spread wide and unguarded.

“Hi baby,” you cooed, stroking her head with the back of your hand. “I thought you didn’t love me anymore.”

“‘Course she does. She’s just picky.” Bob brushed a crease from your pillow, doing anything to stop himself from reaching for you.

“You’ve been avoiding me,” you accused Alpine, speaking to her in a low, dulcet tone. You watched her with almost childlike delight, pressing your cheek against her. “For weeks and weeks. I thought I got on your bad side somehow. Like that time John accidentally stepped on your tail.”

Bob chuckled, but his hands twisted together in his lap. He bit at his lower lip. Watching Alpine’s purrs vibrate against your cheek made his chest split in two. He’d always been more of a dog person, but he did have a soft spot for Bucky’s cat. “I’m sure she just missed you.”

“Or you,” you argued. “You’re her second favourite, aren’t you?”

“I don’t know about that.”

“No, you are. Everyone knows it,” you insisted. “She follows you around like a shadow. You spoil her with treats when you think nobody’s looking.”

“I guess she likes me well enough,” Bob allowed. His hand hovered near Alpine’s back, then withdrew, retreating to his lap.

You giggled into Alpine’s fur, drunk and unbothered. But then the giggle faded, replaced by a sudden, sharp earnestness you couldn’t quite stop.

“But she hasn’t come near me for weeks,” you murmured, lips pressed to the soft patch between the feline’s ears. Your hand stilled on her fur. “Not since…”

The words trailed away. You didn’t know why. Some small, skittish part of you pulled back from finishing the thought.

Your smile slipped, slow and reluctant, like something precious sliding out of your grip. A heaviness pressed against your chest, cutting off the little bubble of warmth you’d been floating in all night long. You lifted your head, blinking at Bob. His face was flushed, eyes darting from you to Alpine to the headboard behind your shoulder.

Your stomach dipped, a cold wash chasing away the warmth of the alcohol. That’s it, isn’t it? The pieces slid into place with cruel precision, emerging from the alcohol-induced fog that kept them hidden all night long.

“She’s been with you,” you said, the words cracking open in your throat. “Because we—because we’re not…”

Bob froze, throat bobbing as it worked against words that wouldn’t form. “I—I—don’t…” He tried again, breath stuttering. “It’s not—”

The ache in your chest grew so quickly that it made your hands shake. You dragged trembling fingers down Alpine’s back, stroking her fur in desperate repetition, like you could keep yourself from fracturing if you just kept the motion steady.

Your voice spilled into the room in a whisper. “We’re not together anymore, are we?”

The words hurt more once spoken, like they’d hadn’t been true until you said them aloud. Tears pricked hot at the corners of your eyes. You blinked hard, but it only made them spill faster, streaking down your cheeks and landing in Alpine’s snowy fur.

“You broke up with me,” you recalled, your reply wavering in the middle of your sentence.

Bob looked ruined. His whole chest heaved, and for a moment, he just stared, caught in the wreckage. Hesitant and trembling, his hand pulled you gently, carefully into him. The damn broke when Bob wrapped his arms around you, turning your silent cries into sobs.

“Don’t—don’t cry. Please,” Bob begged, audibly torn. One hand rubbed your back in clumsy circles, while the other cupped your head, tender and desperate.

Your question came muffled against his shirt, small and devastating. “Why did you break up with me? I love you so much.”

Bob flinched like the words struck him, eyes squeezing shut. His hand kept caressing your back, not steady but frantic, trying to stop both of you from falling apart.

You pressed your face harder into his sweatshirt, tears hot and messy against the fabric. The sobs came out loud and hard, shaking your shoulders, then softened into smaller gasps and hiccups as the rhythm of Bob’s hand calmed you. 

He could feel how your remaining energy slowly burned itself out. First, your trembling quietened, then your hands loosening where they’d clutched his sweatshirt, then the weighted slump of your body. His arms tightened around you instinctively, holding you upright.

You gave a little sniff. “Don’t you love me?”

Every muscle in Bob’s body locked. His lips parted, but nothing came out at first; not with your breath warming his sweatshirt, not with the fragile pressure of you sinking so trustingly into him.

“I— Do I love you?” The words shuddered out of him, frayed at the edges. “Of course I do.”

But when he pulled back to see your face, your lashes were already lowered, breaths evening out, body soft in the safety of his arms. Your question had used up the last of your energy, and now you were asleep.

Bob’s chest throbbed with relief and grief all at once. You’ll never know, he thought. Not really. Not the way he wanted to tell you—awake, sober, with steady hands instead of shaking ones. He pressed his chin to the top of your head, shutting his eyes to stop his own tears from falling.

You woke to sunlight pressing against your eyelids, a dull yellow insistence that came from your curtains being open. Your head throbbed; not stabbing but heavy, like someone had stuffed your skull with cotton. Your mouth was dry, your tongue thick, every swallow tasting faintly of metal.

You blinked slowly, trying to piece the previous night together. What you remembered came in flashes: Ava’s laugh at the bar, Yelena making a face at the DJ, colourful lights blurring overhead. And then, nothing. Just a clean break in the reel, as though someone had pressed stop and forgotten to hit record again.

At least you were in your own bed, the duvet pulled up to your chin like your own personal fairy godmother helped you home. You couldn’t smell cheap takeaway on your clothes, which meant you’d dodged your usual post-club ritual of inhaling fries at three in the morning. 

Still, the gap in your memory made your stomach twist a little. Not in fear, you trusted Ava and Yelena too much for that, but embarrassment. A mortifying little voice in your head whispered that if you’d blacked out at the end of the night, you’d probably done or said something mortifying. 

You groaned and pressed the heel of your palm to your eyes. 

After taking the painkiller someone left for you on your bedside table, you shuffled into the kitchen looking for something to have eat. You didn’t care that your hair was mussed and you looked distinctly worse for wear; you just needed to get something into your stomach before the nausea took over. 

In the kitchen, Yelena and Ava were sitting at the table while John rifled through the pantry. Both of them look just as bad as you did. Yelena wore sunglasses even though you were indoors, and Ava still had eyeliner streaked across her face. You gratefully accepted a cup of coffee when Ava passed it to you. Collapsing into the chair beside her, you groaned quietly. 

“Okay,” you began, a little sheepish. “Don’t laugh. I don’t remember anything after the club last night.” Your friends shared a look that said they weren’t surprised. “I just wanted to say thanks for dragging me home and dealing with me.”

Yelena smirked. “Dragging is the right word. You fought like a feral raccoon.”

“We were two seconds away from calling animal control,” Ava chimed in, grinning.

If they were teasing you, then their hangovers weren’t that bad.

You groaned, burying your face in your arms. “I knew it. I’m the worst drunk.” When you looked up, you gave your friends your prettiest smile. “Sorry about that. How did you even get me into bed?” 

Yelena and Ava exchanged a quick look. 

Before you could prompt them further, John interrupted. “Oh, for fuck’s sake!” he screeched. You turned around just in time to see him slam the pantry doors shut, glaring at the three of you like you’d committed a horrible betrayal. “Who ate my noodles?” John demanded. 

All he got in return was three blank stares. 

“Pardon?” Ava asked, her tone suggesting she was already done with the conversation before it started.

“My last two packets of instant ramen,” John said, crossing his arms and glaring between you. You had to admit, as much as you all liked messing with him, he could be pretty intimidating when he wanted to be. “Been saving them all week, and what do I find? Empty shelf.”

Without missing a beat, Yelena said, “Maybe the universe is telling you to eat a vegetable.”

“The universe can shove it,” John deadpanned. “Someone in here’s a thief. And don’t act innocent! It’s been a while, but my noodles used to vanish every week like clockwork.” 

You froze with your coffee cup halfway to your lips. Your eyes snapped to Yelena and Ava, who were already looking at you, matching your wide-eyed look of surprise. 

“It was Bob,” you said quietly, almost accusing, once John gave up and started searching the fridge for something edible. “That’s how you got me to come home.”

Yelena sighed heavily, rubbing between her eyebrows like she was getting a headache. “We didn’t have a choice, you wouldn’t leave without him. Besides, it wasn’t that bad.”

“Wasn’t that bad?!” you exclaimed, not buying it for a single second. “I know exactly how unhinged I get when I’m drunk, and you let me spend the night with my ex-boyfriend?”

“You honestly didn’t do anything embarrassing,” Ava insisted. Then, she paused. “Well, I guess you did forget you were broken up and treated him like you were still together,” she admitted. You opened your mouth to keep yelling, so she hurriedly added, “But he was honestly fine with it!”

“He took it very well,” Yelena agreed. “It crushed his mind, body, and spirit. But he took it well.”

“Even if I was asking for him, I can’t believe you forced him to come,” you retorted.

Yelena gasped. “We did not force him!”

John, who was eavesdropping the entire time, cut in. “Wait, wait, hold up.” Your eyes drifted over to him. “Are we even allowed to call a code safety net if the two of them are broken up?”

You frowned. “Code what?” 

“Nicely done, Walker,” Yelena drawled sarcastically, pretending to applaud him. She was known to resort to his last name when he messed something up. Which, in her eyes, was often. “What is it about a secret code that you don’t understand?”

“What secret code?” you asked, already dreading the answer.

“Okay look,” Ava said, giving it to you straight. “When you and Bob started dating, he set up an emergency code called ‘safety net.’ If you were too far gone at the club, or if you needed him but were too scared to ask, we’d send him the code. He always came to help, no matter what.”

You swallowed, processing the news. “That’s…”

“Overly protective?” John teased, smirking a little. He didn’t mean it, of course. Nobody had called a code safety net more often than him. He just lived to tease you and was convinced you ate his noodles. 

“I was going to say romantic,” you corrected him, rolling your eyes.

“Don’t you think you’re a little too, I don’t know, divorced to be making comments?” Yelena added. 

“Jesus,” Walker muttered, holding his hands in defence and grumbling about ordering takeout instead. 

Once he was out of the kitchen, Ava smirked. “So, midnight noodles with Bob?”

“I have a big mouth when I’m drunk,” you grumbled, downing the rest of your coffee to soothe your dry throat. You’d never told them about you and Bob’s midnight noodles, so you knew you had your drunk self to thank for that one.

“Yeah, but it was cute,” Ava said, leaning back in her chair. “You looked very proud of your little tradition.”

Yelena snorted. “You made it sound like a sacred ritual.”

You pressed your lips together, staring at the empty mug in your hands. “But… why would he still come? Why would he—” You broke off, shaking your head. “He’s the one who ended things. If he doesn’t love me anymore, then why show up to help?”

For once, Ava didn’t have a snarky comment locked and loaded. She just tilted her head, eyes warming. “That sounds like a question for him,” she said.

Yelena nodded, elbowing you lightly. “Yeah. Don’t waste your breath on us. Go ask Bob. We’ll be here eating John’s backup noodles. I found them this morning and stashed them in my room.”

You stood outside Bob’s door longer than planned to. Long enough to wonder if the team could hear your pacing from the hall, long enough to almost turn back around. Twice. You even considered coming back tomorrow, but you knew your courage was dwindling fast. If you left now, you probably weren’t coming back. 

You held your breath as you knocked. From inside, you could hear Bob shuffling around before the door slowly cracked open. He blinked at you, hair a mess and t-shirt wrinkled like he’d been napping. For a stupid, dizzying second, the sight of him all domestic and soft punched through your ribs. You could still feel what it was like when you used to wake up in that bed with him.

Bob looked surprised to see you standing there, but not unhappy. “Hey.”

“Hey,” you echoed, hating how your throat tightened around the word. “Um. Can we talk?”

For a second, you thought he might say no. Then, he stepped back and opened the door wider. “Yeah. Sure. Come in.”

You crossed the threshold and realised you hadn’t prepared yourself for the wave of nostalgia that made your stomach clench. Bob’s room looked exactly the same as it had the last time you were in it. From the mug on his bedside table to the blanket you’d bought for him, half-folded on the bed.

It was all the same, except you didn’t live here anymore. Your fingers itched to straighten the blanket the way you always used to, so you folded them together like a penitent child.

You hovered awkwardly in the middle of the room, unsure where to sit. Bob noticed and gestured toward the chair at his desk before sitting on the edge of his bed. It felt like he’d deliberately put distance between you. 

“So,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck. “What’s up?”

You smoothed your palms over your jeans. “I just— I wanted to check in. See how you’ve been.”

Bob’s brows lifted. “I’ve been… fine,” he said slowly. “Busy, I guess. You know how it is around here.”

“Yeah,” you agreed. “Of course. I get it.”

Before the awkward silence stretched further, he asked, “And you?” 

You blinked. “Me? Oh, you know. Same thing. Busy.”

“Right,” he replied. Bob didn’t point out that he knew Bucky had banned you from going on missions for two weeks, and refused to acknowledge how he’d accidentally broken the windows in the conference room when he found out you were almost shot. 

You nodded, exhaling through your nose as your fingers tightened on your lap. “Okay, so… Ava and Yelena told me about last night.” Bob’s eyes flicked up to yours wearily. 

“They said you came to pick me up,” you continued. “Brought me back. Stayed until I was asleep.” You shifted in the chair, the words scraping raw in your throat. “John mentioned something about missing noodles, so I assume you made those for me. Which I—I don’t remember at all.”

“I don’t know what I did,” you admitted, voice smaller than you intended. “I don’t know what I said. I just keep thinking— God, I must’ve been awful. Embarrassing. Ava said I forgot that we’d, y’know,” you gestured vaguely with your hands, referring to your breakup, “And I hate that I don’t even know what to apologise for.”

Something flickered across his face, not quite a wince, but close. Bob looked down at his hands, thumb dragging over his palm. “It wasn’t like that,” he said finally. “You weren’t being embarrassing. You didn’t do anything wrong.”

You almost laughed at how gently he said it. “Then what was it like? Because right now, it feels like everybody knows something I don’t,” you revealed.

Bob hesitated, mouth opening and closing before anything came out. “You were drunk. People get drunk, they… say things. Do things.” His cheeks and ears flushed as he averted his eyes. “It doesn’t matter.”

“It matters to me,” you pressed. “Why did you come when they texted? You could’ve ignored the code, or told Yelena to handle it, but you didn’t. Why?”

His jaw tightened. Truthfully, Bob had never considered the fact that you might find out about code safety net. When the two of you broke up, he assumed you’d never have a reason to hear about it. 

“Because it was you.” He said it like he expected a blowback, shoulders hunched just like when he’d first confessed his feelings for you.

You blinked at him, the honesty of it knocking you off balance. Bob seemed to realise what he’d admitted, because he immediately pushed on, fumbling. “I mean— I set that code up for a reason. Back then. You always knew exactly when I needed help, and I was never as good at figuring that stuff out, so I set up a code. Even last night, I couldn’t ignore it. That’s all.”

“That’s all?”

Bob nodded too quickly, eyes darting to the floor again. “That’s all.”

You studied him. Dating for almost nine months allowed you to mentally store something like a Bob Reynolds textbook. You could tell from the way his shoulders shook like he was bracing for impact that he wasn’t being entirely truthful. Then there was his nervous tick of rubbing his thumb across the ridge of his palm, and the way his legs couldn’t keep still. 

“You didn’t tell drunk-me we broke up,” you said after a beat. “You just let me think…” The words trailed, your breath catching at the memory you didn’t have. “Why would you do that?”

He shook his head, voice rough. “You were drunk. I wasn’t gonna hit you with reality in that state. Didn’t feel right, not when you were smiling for the first time in months.”

You sat back, staring at him like you were trying to piece together a puzzle with half the pieces missing. “So… you didn’t tell me because I was drunk. Because you wanted me to be happy.” Bob shifted awkwardly on the bed. “And because you knew I wasn’t saying anything I didn’t mean.”

His head jerked up to meet your eyes before he could stop himself. “You’re sure you don’t remember anything?”

You nodded. “Not a thing. But I can guess. If I thought we were still together, I would have trusted you with my most private thoughts. I would have poured my heart out without knowing what I was doing.”

Bob exhaled slowly. “End of the night, you figured it out. When Alpine came in, you looked at me like—” He broke off, jaw working. “You realised we weren’t together. It hit you, and—it tore you up.” His wince said the memory still hurt. “If I’d known telling you up front would’ve spared you that, I would have said something. But I didn’t know what to do. I just didn’t want to hurt you.”

“You wanted to spare me the pain,” you pressed. “Why? If you were just helping me out of an old obligation, why did it hurt you to see me upset?”

“Because I—” Bob cut himself off, breathing hard through his nose. Because I love you was dangerously close to the tip of his tongue. “Because it was hard. Anyone would’ve found it hard.” The excuse was weak, even to him.

You leaned forward, refusing to let him retreat. “I don’t care what anyone would’ve thought. I care what you thought. Why was it so hard for you?”

Finally, Bob dragged in a breath. “You think this is easy for me because I’m the one who ended things? Believe me, it hasn’t been easy.”

Your heart thudded hard in your chest, but you didn’t speak; you didn’t move.

“I broke up with you because, for once, I wanted to do the right thing,” Bob went on, words tumbling out like he was afraid he’d lose his nerve. “I had to focus on the depression, and the loneliness, and the never-ending void.” He rubbed his eyes. “I messed this stuff up so many times trying to get sober, and I can’t afford to do that with the Void and the Sentry hanging around. If I fall off again, it’s not just me who pays the price. I couldn’t drag you through that.”

You opened your mouth to argue, but he pressed forward, too worked up to let himself be interrupted.

“I wanted you. God, I wanted you. And maybe that’s what made it worse. Because every time I looked at you I thought—what if I screw this up? I couldn’t live with myself if I did that.” Bob’s words caught, low and ragged. “So I let you go. Not because I wasn’t sure I loved you. It was just… bad timing.”

You sat frozen, his words blowing up everything you thought you’d known. You’d told yourself a hundred stories about why he’d walked away; boredom, fear, maybe even that he stopped loving you. But you’d never considered this. 

Bob scrubbed his hand over his face, then let it drop. “You know I’m sober,” he said. “And yeah, the serum means drugs don’t really… stick anymore. I can’t drink, can’t use, not in any way that matters. But sobriety isn’t just about not putting stuff in your body. It can make you screw up the people around you while you’re trying to get clean. I guess my fear of doing that to someone never really went away.”

He let out a shaky breath, eyes flicking up to gauge if you were still listening.

“Every program told me the same thing: don’t date in the first year. Because you’re too raw, too unsteady. You’ll lean on someone in ways that end up hurting them.” He shook his head. “And I thought if I wanted a real shot at keeping the Void under control, I had to treat it like I was back at square one. Like I was still in that first year.” His jaw flexed, guilty, pained. “But by then I’d already met you, and for once, I thought maybe I got lucky.”

He looked away. “But I couldn’t have it all. Not when I was still learning how not to let the Void bleed out, or not to let the Sentry serum break everything I touched.”

You let out a laugh, shaky and wet, dragging your hand across your cheek. “Do you have any idea what you’re telling me right now?” you whispered.

His brow furrowed, wary. “I’m telling you why I ended things.”

“No,” you said, tone firming. “You’re telling me you never stopped loving me.” You were startled by how steady the words sounded, considering how violently your pulse was hammering.

Bob’s mouth opened, then closed. He didn’t deny it. 

The months without him came crashing down: every long night staring at empty walls, every mission you buried yourself in, hoping exhaustion would trick you into not missing him. 

“I know exactly what I would have said to you last night if I thought we were still together,” you admitted. “I would’ve told you I love you. That I miss you so much it feels like part of me got ripped away.” You swallowed hard, blinking against the sting in your eyes. “I’ve been walking around trying to pretend that I didn’t search for you every second of the day.”

Bob’s silence should have scared you. Months ago, when it felt like you were on the verge of breaking up, it did. 

“Do you know what the worst part was?” you whispered. “Not knowing why you did it, or if I’d been wrong about you. I kept thinking—if you could walk away so easily, maybe you never loved me the way I loved you. And I hated myself for wanting you anyway.” Your chest rose and fell unevenly. “And now—” You broke off in a half-laugh, half-sob, “now that I know why you did it, it makes me love you even more.”

Bob’s hands twisted together in his lap, and then slowly stilled. “You know,” he said, voice quiet enough that it made you lean in to catch it, “it’s been a year.”

You blinked at him. “Since…?”

He glanced up hesitantly, like he wasn’t sure if saying it aloud might jinx it. “Since the last time the Void broke through. Since I—” Bob exhaled shakily. “Since I lost control like that. One year of doing everything right. No shortcuts, no lies, no risking it. Other than being with you, I guess.”

Your throat tightened. “You did it.”

“I did it,” Bob echoed, almost like he couldn’t believe it himself. “I didn’t think I could, but I did. And these last few months,” his eyes found yours, steady now, “I missed you so much.”

Something tugged at your gut. “Then why be with me at all, if you’d promised yourself a year?” The words came out softer than you meant, not accusing, but like you were afraid of the answer.

Bob’s mouth pressed into a thin line. “Because I couldn’t let you go. You were the only thing that made me feel like I wasn’t just surviving that year, but actually living it. I thought—I thought I could hold both, you and the vow, but when it came down to it… I was terrified I’d break one, and I couldn’t risk it being you.”

You bit your lip, forcing yourself not to cry. “I missed you so much,” you said. “Nothing feels right without you.”

Bob swallowed, his gaze fixed on you. “You really think…” His words faltered, and then, barely above a whisper: “You really think you could take me back?”

You reached for him before you could second-guess it, your hand covering his. His fingers tensed, then relaxed, instinctively interlocking with yours.

Bob stared down at your joined hands, thumb brushing over your knuckles. “I don’t deserve this,” he murmured. “You shouldn’t—”

“You don’t get to decide that for me,” you interrupted, quieter than you meant, but steady. “If anything, the fact that you were willing to give this up to get better proves that you deserve it.”

When he looked up at you again, there was something tender in his eyes. “I just don’t want to hurt you again.”

“You did hurt me,” you admitted, a small, almost rueful smile tugging at your mouth. “By keeping things from me. But we can work on that.”

For a long moment, he didn’t speak, just held your gaze like he was trying to capture the moment in a memory. Then, voice rough, Bob asked, “So what now?”

You squeezed his hand, feeling the warmth of it sink into you. “Now?” You drew in a shaky breath, lips trembling with something like a laugh. “Now we see if we can get it right this time.”

Then Bob leaned across to reach you, almost hesitant, like he was giving you one last chance to pull away. 

Your free hand caught his sweatshirt collar and pulled him in the rest of the way, and then his mouth was on yours. It was laughably familiar, the exact way you used to tug him down for a kiss when he was stalling, and you felt his breath hitch like he remembered that too.

It was the kind of kiss that came from months of restraint tearing loose all at once. His lips pressed hard to yours, hungry and desperate, like your bodies remembered what your minds had tried to forget.

You tasted salt—your tears, his, you couldn’t tell—and his hand slid to cradle your jaw, tilting your face so he could kiss you deeper. It was as if he’d been picturing this moment in his head and couldn’t risk losing a single detail now that it was real.

The tremor in his hands gave him away; Bob always shook when he was holding too much back, and you realised this was months of self-restraint crumbling. Your lungs burned with the need for air but your body refused to stop, greedy and starved, like you’d gone months without food and only he could satiate you again.

The heat of it built fast, familiar and overwhelming, like no time had passed at all. Bob’s mouth found yours with the kind of certainty that only comes from practice, from knowing exactly how to draw that sharp gasp from your lips, exactly how to make your knees weaken.

You broke apart just long enough to breathe, and he let out a ragged groan against your mouth. “I missed this,” Bob whispered, deep and wrecked like it always was after you kissed.

“Then don’t ever make us miss it again,” you said, and dragged him back into another kiss.

Bob’s breath shuddered against your mouth, his thumb tracing over your cheek to ground himself in you. “I love you,” he said, hoarse and certain, before kissing you again.

Your hands slid into his curls, tugging him closer, closer, until the chair scraped back against the floor. Bob didn’t care, didn’t even pause, just caught your waist and pulled you into his lap like he couldn’t bear a single inch of distance. Your knees sank into the mattress you used to sleep on every night, heat flooding your abdomen.

The sound he made when you settled against him was half growl, half plea, and it vibrated through you, low and devastating. His hands slid up your back, spanning your ribs, mapping you all over again with a reverence disguised as desperation.

“You feel exactly the same as I remember,” Bob rasped against your mouth, the words breaking on another groan as your fingers tugged his hair. “Except so much better than anything my mind made up.”

You kissed him instead of answering, teeth catching on his bottom lip. He cursed softly, lost to it. His hands moved restlessly—your hip, your thighs, your back—like he couldn’t decide where to touch you first. There was nothing careful in the way he kissed you. 

When you leaned back, Bob chased your lips. “I can’t stop,” he whined, trembling as his thumb stroked gently across your throat. “Tell me to stop and I will, but—God, I can’t—”

“Don’t stop,” you cut in, breathless, your lips bruising his as you spoke. “Don’t you dare.”

That was all it took. Bob surged up to kiss you again, all fire and urgency, one hand splayed across your back to keep your chest pressed against his. You could feel the frantic beat of his heart against yours. You gasped when your back hit the headboard, legs wrapped around his waist for stability. His mouth was already chasing the sound, devouring it. 

“Missed this—missed you—” Bob muttered between kisses, completely wrecked. His hands roamed, greedy and adoring all at once.

Your fingers hooked into the hem of his sweatshirt, aching for bare skin, tugging it half-way up before you even realised you’d done it. The noise he made when you touched him—strangled, helpless, carnal—shot straight through you like lightning. 

He broke the kiss only long enough to yank his shirt over his head, his chest heaving, eyes burning into yours. “Tell me this isn’t just me,” he rasped, already pulling you back in.

“It’s not,” you whispered. “I love you.” Then you kissed him as your hands traced over familiar lines of muscle, remembering exactly where to touch to make him shiver and groan.

Bob’s masterful composure broke. He fell back without warning, pliant and gasping underneath your fingers. Your knees dug into the mattress again, your hands bracing on either side of his head while his fingers disappeared underneath your t-shirt. You arched into him instinctively, his name breaking on your lips, and his grip on your hips tightened.

Bob knew exactly how to undo you, exactly where to linger, exactly how to make your breath stutter. And you knew him just as well; the way his hands trembled when you trailed kisses down his neck and across his collarbones said you hadn’t lost your hold on him either.

Every scrape of his stubble, every brush of his tongue, every shaky gasp between kisses was a reminder that Bob knew you inside and out.

And then you started laughing. Messy, breathless giggles that bubbled up between kisses when Bob fumbled with the button of your jeans and swore under his breath, when his nose bumped yours because neither of you could keep still.

You dropped your forehead against his shoulder, giggling helplessly. He smelled the same, soap and cedar and the faint tang that clung to him when he woke up, and it sent another wave of hysterical affection through you.

“We’re a disaster,” you teased, rolling over to lie on your back beside him.

“Speak for yourself,” Bob muttered, though his grin was hopelessly crooked, his chest still heaving. “I’m very smooth.”

You gave him a look, one brow arched. He sighed, sagging down beside you, reaching for your hand like it was the only thing tethering him. 

“Okay,” he admitted, eyes flicking away. “Maybe not smooth. More like… sandpaper. Or, uh, a car crash. The kind you can’t look away from because it’s that bad.”

You laughed again, louder this time, tugging him forward so you could kiss the corner of his mouth. “Bob.”

He glanced at you warily, self-deprecating humour still lingering in the downturn of his smile. “Yeah?”

“You’re fine,” you whispered, cupping his cheek, brushing your thumb over the stubble there. “More than fine. You’re the best thing I’ve ever let crash into me.”

His shoulders lift in a visible exhale, some combination of relief and mortification crossing his face. “No. Absolutely not.” And then, softer, almost swallowed by the hum of the generator, he murmurs, “Besides… you’re the only one I want.”

Your pen stills over the page. Slowly, you look up at him. “What did you just say?”

For a moment something unguarded lingers in his expression. Then, almost like he flips a switch, it’s replaced with a steadier, more composed charm. His mouth curves, just enough to feel deliberate, and he leans forward slightly.

“If I had a wife or girlfriend,” he says, voice smooth but threaded with warmth, “you’d be the first to know, Op-Ed.”

The nickname lands like a brushstroke, personal and deliberate. His tone wraps around it in that warm, unhurried way he always says it, like he’s tasting the syllables, letting them sit between you. The faint scent of smoke and clean linen clings to him, carried on the air when he leans forward just slightly.

You can hear the faint rustle of his cape as he shifts in his chair, the creak of the leather under his weight. The low, steady rhythm of his breathing is the only other sound in the space besides the blinking recorder.

You know he’s deflected, turned the moment into something safer, but the echo of his first words still rings louder than anything else in your head.

And from the way he’s watching you now, steady, unblinking, like you’re the only person in the room worth his attention, you’re not sure he’s trying that hard to hide it.

You glance back at your notes, but the words blur into meaningless lines. Your pen hovers uselessly over the paper. Somewhere in the background, the generator hums in steady, low vibration, and you can feel it in the soles of your shoes, in the metal frame of the chair beneath you.

The cadence of it won’t leave your head, the faint hitch in if I had, the almost-smile on you’d be the first to know. You’ve been interviewing people for years; you know when someone is answering the question they want to answer, not the one you asked. You also know when someone is speaking to you and not to the recorder sitting on the table between you.

You jot down something just to break the moment, a useless scribble that doesn’t even form a word, and flip to your next prepared question.

“Right,” you say, and your voice comes out lighter than you mean it to. “On the subject of public perception.”

His gaze doesn’t move. Not even when you look away, pretending to scan your notes. You can feel him watching you. Not the detached, polite attention he gives during press conferences, but something more exacting. Intent. Like he’s cataloguing every shift in your expression, every little pause.

You clear your throat. “Some critics still think you overstepped in Boravia. How do you respond to that?”

His answer is steady enough, calm, methodical, well-measured. He talks about preventing escalation, about the proof that Luthor orchestrated it all, about minimizing harm where he could. You hear the words, you even write some down, but they skim the surface of your attention, failing to dislodge the one thing you actually want to know: Why did he say it like that?

You nod at the right moments, but you’re half in another place entirely, running over the way his voice dipped on “Op-Ed,” how the syllables seemed to stretch just for you. The faint scent of smoke and clean linen still lingers in the air, threaded with something colder, like the metallic tang left after lightning. You tell yourself it’s the open window and the wind shifting, but you’re not sure you believe it.

You lob your next question more out of instinct than strategy, something about rebuilding efforts, and he answers without missing a beat. Still, you catch it: the flicker of his gaze from your eyes to your mouth before coming back up. It’s brief. It could mean nothing.

But your chest feels a little too tight.

You tap your pen against the edge of your notebook, eyes dropping to the page like it might hide the sudden heat in your face. “And what’s next for you?” you ask.

His answer comes slower this time. “That depends,” he says, his voice low enough that you wonder if the recorder will even catch it. “Some things you plan for. Some things… you just wait and see.”

It’s noncommittal, harmless. It’s also the kind of answer that leaves your thoughts racing down dangerous, unprofessional roads.

You circle a question on your page but don’t ask it yet, your mind still picking apart the edges of that earlier confession, if it even was one. If it was a slip, he’s too composed now to repeat it. If it was deliberate, you’re not sure you want to know.

The recorder’s red light blinks again, catching the curve of his jaw in each pulse. You know every second of this will live in your archives, the measured statements, the careful pauses, but this moment? This will never be printed.

You flip the page in your notebook slowly, the paper rasping under your fingertips, and the sound seems to fill the room. “That depends, huh?” you say, tilting your head just enough to make it a challenge.

His gaze ticks to your mouth before coming back up. “That’s right.”

You lean in over the table, elbows braced, the scent of him cutting through the faint tang of fresh paint, smoke clinging at the edges, clean linen, and something sharper, like your yard before a storm. “Funny thing,” you say, tapping the pen against the page in a slow, steady rhythm, “people usually only give answers like that when they’re hiding something.”

“I’m not hiding anything,” he says, calm on the surface, but you hear the faint change in his breathing.

You let your eyes sweep over him, the faint graze of stubble catching the light from where he hasn’t had time to shave while trying to help with damages following the battle, the way his cape shifts against the back of the chair, the tight line of his forearms where his hands rest on the table. He looks relaxed, but the stillness in him is too controlled, like a man who’s holding back more than words.

“You sure about that?” Your voice drops, forcing him to lean closer to hear you.

“I’m sure.” His mouth quirks just enough to be dangerous. “But maybe you’re looking for something I’m not ready to hand over.”

You match his gaze without blinking. “So when you said ‘you’re the only one I want’,” the words are deliberate, unhurried, “what exactly did you mean?”

His jaw tightens for the barest second before he masks it. The hum of the generator under the floor deepens in your awareness, vibrating faintly through the table. He doesn’t look away. “That’s not an official statement,” he says finally, the warmth in his voice making it sound almost like a tease.

“I’m not asking for an official statement,” you counter, and your pen stops tapping, your hand going still.

The quiet stretches. You feel it in your ribs, in the shallow pull of your breath. He leans in then, the leather of the chair creaking, the faint brush of his cape whispering against the table’s edge. When he speaks, his voice is pitched low enough that it feels like it sinks into your skin.

“I meant exactly what it sounded like.”

The heat in the room shifts then. You can feel it, not imagined, not subtle, just there, in the way the air thickens, in the way his gaze holds yours like he’s got nowhere else to be.

“That’s a hell of a thing to say to a reporter,” you murmur, but you don’t back away.

His smile is slow, sure. “Then maybe I’m not talking to the reporter right now.”

Your pulse stutters. You tell yourself it’s the hum of the generator, the faint draft from the open window, the charged quiet in the air. But deep down, you know it’s him.

You let his last words hang there, the air between you tight enough to feel. The generator hums under the floor, steady as a heartbeat, but yours is starting to outpace it.

“So,” you say, pen rolling idly between your fingers, “if you’re not talking to the reporter right now… who exactly are you talking to?”

That gets you a real reaction. The smallest lift of his brows, a flicker of something warm and startled in his eyes before he hides it under a wry curve of his mouth.

“Someone who asks a lot of questions,” he says, leaning back just enough to pretend he’s comfortable, even though the set of his shoulders says otherwise.

You tip your head, letting a hint of a smile tug at your mouth. “That’s my job.”

“And you’re good at it,” he admits, a little softer, like it’s meant to land closer than it should. Then his gaze drops briefly to your hands, to the curve of your wrist, before snapping back up.

You see it then, the mix of him: the confident man who can talk circles around a room full of politicians, and the one who can’t quite stop himself from flushing when you call him on something.

“So if I kept asking,” you say slowly, “if I kept pushing… would you actually tell me what you meant?”

He exhales a quiet laugh, the kind that sounds like he’s buying time. “You’d probably get it out of me,” he says, voice warm but edged with that faint, bashful note that betrays him. “You always do.”

There’s an honesty in it that catches you off guard, like he’s just handed you more than he meant to.

You rest your chin lightly in your hand, studying him like he’s just become the most interesting puzzle you’ve ever been handed. “Maybe I’m not looking for an answer,” you say. “Maybe I’m looking to see how far you’ll let me push.”

He glances away for the first time in minutes, not to avoid you, but like he’s giving himself a second before he comes back, his smile smaller now, more genuine. “Careful, Op-Ed,” he murmurs. “You might not like how far that goes.”

But the glint in his eyes says you’d like it just fine.

You lean back slightly, pretending to be unaffected, but the chair’s leather creaks just enough to betray the shift. “I think I’d manage,” you say, voice deliberately even.

He watches you for a moment longer, then slowly he leans forward across the table. The faint rustle of his cape trails the movement, brushing against the floor. His forearms rest on the wood, the line of muscle visible even beneath the fabric, and you can feel the subtle warmth radiating across the narrow space between you.

“You’d manage,” he repeats, like he’s testing the weight of the words. One corner of his mouth lifts, and the look in his eyes makes it feel like the room just tilted closer.

Your fingers tighten slightly around the pen, the plastic suddenly too warm in your hand. “You’re not answering the question,” you remind him, but your voice is softer now, almost caught.

He tilts his head, gaze steady on yours, and the movement is just enough to catch the sunlight at the edge of his jaw, highlighting the faint graze of stubble. “Maybe I’m showing you instead.”

You huff out a quiet laugh and set your pen down between you, its tip tapping against the table once before you let go. “And what exactly are you showing me?”

He doesn’t move back. His knee shifts under the table, brushing lightly against yours, so light you almost wonder if it was an accident, until it stays there, a warm point of contact that anchors you both in the moment.

“That when I said you’re the only one I want,” he says, still in that low, sure voice, “I wasn’t thinking about headlines.”

The words sit there, heavy and deliberate. You feel the generator’s hum under your feet, the faint pull of his knee against yours, the air between you charged like it’s holding its own breath.

You’re not sure if it’s him who leans in a fraction more or you.

One second, there’s space between you; the next, it’s collapsing in slow motion, every inch bringing him closer until you can see the tiny flecks of gold in his eyes, the darker ring around the irises, the faint tension in his jaw.

The hum of the generator seems louder now, vibrating faintly through the floor, syncing with the pulse in your throat. His knee is still pressed to yours under the table, warm and deliberate, the anchor that holds you both in this unspoken middle ground.

“Not thinking about headlines,” you murmur, voice pitched low.

His gaze flickers to your mouth, then your eyes, then to your mouth again. That single pass makes your stomach dip. He smells like clean linen and smoke, undercut by that sharp, windswept tang you’ve started to associate with him alone, like the air just before a summer storm.

You shift forward another inch. The table edge digs into your ribs, but you don’t care. His shadow slides across your notes.

“Op-Ed…” he says it almost like a warning, but softer, with the kind of gravity that pulls at you.

“Yeah?”

Instead of answering, he closes the gap, slow enough that you can feel the change in the air between you, the faintest brush of warmth from his breath, and then his mouth is on yours. The kiss is unhurried but deliberate, the kind that doesn’t rush for depth or demand, just lingers, letting the pressure of it say more than either of you have.

You catch the faint rasp of stubble against your skin, the steady, grounding heat of him. He tastes faintly of mint, and something warmer underneath, like black tea left steeping a fraction too long. Your fingers curl against the edge of the table to keep yourself from leaning even further into him.

When he finally draws back, it’s barely far enough to see your face. His eyes are darker now, the line of his mouth softer, looser than before.

You tilt your head, letting the silence stretch just enough before you break it with a smile that’s far too knowing. “So,” you say, keeping your voice quiet but undeniably teasing, “do you kiss all the reporters like this?”

For a heartbeat, he’s still. Then his grin shifts wider and warmer, like he’s already decided what he wants to do next. His eyes flick to your mouth and linger there.

“Less giving me guff, Op-Ed,” he says, his voice low but laced with that easy charm, “more kissing.”

The laugh slips out of you before you can stop it. It’s soft, startled, and warmer than you meant it to be. You’re still smiling when he leans in again, this time without hesitation.

The kiss lands surer than the first, still unhurried, but deeper, the kind that knows exactly what it’s doing. His knee presses lightly into yours under the table, his hand bracing against the wood like he’s anchoring himself there. You taste the faint mint on his breath, feel the heat radiating off him, the soft scrape of stubble when he tilts just enough to change the angle.

When he finally draws back, it’s only far enough to breathe the same air, his smile still brushing against your lips like it’s not ready to leave.

When he finally eases back into his chair, you try and fail to keep the corners of your mouth from turning up. The pen lies abandoned on your notebook, and the blinking red light of the recorder suddenly feels like an eavesdropper you might have to bribe.

You clear your throat, pretending to consult your notes. “Right, where were we… oh, that’s right.” You glance up at him with a grin that’s all teeth and tease. “Your secret harem.”

He groans under his breath, tipping his head back just slightly, but the flush creeping up his neck gives him away. “Not a thing,” he says, voice steady but carrying that faint, helpless laugh he gets when he knows you’re baiting him.

You hum thoughtfully, tapping your pen against the table. “Mm. You sure? Because if you were recruiting… I could be persuaded to audition after that.”

That gets a real reaction. The laugh breaks free, soft and startled, and he shakes his head like he’s trying to keep himself from looking too pleased. The blush stays, though, spreading high in his cheekbones.

“There is no harem,” he insists, leaning forward enough to make the denial feel more personal than public. “Never has been, never will be.” His eyes hold yours for a beat longer than necessary, his smile curling at the edges. “I’m a one-reporter kind of guy.”

Your brows lift. “One reporter?”

“One very silly,” he amends, the grin widening, “very determined reporter.”

It’s the kind of line that sounds easy coming from him, light and harmless, but you can feel the truth threading underneath it. You let the moment sit before you flip your notebook shut.

“That’ll make a great closer,” you say, even though you both know it’s not the part you’ll remember most.

The recorder clicks off. The hum of the generator swells back into focus, filling the silence between you, and still neither of you moves. He’s watching you, not the way public figures watch reporters, waiting for the next question, but the way someone watches when they’ve already decided on something.

You push your chair back, the leather creaking, and stand. He rises with you, that ingrained politeness making him move in sync. When you reach the door, his hand gets there first, holding it open, the faint brush of his arm against yours sending another ripple through the air.

You step past him, close enough to catch that mix of clean linen, smoke, and something faintly electric. “Thanks for the interview,” you say, glancing up at him with a half-smile. “I’ll try not to misquote your harem denial.”

That earns you a quiet laugh, the kind that shakes his shoulders. “I appreciate it,” he says, and then, as if it’s an afterthought, though his tone gives him away, “What are you doing tonight?”

You blink. “Why?”

His smile is smaller now, but more certain. “Because if I’m only a one-reporter kind of guy…” He pauses, tilting his head just enough to meet your eyes straight on. “I should probably take her to dinner.”

It’s a clean, easy line, but the way he says it, voice low and warm, as if it’s meant to land somewhere private, makes your chest tighten.

You let the silence stretch just long enough to make him wait, then nod. “I’ll pencil you in.”

The door swings open to the hallway, and you step out together, the buzz from the interview still crackling between you, untouched by the noise of the newsroom beyond.

“Come on, Bobby, keep up,” Jake says with a shit-eating grin. “Javy said never has he ever sung in the shower—which, I don’t believe, by the way—” He gives Javy a pointed look. “But the rest of us have had a drink, and you...?”

Bob’s frown deepens as he lifts the beer to his lips, his nose scrunching up like the taste offends him.

“Maybe we should stop playing drinking games,” you offer—at which the whole room actually boos.

“Just because you’re sitting up there all high and mighty with your soda,” Mickey says, “doesn’t mean you have to mother all of us.”

You roll your eyes. “I’m not mothering you, Garcia. I’m looking out for future-you, the one who can't afford a forty-eight-hour hangover.”

Mickey’s eyes narrow, the corner of his mouth twitching. “Looking out for me, or for Bob?”

There’s a round of oohs then, and a couple of poorly disguised giggles from your half-drunk friends—but you ignore it.

“I’m looking out for all of you.”

Mickey opens his mouth to retort, but Bob speaks first.

“I don’t feel s’ good,” he mutters.

Every head turns toward him, eyes wide. He’s gone pale, except for the red flush on the tip of his nose, and his breathing is laboured. His hand rises slowly to his mouth as his eyes squeeze shut.

“Bathroom!” you shout, scrambling off the couch. “Come on, Bobby. Bathroom—now.”

There’s a chorus of laughter and teasing as you grab Bob by the arm and yank him off the couch. Mickey and Bradley—who are sitting on the floor—shuffle quickly out of your way, and you drag Bob through the apartment toward the bathroom.

He only just makes it to the toilet bowl.

He drops to his knees, hands gripping the sides, and throws up everything he’s eaten tonight—while you just stand there.

You’re not sure what to do. If it were Natasha, you’d hold her hair. If it were Jake, you’d laugh. If it were Mickey, you’d rub his back while biting back an I told you so. But Bob? You’ve never even seen Bob drunk, let alone on his knees in Jake’s bathroom, heaving into the toilet.

It also doesn’t help that you have a ridiculous, all-consuming crush on the man. A crush so deep, so completely devouring, that not even this is giving you the ick. Which it absolutely should. You should not be looking at him right now thinking about wrapping him in your arms and kissing his sweaty forehead until he feels better.

Like, no. That’s weird.

When he finally stops heaving, he hovers for a moment—face still over the bowl, breathing hard. His knuckles are white on the porcelain and his glasses are sitting slightly crooked on his nose. You want to offer to take them off for him, but you’re not really sure how to act. You’re never sure how to act around him—but right now, the wires in your head feel completely fried.

“You—you good?” you ask quietly.

He sinks back on his heels, chin dropping to his chest. “Feel dizzy.”

You crouch beside him and place a hand on his back, ignoring the way his warmth burns your palm. “Do you want some water?”

He nods slowly. “Yes, please.”

“Okay. Stay put.”

You jump to your feet and head for the kitchen, ignoring all the teasing and giggling in the living room.

“Is he still conscious?” Natasha calls, her voice edged with mild concern.

You nod. “Yeah. Lost all his dinner, though.”

“Maybe we should call him an Uber,” Bradley suggests.

Jake grins. “Or Dove can drive him home.”

Your face heats, but you don’t answer—you just spend a few extra seconds pretending to look for a bottle of water in the fridge, even though it’s sitting right there in front of you.

You wait until you hear them move on—new game, new round, new victim—before grabbing the water, shutting the fridge, and slipping back to the bathroom.

Bob hasn’t moved much. He’s sitting on the floor now, back resting against the bathtub, glasses pushed up into his hair, eyes shut.

“Hey,” you say softly, crouching in front of him. “Got some water.”

His eyes crack open—and he blinks at you a few times, like he’s not sure if you’re real, then gives you the tiniest, tired smile. “You’re nice,” he mumbles.

You hand him the bottle. “You’re drunk.”

He uncaps it carefully and sips slowly, sighing as he swallows. Then he lets his head fall back and his eyes slip shut again. “Don’t feel good.”

“I know,” you murmur. “Think you can stand?”

He opens one eye. “Why?”

“Because I’m taking you home.”

He pauses. “You—you don’t have to.”

“I know,” you say. “Come on, Bobby.”

You stand, holding out a hand—and he stares at it like you’ve just offered him a miracle. Then he slips his fingers into yours and lets you help him up. He sways a little, steadying himself with a hand on your shoulder, and you slide an arm around his waist before you can think too hard about it.

He leans into you without hesitation—heavy in the way that only a six-foot-something man who’s forgotten how to carry his own body weight can be. Your arm tenses instinctively to hold him up, and for a second, that’s all you can focus on—the solid weight of him, the quiet pressure where your bodies meet.

Then everything else hits you—hard.

He’s so warm. And solid. His arm drapes clumsily across your shoulders, his hip bumping yours as you guide him out of the bathroom, and your heart decides now is a great time to try to beat its way out of your chest.

This is so much worse than you expected.

He smells like clean laundry and cedarwood and maybe just a hint of tequila—and somehow that combination makes your knees weak. His breath ghosts across your cheek as he stumbles and leans more heavily into you, and holy shit, he’s basically wrapped around you now.

You try to focus on walking. One foot in front of the other. Normal things. Simple things. Not the feel of his fingers curling loosely into the fabric of your shirt, or the quiet shift of his body leaning heavier into yours with every step. Not the little huff of air he lets out every time he exhales, like just existing right now takes effort.

You are not thinking about how close his mouth is to your temple.

You are not thinking about how easy it would be to turn your head and kiss his jaw.

You are—absolutely, definitely—not thinking about how badly you want to take care of him forever.

You clear your throat. “You still with me?”

He hums, barely audible, and your grip on him tightens just a little.

You guide him back through the apartment, trying to ignore the amused glances from your friends as you shuffle past the lounge like some awkward, tangled two-person creature. Whatever game they’ve moved on to is still going, and Mickey is in the middle of a dramatic retelling of something that definitely didn’t happen—judging by the look on Reuben’s face.

“Hey,” Natasha calls, pushing off the couch. “You guys leaving?”

“Yeah,” you say, adjusting your grip on Bob. “Try to get him home before he forgets how to walk.”

“Need help getting him to the car?”

You shake your head. “We’ve got it. Right, Floyd?”

Bob blinks slowly, eyes unfocused as he glances down at you—then he turns to Natasha and mumbles, almost dreamily, “S’ pretty…”

Your chest tightens—just a fraction, but enough to notice.

Natasha snorts. “Thanks, Bob.”

He turns back to you and frowns—slow, confused—like he doesn’t understand why she’s laughing.

You keep your expression neutral, ignoring the green-eyed monster trying to claw its way out of your chest. “Alright, Casanova. Let’s get you out of here before you really embarrass yourself.”

Natasha moves ahead to open the front door, and you guide Bob carefully through it, calling a quick goodbye over your shoulder as the others shout after you.

“Bye!”

“Drive safe!”

“Use protection!” Jake—of course.

There’s a chorus of drunken laughter before the door clicks shut behind you—and just like that, it’s quiet.

You exhale slowly, trying to focus on your steps, on keeping Bob upright. But your brain is still stuck in that moment—caught on two little words he probably won’t even remember saying.

So pretty.

He didn’t say a name, but he didn’t have to. He was looking at Natasha. And you know you shouldn’t care. He’s drunk. Out of his mind. He’d probably say the same thing about Jake if he had a chance to stare too long into those pretty green eyes.

But still. It hits. Harder than you want to admit.

Because he’s the one you’ve been quietly crushing on for months—carrying the weight of it in silence, like some secret you’re too scared to say out loud. And maybe you knew he didn’t feel the same. Maybe you were always bracing for this. But hearing it—watching him slur soft compliments to someone else while clinging to you like you’re nothing more than the designated driver—that hurts more than you expected.

Not that you can blame him. Natasha is gorgeous. She’s cool and charming and easy to like. You don’t fault him for noticing. You just wish he hadn’t said it out loud. Not like that. Not with his arm slung around your shoulders, not while you were trying so hard not to fall even deeper for him.

You know it shouldn’t matter.

But it does.

And right now, it feels like it matters more than anything else.

“Come on, Bob,” you sigh as the elevator stops on the ground level. “Let’s get you home.”

You steer him through the lobby and out into the cool night air, guiding him down the short walkway to where your car is parked beneath a flickering streetlight. He’s quieter now, but no less heavy, one arm still slung around your shoulders like it belongs there.

But it doesn’t. And you need to remember that.

You open the passenger door and ease him down into the seat. He folds his legs in slowly, letting his head fall back against the headrest, eyes half-lidded but still tracking your movements as you reach across to buckle him in. His cheeks are pink from the alcohol—or maybe the night air—and there’s a dazed little smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

“You’re staring,” you murmur, trying not to look directly at him.

He hums, but doesn’t deny it.

With a deep breath, you close his door and circle around the car, forcing your hands to steady as you slide into the driver’s seat.

“You look sad,” he says quietly.

“I’m fine,” you lie, jamming the key into the ignition. “Just tired.”

The car rumbles to life. You adjust the heat, dial down the radio before your music can start blaring, then flick on your indicator and ease away from the curb.

Bob watches you silently, eyes a little clearer now. There’s a small frown between his brows when you glance at him, but it softens as you turn your focus back to the road.

“Let me know if you feel sick,” you say. “I’ll pull over.”

He nods once, eyes drifting closed again as his head lolls against the seat. “I don’t like being drunk.”

You let out a breathy laugh. “Then why’d you let Fanboy talk you into it?”

“I dunno.” His voice is softer now. “’M too boring. I wanna be fun.”

Your brows pull together. “You’re not boring. Who told you that?”

He doesn’t answer—just squeezes his eyes shut and breathes in deep through his nose. You watch him out of the corner of your eye, half-expecting him to be sick, but he exhales slowly—and then lets his head turn toward you again, those tired blue eyes finding your face.

“You don’t know, do you?” he murmurs.

You blink, checking your mirror before flicking on your indicator. “Know what?”

“How pretty she is.”

Your stomach twists, heart stuttering in your chest.

“I wanted to tell her,” he adds, words a little slurred. “Tried to.”

You swallow. “You did tell her, Bob.”

He shakes his head. “She didn’t hear me.”

You almost roll your eyes—but don’t. “Yes, she did.”

He turns back toward the windshield with a frustrated sigh, like a kid trying to explain something you just won’t get. And maybe that’s what makes it worse. Because even now—even with him slurring compliments about Natasha and leaning heavy against your passenger seat—he still looks so unfairly sweet. Pink cheeks, soft mouth, hair mussed from running his hands through it while he threw up his dinner.

If he wasn’t so goddamn him, you might’ve left him passed out on Jake’s bathroom floor. But no—you just have to be half in love with the man. And now here you are, driving him home while he whispers about how beautiful someone else is.

The drive doesn’t take long—barely ten minutes of quiet roads and warm white streetlights. Bob keeps his head tipped back against the seat, but his eyes stay open, watching you like he’s trying to memorise something. Or maybe he’s just trying not to be sick.

You pull into the lot beside his apartment building and park in one of the visitor spots. The engine cuts off with a shudder, and for a moment, neither of you move.

“Come on, Lieutenant,” you sigh, unbuckling your seatbelt. “Home stretch.”

He mumbles something you don’t catch, but lets you help him out of the car. He’s steadier now—barely—but still leans on you as you guide him across the lot and through the front doors of his building.

The elevator ride is mercifully short—just the third floor. You keep him upright with an arm around his waist, fingers curled in the fabric of his jacket, trying not to notice how easily he fits against you. Like he belongs there.

The hallway blurs past as you walk him to his door. He fumbles with his keys, brows drawn in determined concentration, until the lock finally clicks open. You push the door in and steer him gently inside.

It’s warm, dimly lit, and perfectly tidy—but still cozy in a way that surprises you. Like he’s not home much, but still tries. There’s a jacket draped over the back of a dining chair, a pair of boots by the door, and an array of model planes lined up neatly on a shelf above the TV.

You help him toward the couch and ease him down into the cushions. He lets out a heavy sigh, head tipping back again. You hover for a beat, your eyes flicking toward the door.

“You need anything?” you ask.

He shakes his head, lids heavy. “Just… sit with me. For a bit.”

You hesitate, but then you nod—because it’s easier than saying no. Because you don’t really want to leave. Even if he does keep talking about Natasha.

You toe off your shoes and lower yourself onto the far end of the couch, keeping your distance.

“I tried to tell her,” he says after a moment, voice thick and quiet.

You resist the urge to sigh or roll your eyes or bolt for the door.

“Bob, you did tell her,” you say, keeping your voice steady.

He rolls his head from side to side. “I didn’t say it right.”

Your throat goes dry and your eyes drop to your lap.

“‘M sorry,” he mumbles. “Should’ve said it sooner. Before tonight. Before… tequila.”

You force a small smile. “Yeah, well. Tequila tends to make everything worse.”

He doesn’t laugh. Doesn’t respond. Just stares at nothing, blue eyes bleary and brows drawn like he’s trying to work something out.

“She’s not just pretty,” he murmurs, eventually. “She’s… all the time. You know? Even when she’s mad. Or quiet. Or trying not to laugh.”

Your heart gives a slow, aching lurch.

You nod—once—because you can’t bring yourself to say anything.

He goes quiet after that, eyes half-lidded, like the weight of his own words is catching up to him. You glance over, half-expecting him to nod off—but he shifts slightly, slouching deeper into the cushions and sliding one arm along the back of the couch. Not quite around you, but closer.

You pretend not to notice.

A minute passes. Then another. You sit still, hands folded in your lap, gaze fixed on a spot somewhere between the rug and the coffee table, trying not to fidget—trying to figure out how you can leave this sweet but incredibly drunk man without feeling guilty.

“Y’know…” he murmurs, voice thick with sleep and honey, “you’re real warm.”

Your head turns—slowly—and you find him blinking at you with that same soft, open expression he always wears when he’s not paying attention to how much he’s giving away.

You raise an eyebrow. “Warm?”

He nods, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “Yeah. Like, you got that—like—sunshine heat. Not hot. Just…” He pauses, frowning like the words are slipping through his fingers. “Comfortable.”

You stare at him, caught off guard—and then, despite yourself, you laugh. A quiet, helpless sound, full of affection you wish you were better at hiding.

“Jesus, Floyd,” you mutter, shaking your head. “You’re really drunk.”

He grins—lazy, lopsided, impossibly endearing—and lets his head roll to the side. “Yeah. But m’not wrong.”

You look away, biting the inside of your cheek to keep from smiling too wide. The compliment shouldn’t mean anything—especially not when it’s coming from the same lips that called someone else pretty just ten minutes ago. But it does mean something. Because it’s him. Because it’s soft and unfiltered and just for you.

You don’t say anything—you can’t—you just stare down at your knees and hope the dim light hides the heat rising in your cheeks.

A moment later, the cushions shift again—just barely—and you feel the soft brush of his fingers at your wrist. He’s not holding your hand. Not quite. Just resting there.

You glance down, heart fluttering.

“Thanks for takin’ care of me,” he mumbles, already halfway to sleep. “You’re real good. Like… best I know.”

Your throat tightens.

He doesn’t mean it the way you want him to. He probably won’t even remember saying it. But you still let yourself lean in just a little—close enough to breathe him in, to feel the warmth of him radiating through the narrow space between you.

Just for a moment.

Just until he falls asleep.

And when he finally does, you wait just a little longer—watching the steady rise and fall of his chest, listening to the soft rhythm of his breathing. His lashes rest delicately against flushed cheeks, and his mouth is parted just slightly—pink and relaxed, no trace of the words that made your chest ache a few minutes ago.

He’s beautiful. Even now. Especially now.

Then you shift—slow and careful as you ease off the couch, holding your breath until you’re certain you haven’t disturbed him. He doesn’t stir. Just sinks deeper into the cushions with a sleepy sigh, one hand slipping off his chest to rest beside him.

You find a blanket in a basket beside the couch and drape it gently over him. Then you grab a glass from the kitchen, fill it with water, and set it down on the coffee table with a couple of painkillers you found in the cabinet above the fridge.

You hesitate one last time before you go, glancing back at him from the doorway.

Still asleep.

Still beautiful.

Still not yours.

You close the door behind you with a soft click, and force your feet to move away from the man you’re almost certainly falling in love with.

- Bob - 

Bob has never woken up so sore in his life. 

Not after hell week at the Academy. Not even after the emergency ejection he and Natasha had to pull a few months back. Nothing compares to this—the pounding headache, the dry throat, the dull throb at the base of his skull from sleeping upright on a couch not made for someone his size. His mouth tastes like regret, his eyes are burning, and his heart feels like it’s trying to beat out of rhythm just to spite him. 

God. Why does anyone drink? 

He groans softly as he shifts all the way upright, his body creaking like an old ship. His back cracks, his neck pulls, and his stomach gives a slow, threatening roll as he leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. 

Breathe in. 

Breathe out. 

Don’t die. 

In front of him, on the coffee table, sits a full glass of water and two painkillers neatly placed on a napkin. He frowns, confused—his brain crawling through the fog to figure out when exactly he’d gotten up to— 

And then it hits him. 

You. 

You were the one sitting across from him with that sugary little half-smile when Mickey started heckling him into playing drinking games. 

You were the one who laughed that sweet laugh when he took his first shot of tequila like a rookie and winced so hard his glasses slipped down his nose. 

You were the one who sipped your soda, calm and smug, when Javy threw out a never have I ever had sex in public—and he’d looked away so fast, cheeks burning, pants suddenly too tight. He can’t even remember who else drank. Just you. Just the way your lips curved around your straw like it was no big deal. Like you hadn’t just rewritten the entire architecture of his brain. 

And after that—God, after all that—you were the one who helped him to the bathroom. Who rubbed his back. Who got him water. Who helped him into the car, buckled him in, walked him up to his apartment and didn’t even flinch when he all but collapsed into your side like some drunken deadweight. 

You were the one who sat next to him on the couch and listened to him ramble. 

About how warm you are. 

How soft you are. 

How pretty. 

Oh, my God. 

He scrubs both hands down his face, like he can erase the memory if he just tries hard enough. 

He’s managed to keep it together for months. He hasn’t told anyone. Not even Natasha. And now, one night, one bad decision, one slurred drink too many, and he’s spilling it all over you like an idiot. 

Telling you you’re warm like sunshine? 

That you’re good? 

He’s lucky you didn’t just dump him on the couch and leave. But you didn’t. You stayed. You made sure he had water. Painkillers. A blanket. 

You took care of him. 

And now he’s sitting here, mortified beyond belief, stomach churning for reasons that have nothing to do with tequila—and everything to do with the way he probably just ruined the one chance he had at something good. 

After a good ten minutes of trying—and failing—to remember more of last night, Bob sighs and pushes to his feet. The room tilts, his head pounds, and his stomach threatens to evict the few sips of water he managed with the painkillers. 

“Never drinking again,” he mutters to himself, voice rough. 

Then—slowly—he makes his way to the bathroom, flinching as he flicks on the light. His reflection is a horror show—paler than usual, bloodshot eyes, deep shadows beneath them. His lips are cracked and white, his hair looks like he’s been electrocuted, and he smells like something recently exhumed. 

He draws a deep breath and reaches past the shower curtain to turn on the shower. Then he strips off yesterday’s clothes, drops them in a pile on the floor, ditches his glasses, and steps into the tub. 

The water is too hot, scalding almost, but he doesn’t adjust it. He just stands there with his eyes closed, letting it beat against his shoulders until his skin turns pink and his fingertips start to wrinkle. As if he can sweat out the memories clinging to him. As if he can burn the words off his tongue, the ones he knows he said but wishes he hadn’t. He wants to come out clean—clear-headed and no longer haunted by your voice saying you’re really drunk. 

But it doesn’t work. 

You’re still there. Behind his eyes, in his chest, beneath his ribs. He can still feel the ghost of your arm around his waist, your hand on his back, the steady way you helped him out of the car like he was something worth holding on to. 

He brushes his teeth—twice—but it doesn’t help. He can still taste tequila. Still taste regret. 

Eventually, he pulls on a pair of old sweatpants and a faded Navy Athletics hoodie, and makes his way to the kitchen, blinking hard against the headache still pressing at his temples. He manages to put a slice of bread in the toaster, butter it, and eat half before his stomach turns and he abandons the rest of it. 

He drags himself over to the couch, slumps onto it, and pulls the blanket over his lap, fishing his phone out from between the cushions. He hasn’t checked it all morning—hadn’t even looked when he got home last night—but there’s nothing urgent. A few spam notifications. A weather alert. Nothing from you. 

Just two texts from Mickey. One from earlier in the morning: 

FANBOY: u alive or should we start carving your name into the memorial wall? 

And another, more recent: 

FANBOY: I’m coming over. Prepare for judgment. 

Bob groans and lets the phone fall to his chest. He considers replying, telling him not to bother, but he knows it won’t matter—Mickey’s probably already halfway here. 

And sure enough, right on cue— 

Knock, knock, knock. 

With a long sigh—and unsteady steps—Bob makes his way to the door and pulls it open. 

“You look awful,” Mickey says by way of greeting, holding up a paper bag. “I brought Pedialyte, ibuprofen, and a sausage roll. Which one do you want first?” 

Bob squints at the bag like it might kill him. “None of the above.” He steps aside to let Mickey in, letting the door swing shut behind him. 

“Suit yourself,” Mickey says cheerfully, dropping the bag on the coffee table and collapsing onto the couch. “Dude. Seriously. You look bad. Like… medieval plague bad.” 

“I’m aware,” Bob mutters, dragging a hand down his face as he sinks onto the cushions beside his friend. 

“If I’d known you were this close to death’s door, I would’ve brought flowers and a priest.” 

“Keep talking and I’ll throw up in your lap,” Bob warns. 

Mickey grins. “There he is. There’s my boy.” 

Bob rolls his eyes and sinks further down, letting his eyes flutter shut as his head falls back. 

“Wanna talk about it?” Mickey asks. 

“Talk about what?” 

“Oh, I don’t know. The tequila shots. The beer. The part where you threw up in Hangman’s bathroom.” 

Bob cracks one eye open. “Hm. Not really.” 

“You kissed Payback on the cheek when he brought you a drink,” Mickey goes on, unperturbed. “And told Coyote he could be the next Captain America. Then you lost four rounds of Never Have I Ever, and I’m pretty sure you said yes to something about a sex swing in Croatia—which, by the way, I will be following up on—” 

“I did not—” Bob starts, sitting up straighter. “Wait. Did I?” 

Mickey just laughs. 

Bob exhales heavily. “I didn’t do anything too embarrassing, right?” 

“Well, you told Hangman he had ‘beautiful eyes’. That’s probably going to haunt you for a while.” Mickey pauses. “But nah. You were mostly just… sweet. A little dazed. Giggled a lot.” 

Bob leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees and dropping his head into his hands. He breathes deeply, trying to ignore the nausea still curling in his gut—made worse by whatever godawful body spray Mickey’s wearing. 

Then, quietly, he mutters, “I told her I think she’s pretty.” 

Mickey frowns. “You told Dove?” 

Bob nods slowly. “Like… repeatedly.” 

Mickey snorts. “Oh no. Please tell me you didn’t confess your undying love half-faced on Don Julio.” 

Bob grimaces. “Not… exactly.” 

“That’s not a no.” 

“I think I called her sunshine,” Bob mumbles. 

Mickey throws his head back, laughing. “You didn’t.” 

“I did.” 

“Holy shit,” Mickey leans in, eyes gleaming. “You really like her, don’t you?” 

Bob groans. “I’m never drinking again.” 

“I don’t see the problem,” Mickey says, still grinning. “If she took you home and tucked you in, she clearly didn’t hate it.” 

“She hasn’t texted me.” 

“Yet,” Mickey says firmly. “It’s barely eleven. She probably thinks you’re still asleep—or hugging the toilet bowl. And come on, man. You were a lot last night. She’s probably still processing.” 

“Great,” Bob mutters. “Just what every girl wants—too much Robert Floyd.” 

Mickey grabs a throw pillow and chucks it at him. “Shut up. You’re adorable.” 

Bob doesn’t look convinced, but he doesn’t argue either. He just sighs and lets the pillow rest in his lap. 

Mickey watches him for a beat, then asks, “You want some Pedialyte now, or do you need to flirt with death a little longer?” 

Bob hesitates. “Yeah. Maybe.” 

“That’s the spirit.” 

- You - 

You fall onto your couch at exactly eleven o’clock. You’ve already done all the things that usually make a Sunday feel like a Sunday—sheets changed, dishwasher emptied, a slow grocery run while still half asleep. You even stopped for a coffee on the way back, hoping maybe the caffeine would help clear your head, shake something loose. 

It didn’t. 

Your phone’s been on Do Not Disturb for most of the morning, flipped screen-down on the kitchen counter while you folded laundry or stared into the fridge like something inside might offer you answers. But you’ve still tapped the screen more times than you care to admit. Just to check. Just in case. 

Even now, half-reclined on the couch with one leg dangling off the side, you tug it out of your pocket and hold it up like it might have changed in the last five seconds. 

The screen lights up. 

Still nothing. 

He still hasn’t texted. 

Which isn’t surprising, really. He was slurring when you helped him out of the car—barely keeping his eyes open when you sat him down and stayed just long enough to be sure he wouldn’t get sick or wander off somewhere to sleep on the floor. He probably doesn’t even remember you were there. 

Or maybe he does. Maybe he remembers everything—and wishes he didn’t. Maybe he regrets it. Maybe he’s embarrassed about what he hadn't meant to say out loud—that thing about Natasha. 

Not that you expect a message. Not really. You don’t expect some long, gushing paragraph about how grateful he is or how sweet you were or how sorry he is for getting so drunk he couldn’t make it up the stairs on his own. You don’t expect a text saying he remembers what he said and that it isn’t true. That he doesn’t look at Natasha like that. That it was the tequila talking. Not Bob. 

You don’t expect anything like that. 

You’re just... hoping. 

The group chat has been mildly active this morning—Javy posted a blurry selfie with an ice pack on his forehead, Natasha sent a string of skull emojis, and Jake contributed several photos of the wreckage left behind in his apartment, including what appears to be a half-eaten burrito wedged into the couch cushions. 

But nothing from Bob. Not last night. Not this morning. 

You haven’t texted him either. 

Part of you wants to. Just to check in. Just to make sure he’s alive and—well, not concussed. But you just can’t. You can’t bring yourself to open that thread, to type those little letters and hit send. 

Because if he wants to talk to you—if he wants to talk about last night—he’ll text you. 

And if he doesn’t? 

Well... that’s your answer. Simple. 

You sigh and sit upright, lobbing your phone to the other end of the couch like it personally offended you. 

There’s no point spiralling about it. He’s probably just sleeping. Or nursing a brutal hangover. Or too embarrassed to face anyone, not just you. 

It doesn’t mean anything. 

And you’re not going to sit here and twist yourself into knots over a few drunk comments and a silence that might not even be about you. 

You're fine. 

It’s fine. 

Everything is fine. 

After a quiet afternoon spent half-watching reruns of an old CW show—phone face-down on the couch beside you—you finally decide to run a bath. Something about the warm water might help, you figure. Or at least give your brain a break. 

You even go to the small effort of digging out some bath salts someone gave to you last Christmas and lighting a couple of candles—mostly for the ritual of it. Then you flip off the lights, strip out of your clothes, and sink into the tub with a sigh, letting your eyes flutter shut. 

But half a second later— 

Ping! 

Your phone—no longer on Do Not Disturb—lights up on the vanity just an arm’s length away. 

You hesitate, but only for a second, before drying one hand on the towel, leaning over, and picking it up. 

Bob. 

It’s in the group chat, but you still feel that little rush of relief. That he’s alive. That he’s awake. That he decided to say something. 

He’s sent a selfie—sprawled on a couch with a damp towel folded over his forehead, cheeks flushed, his glasses off. His expression is somewhere between dramatic and pitiful, lips turned in an exaggerated pout, big blue eyes aimed squarely at the camera. And you can’t help the small, involuntary smile that creeps across your face. 

God. How does he always manage to look like that? Like someone’s kicked a puppy and he’s taking it personally. Like all he needs is a warm blanket and a forehead kiss and maybe someone to promise him the world won’t end just yet. 

A message pops up beneath it: 

I’m never drinking again. Ever. 

You let out a quiet laugh, the sound echoing off the tile. And then—because you’re completely, hopelessly, inescapably soft—you stare at the photo for a beat longer than you should. Pulse humming. Chest aching. Head filling with images that aren't at all helpful. Him in your doorway. That lazy smile. The slow, sleepy way he’d looked at you last night. 

You sink a little lower in the water, trying to chase the thoughts out. 

It was just the alcohol. Just the moment. Just a passing, drunken compliment he probably doesn't even remember. It wasn’t real. Not in the way you want it to be. 

He said a lot more about Natasha than he did about you. 

Sure, he called you sunshine—but that doesn’t mean anything. 

You’re not going to overthink it. There’s no point. And you’re definitely not going to start rehashing everything else he said. 

You just need to stop thinking. 

Relax. 

Enjoy your bath. 

Don’t think about Bob. Or his eyes. Or his soft smile. Or the fact that you’ll have to see him tomorrow and confront every stupid emotion that you’ve been trying to ignore for the past twenty-four hours. 

- 

You barely sleep. 

You spend most of the night tossing and turning, waking every hour from a different version of the same nightmare—each one starring Bob Floyd. Each one worse than the last. 

The first is expected. Nothing too strange. You’re back at Jake’s apartment, but it’s quiet. Just you and Bob. He’s drunk, but not sloppy—smiling at you like he’s been waiting all night to be alone with you. His words are slurred, soft around the edges, but his gaze doesn’t waver. 

“You’re so pretty,” he murmurs, eyes warm, fingertips brushing your jaw. 

And then— 

“Natasha…” 

Your eyes snap open to the dark ceiling above. Your chest is tight, your pulse won’t settle, and it's suddenly too warm. You shift and roll to the other side, pushing the covers halfway down your body—trying to convince yourself it was just the wires of your subconscious getting crossed. Nothing more. 

And eventually, you drift off again. 

The second dream is stranger. You’re standing on the tarmac, watching jets land one by one. Callsigns crackle over the radio—Phoenix, Payback, Coyote, Fanboy. But never Bob. 

You keep scanning the horizon—the perfectly clear sky—but the tower says nothing. Natasha is there, helmet in hand, nodding like everything’s normal. But her WSO isn’t there. Bob isn’t there. And no one seems to notice. 

When you ask where he is, they blink at you. 

“Who?” 

You wake with a jolt, air dragging rough through your throat. You throw the covers all the way off this time, fingers pressing into the mattress like you need to anchor yourself. It was just a dream. Nothing real. But your chest still aches like you’ve lost something—something vital you can’t name. 

You fall asleep again eventually, but not for long. 

The third dream is quiet. Almost eerily so. You’re home, sitting on the edge of the couch in the dark—phone in your lap, the screen black. You don’t know what time it is, you just know you’re waiting. 

When the screen finally lights up, you flinch. It’s Maverick. 

“Hello?” 

“There was an accident,” he says, voice calm. “Bob… didn’t make it.” 

No detail. No apology. Just a flat statement of fact. 

And then silence. 

You wake up gasping, lungs pulling too much air too fast. You’re still alone in your room, knuckles white against your bedsheet, nausea twisting deep in your stomach. It was just a dream. Just a dream. Just a dream. 

But God, it felt like the truth. 

It takes ten minutes of staring at the ceiling and counting your own breaths before you manage to fall asleep again. But you wish you hadn’t. 

Because the last dream is the worst. 

You’re in the air. Mid-hop. Everyone is flying too close, their jets brushing into formation like magnets. Their faces are hidden behind masks. Their voices crackle with static and urgency. You can’t understand what they’re saying—but they sound afraid. 

You glance down. 

And see blood. 

Your gloves are red. So is your chest. Thick, dark blood stains your suit—fresh and everywhere. Sticky between your fingers. Spattered up your sleeves. 

You don’t know where it came from. You don’t know whose it is. 

You try to call for Bob. Try to find his voice in the chaos. But the screaming starts before you can get a word out. And it’s not over the comms. 

It’s inside your helmet. 

You wake with a rasping cry, bolting upright, chest heaving. Your hands are shaking. Your heart is thundering. Your whole body is drenched in sweat. 

You sit there for a long time—just breathing. Just reminding yourself what’s real. Telling yourself that Bob is fine. That you’re fine. 

But it doesn’t help. Not really. 

Because how is that fair? 

Four bad dreams in one night. Four twisted omens in a row. Four reminders—loud and clear—that no matter what you do, you’re going to lose him. That it’s already written. 

That it’s only a matter of time. 

You don’t fall back asleep. You can’t. 

It’s barely four a.m., but there’s no way you’re risking another dream—not after all that. So you throw your legs over the side of the mattress, plant your feet on the carpet, and force yourself out of bed. 

You take a long, hot shower and make a full breakfast—eggs, toast, even some blistered tomatoes. You eat about half of it before your stomach twists too tight to finish, so you scrape the rest into a container for later, pretending that makes it less of a waste. 

Then you sit in front of the TV, but you’re not watching. Not really. The volume is low, the coffee in your hand has already gone lukewarm, and your mind won’t stop looping. Every image, every sound, every dream. Over and over and over. 

You’ve never had dreams like that before. Not all at once. Not so vivid, so loud. It’s like your subconscious was trying to shake you awake. Trying to tell you something. 

Maybe it’s a warning. 

Maybe it’s a sign. 

You want to believe you’re smarter than that. More rational. But how do you ignore something that felt so real? That many dreams, that brutal, that clear? 

Panic rises hard in your chest—fast and sharp and hot. Your heart flutters. Your stomach lurches. You dig your fingernails into the cushion beneath you, trying to tether yourself, but your hands won’t stop shaking. 

An hour passes. Maybe more. You just sit there—spiralling. 

Then your mouth floods with saliva—that sick, unmistakable warning—and you jump to your feet, already halfway to the bathroom when your phone chimes. Loud. Sharp. 

It’s your alarm—your backup alarm. The one you set for the absolute latest you can leave without being late for work. The oh-shit alarm. 

Which means you don’t have time to be sick. Or to panic. Or to think. 

You grab your bag—keys, wallet, ID card—shove your feet into your boots, and run out the door. 

The drive to base is a blur. You don’t remember the lights, the traffic, the turns—only the moment your car is in the lot and you’re jogging across the tarmac toward the squadron building. The second you push the doors open, you can hear voices echoing down the hall, which means Maverick hasn’t called the room to attention yet. 

You slow your pace as you make your way down the corridor, pulling in steady breaths so you don’t look like you sprinted the whole way here. Then you turn into the briefing room. 

“Well, look who decided to join us,” Jake drawls from the back row. “I was about to send out a search party.” 

You don’t reply—just shoot him a flat look. 

“Hey,” Natasha says from her seat, a small crease between her brows. “You alright?” 

You nod once and drop into the chair closest to the door, furthest from everyone else. Natasha is only two seats down, and beside her—Bob. Clean shave. Hair perfect. That crisp flight suit making his shoulders look broader than usual. He’s smiling faintly at something Natasha said, and it twists in your gut before you can stop it. 

You drop your gaze to your lap, focusing on a loose thread on your sleeve until Maverick breezes in and calls the room to attention. 

He starts running through the plan for the day, even though you went over all of it Friday afternoon. It’s a flight day, which normally wouldn't be so bad—if you weren’t paired with Natasha and Bob. Which means not only are they both going to be in your ear during the hop, but you’ll have to spend most of the day in the ready room with them—watching them talk, watching him smile—waiting for your slot at the very end of the schedule. 

Eventually, Maverick dismisses Jake, Reuben, and Mickey to the hangar and the rest of you to the ready room. You’re the first out the door, quick down the hall, and into the room before anyone else. You head straight for the back and drop into a chair, pulling out your phone like you’ve just remembered something vitally important—anything to keep your eyes down and your thoughts to yourself. 

The others file in and Bradley makes a beeline for the ancient coffee machine, smacking it to life. Bob and Javy sink into the couch near the radio, heads bent over some quiet conversation you can’t quite hear—and Natasha walks straight up to you. 

“You seem off today,” she says—no preamble. 

“I’m fine,” you mutter, eyes locked on your phone. “Just tired.” 

She studies you for a beat—eyes sharp, searching—before leaning back against the desk behind her. 

“So… how was the rest of your weekend?” 

“Fine.” 

“How was the drive home with Bob on Saturday night?” 

Your pulse kicks, but your voice stays level. “Fine.” 

She tilts her head. “How are you feeling about today’s hop?” 

“Fine.” 

“Seriously?” 

You glance up, brows raised. “Yes. Seriously. Everything is fine.” 

You don't mean to be snappy, but it slips out anyway. You’re tired, on edge, and jealous—and the woman at the centre of it all is standing right in front of you. Normally you’d swallow it down—bury it—but after a night of barely any sleep, your fuse is short. 

“Damn,” Bradley says, appearing with his mug in hand, “someone’s feisty today.” 

Natasha is still watching you. She doesn’t look hurt or upset—just curious, like she’s trying to work out why you’re acting like this. Because she knows this isn’t you. She knows something is wrong. 

“I barely slept,” you say, softer now. “I’m sorry. I’m just… not in the mood.” 

She lifts a brow. “Not in the mood to talk to your friends?” 

“Not in the mood to talk—period.” The words come out sharper than intended, but you can’t take them back—the green-eyed monster living in your chest won’t let you. 

“Okay,” she says quietly. “I’ll leave you alone.” She pushes off the desk and steps away, then glances over her shoulder. “But don’t let whatever this is affect your flying.” 

Guilt stirs low in your gut as you lower your eyes back to your phone. Bradley’s hand lands gently on your shoulder, giving a quick, reassuring squeeze before he moves away to join the others by the radio. 

After a beat, you glance up through your lashes—and catch Bob looking right at you. His eyes go wide, cheeks flushing pink, and then—nothing. No smile. No nod. He turns back to the others like you don't even exist. 

And he keeps it that way. All day. No acknowledgement. 

Not when your names are called over the speakers. 

Not on the cart ride to the hangar. 

Not during pre-flight, inspections, or the final briefing. 

The first time he speaks to you all day is over comms, thirty thousand feet up, running a check. 

“Maverick to all stations, comms check. Over.” 

“Dove, comms clear,” you respond, voice steady despite the lump in your throat. 

Then Natasha’s voice cuts through the static, clear and confident. “Phoenix, loud and clear.” 

And finally, Bob’s voice—quieter than usual but unmistakably his. “Bob, reading you.” 

You swallow hard and exhale slowly, your eyes flicking toward Natasha’s jet just ahead, the faint silhouette of Bob visible behind her. 

You’re doing your best not to think about last night—about those nightmares—but up here, surrounded by nothing but sky and cold metal, the memories cling tight, vivid and unrelenting. Your pulse pounds in your ears, drowning out Maverick’s steady instructions. 

You follow along, scanning the sky, then your instruments, then back again—your head spinning with the endless cross-checks. Your grip on the stick tightens until your knuckles turn white. You know, logically, that you’ve done this a thousand times before. You know there’s nothing to fear. 

But today feels different. And maybe it’s just your nerves, or your paranoia playing tricks—but you can’t shake the sense that something is wrong. 

After twenty minutes of easy flying and a lull in comms, you notice something. Natasha and Bob’s jet suddenly rocks, a subtle but unmistakable tremble that sets your pulse racing. You squint through your canopy, trying to pinpoint what’s wrong. It’s almost imperceptible—but it isn’t normal. 

You flick your comm switch, keeping your voice even despite the tightening in your chest. “Phoenix, your jet’s handling looks off. You sure everything’s okay over there?” 

Natasha’s reply is smooth, steady. “We’re fine, Dove. Just minor turbulence. Nothing to worry about.” 

Your eyes don’t leave their jet as it shudders again, your heart pounding hard enough you’re sure they can hear it through the radio. Your chest rises and falls too fast. 

“Maverick to Phoenix and Bob, status check. All systems nominal?” 

“Copy, Maverick,” Natasha answers, but then her tone shifts. “Fuel’s looking—wait, hold on. We’ve got an unusual fuel imbalance warning. Left wing tank is reading low, right wing high. Bob, you seeing the same?” 

“Affirmative,” Bob’s voice is clipped, calm but serious. “Left tank down by nearly three-hundred pounds. Right tank steady. Running cross-feed now to balance.” 

“Maintain heading,” Maverick instructs. “Monitor fuel flow and report any changes. How’s the transfer rate?” 

“Nominal transfer rate, but imbalance isn’t correcting. Left tank keeps dropping faster than it’s filling,” Natasha reports, unease creeping in. 

“Suggests possible leak or valve malfunction,” Bob adds. “Running diagnostics.” 

Your hands start to shake despite your best efforts, pulse pounding in your throat. You keep glancing toward their jet, watching them handle this with practiced calm while your stomach twists in panic. 

You try to steady yourself, but the silence over comms drags on, and your nerves fray. You need to hear something. Anything. You need to know they’re okay. You need to stop imagining flames, ejecting pilots, and worse. 

“Phoenix, what’s going on over there?” you break the silence, voice tight. “That imbalance is getting worse. You need to declare an emergency if there’s a leak.” 

Natasha’s voice returns, still calm and collected. “Dove, negative. We’re on top of it. No leak indications. Bob’s running valve checks now. Maverick, we’ll advise if status changes.” 

The knot in your stomach tightens, panic bubbling up like a tide you can’t hold back. A few months ago, you watched them eject after a bird strike—you feared for them then, but now? It’s different. They’re your friends. Your family. And Bob... he’s so much more. You can’t lose them. 

“No, listen—fuel imbalance can cause roll issues,” you say, voice trembling. “I’m getting a warning on my HUD too. Formation sensors say you might lose control if it worsens. Want me to take lead and help stabilise?” 

“Dove, stand down,” Bob interrupts, his tone hesitant but firm. “We have it handled. No need to complicate things. Maverick, isolating problem now.” 

“Handled?” you repeat, disbelief sharpening your words. “That doesn’t sound handled. I’m not telling you how to do your job, but if you don’t act fast, this’ll become a real problem.” 

“Dove, this is why we train,” Natasha snaps, frustration clear now. “Bob and I know our aircraft. Trust us. You focus on your own jet.” 

“I’m just trying to keep us all safe!” you fire back. 

“Enough,” Maverick cuts in, voice sharp and commanding. “Everyone, breathe. Dove, Bob and Phoenix are managing it. Bob, update me every minute. Dove, maintain position and stay ready to assist. No sudden moves.” 

“Understood, Mav,” Bob replies. “Running manual balance procedure now. Should level out soon.” 

You don’t say anything after that. Not because you’re calm—but because you’re not sure your voice won’t crack if you open your mouth again. 

The silence over the radio is heavier than engine noise, heavier than altitude, heavier than gravity. You keep formation, hands tense on the stick, eyes flitting back to the silhouette of Natasha and Bob’s jet just ahead—waiting for the next wobble, the next slip, the next warning light. 

But it never comes. 

“Fuel flow has stabilised,” Bob reports after two long minutes. “Manual balance is holding. No further discrepancies.” 

“Copy that,” Maverick says, voice calm but wary—like he’s waiting to see who’s going to blow next. “We’ll cut the hop early. Everyone maintain spacing and begin RTB. Keep comms clear unless it’s mission critical.” 

You acknowledge him with a short “Copy,” then fall back slightly, trying to breathe through the adrenaline still thrumming through your veins. 

The flight back is quiet. Too quiet. 

No one says a word—not Bob, not Natasha, not even Maverick. The silence should be comforting, but it isn’t. It leaves you too much time to replay the argument in your head—your voice sharp, your tone panicked, the way Bob cut you off without even hesitating. 

You taxi in last, eyes flicking toward their jet on the tarmac. The canopy lifts, and Bob climbs out, dropping from the ladder with practiced ease—without even glancing your way. Natasha follows, speaking to him as they start toward the hangar—and again, neither of them look at you. 

You kill your systems, climb out, and by the time your boots hit the ground, the only evidence of the afternoon’s drama is the tight ache in your chest and the adrenaline you haven’t quite managed to shake. 

You’re safe. They’re safe. 

But it sure as hell doesn’t feel like a win. 

Especially not when Natasha storms toward you, her stride sharp and purposeful. She stops just short of you—close enough that you feel the heat of her glare, far enough to keep up appearances.  

“You want to tell me what the hell that was up there?” she says, voice low and taut with frustration. “Because from where I was sitting, it felt a lot like you didn’t trust us to do our jobs.” 

You finish unclipping your helmet and look at her, heart racing. “I was just trying to keep you safe.” 

She exhales sharply through her nose. “We didn’t need saving. We had it under control.” 

“Did you?” you ask, harsher than you mean to. “Because from where I was sitting, you were losing fuel and altitude and acting like it was nothing.” 

Her jaw tightens. “And from where I was sitting, you were losing your damn composure over something we train for all the time.” 

You glance around—the tarmac is buzzing with motion, but no one seems to be paying attention to the two of you. 

“You could’ve declared an emergency,” you say, voice dropping. “You should have.” 

Her brows shoot up. “So now you’re telling me how to fly?” 

“No,” you bite out. “I’m saying if something happened to you—if something happened to him—” 

“You don’t get to play the protective card when it comes at the expense of the team,” Natasha cuts in—her voice is still low, but the edge is razor sharp. “We had a job to do. We did it.” 

You open your mouth, but she’s already turning away. 

“Next time? Trust us,” she throws over her shoulder, walking back toward the hangar without waiting for a reply. 

And you’re left standing alone on the tarmac, helmet in hand, adrenaline still surging through your veins—and the sting of her words settling deep beneath your ribs. 

You walk through post-flight like you’re on autopilot, following each step by habit more than focus, and then debrief with the ground crew. You nod when you're supposed to, say all the right things—but you’re barely paying attention. Your eyes keep drifting to the group across the tarmac—Maverick, Natasha, Bob, and the crew chief, deep in conversation beside their jet. They’re obviously going over the fuel imbalance, and normally, you’d be right there with them—listening, learning. 

Not today. 

Bob is standing stiffly, arms folded tight, a small crease between his brows. He doesn’t look your way. Doesn’t say a word. Just listens, nods, offers the occasional clipped reply. The silence from him is deafening. And you know it has something to do with you. 

You glance down, pretending to double-check your own paperwork, but your mind is a million miles away. 

The problem is, you don’t know what you did. Not just now, in the air—but before that. Maybe even back on Saturday night. Something shifted. Something went wrong. And now you’ve only made it worse—running your mouth like that, second-guessing his and Natasha’s judgment. 

Maybe he’s still embarrassed about how drunk he got. Or what he said about Natasha. Maybe he’s worried you’ll tell her. Or maybe he just regrets the whole thing—and doesn’t want to deal with you anymore. 

You replay every moment, searching for the crack where things split open. And still, you come up empty. 

“Alright, team,” Maverick calls, cutting through your thoughts. “Good effort today. We cut the hop short for the right reasons, and we all got back on the ground safely.” 

You look up, and Natasha meets your eyes for a moment—her stare cool, unreadable. Bob doesn’t look at you at all. He just folds his arms tighter across his chest. 

Maverick continues, “Debrief in the ready room. Full honesty. No sugar-coating. We don’t get better by pretending everything went fine. Understood?” 

“Understood,” you say with the others, though your voice sticks in your throat. 

You all climb into the cart. No one says a word. The silence follows you all the way to the squadron building, and by the time you step into the ready room, it’s heavier than ever. The air feels too thin, the lighting too harsh. You take the seat closest to the door and Bob settles at the opposite end, eyes fixed on the table, fingers drumming quietly. Natasha sits beside him, posture easy—but you can tell her jaw is still set. 

Maverick starts the debrief, his tone even, but your focus is shot. You can’t stop your thoughts from spiralling. You sit there staring at the scuffs on the linoleum floor, wondering when exactly it all went wrong. Wondering if you’re just imagining everything—or worse, if you’re not. 

By the time Maverick wraps up with a few final notes, you’re barely breathing. And the second he dismisses you, you're on your feet. 

You don’t wait for the others. You grab your gear and walk fast—too fast—straight out into the hall and down toward the locker rooms, the echo of your boots the only sound. You need a second. A breath. Anything to shake the tight grip of panic clawing at your ribs. 

You just need to be alone. 

You burst into the women’s locker room and drop onto the bench between the rows of lockers. You brace your elbows on your knees, bury your face in your hands, and try to remember how to breathe. But the cool, sterile air does nothing to settle the heat in your chest. With a heavy sigh, you sit up, tug off your gloves and shove your flight suit down around your waist. 

You didn’t mean to lose it out there. In the air. On the tarmac. 

But you did. 

Bob couldn’t even look at you this morning—and now, after the way you acted, he probably hates you. Or at the very least, thinks less of you. 

He’s probably with Natasha right now, talking about you. Laughing about you. Calling you a jerk for snapping at them. And honestly? You wouldn’t blame them. You were a jerk. 

You replay every moment again and again in your head again, searching for a way to make it make sense. Trying to convince yourself this isn’t the end of something. That you haven’t just undone all the trust you spent so long building. 

You breathe in. Hold it. Let it out slow. Then do it again. 

And again. 

The room is silent except for the distant buzz of fluorescent lights and the faint hum of the base beyond the walls. You’re just starting to settle—your pulse finally dipping below emergency levels—when the door creaks open. 

And footsteps. 

Then the distinct, unmistakable click of the lock turning. 

Your head snaps up. 

“Bob?” 

He steps forward slowly, like you’re some wounded animal he’s afraid to spook. His eyes dart around the room—taking in everything except you. The tiled walls, the metal lockers, the fact that he’s probably never set foot in here before.  

“Hey,” he mutters, voice low—but it lands sharp in the quiet space. 

You blink at him, startled. “What are you doing in here?” 

He hesitates, still not looking directly at you. “Just wanted to make sure you’re okay.” 

“I’m fine,” you mumble, sitting up straighter. 

He takes a deep breath, shoving his hands as deep into his pockets as they’ll go. “You don’t seem fine.” 

“Well, I am,” you say, firmer. 

There’s a beat of silence—and your heart is pounding so hard, you wouldn’t be surprised if he could hear it. 

“I—I just want to know why,” he says eventually. 

You exhale sharply and pinch the bridge of your nose. “Why what?” 

“You know what.” 

You let out a bitter little laugh and shake your head, eyes fixed on the locker in front of you. “I was just being overcautious. It won’t happen again.” 

“That’s not what I asked.” 

“Well, that’s the only answer I’ve got right now,” you say, sharper this time. “So if you’re here to yell at me too, maybe just don’t.” 

“I’m not here to yell,” he says softly. “I’m here because I want to understand.” 

You sigh. “I don’t know, Bob. I just—I freaked out. I saw the numbers and panicked. I just didn’t want to lose—” You cut yourself off with a shake of your head. “It doesn’t matter.” 

He steps forward, eyes wide behind his glasses. “It matters to me.” 

You press your lips together and nod once, throat tight. “Well, it was stupid. And it’s done.” 

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t leave. Just keeps standing there like he’s got all the time in the world, like he’s not going to let you hide behind flimsy excuses or brush him off. And the silence presses in again, heavier than before. 

“It’s not done,” he says—quiet, but steady. “I’m not done.” 

You stare at him—finally locking eyes—your jaw tight. “What do you want me to say, Bob?” 

“I want the truth.” 

You laugh again, dry and humourless. “Yeah? Which part?” 

His expression doesn’t change. “All of it.” 

Your mouth opens, then shuts. Your chest aches. There’s too much to say and no good way to say any of it. You can’t tell him you’re jealous. You can’t tell him you’re in love with him. So instead, you go for the sharpest edge.  

“Well, what’s your problem then, huh?” you snap. “You don’t message me all day yesterday. You don’t look at me this morning. You barely speak to me on the flight line. So if we’re handing out truths, maybe start with that.” 

He blinks like you’ve slapped him. “That’s—” 

“I don’t know what I did,” you go on, heat rising fast in your voice. “I’ve been trying to figure it out, Bob, I really have. How did so much change in twenty-four hours? If you’re pissed at me, just say it. Stop looking at me like I’m the one who—who broke something.” 

“You didn’t break anything,” he mutters through a breath. “And I’m not pissed at you.” 

“Sure doesn’t feel that way.” 

“It’s not that simple.” 

“Then what is simple, Bob?” you ask, standing with your arms crossed. “Is the way you feel about Natasha simple? Was getting drunk and telling me how much you like her simple? Because it sure as hell didn’t seem very complicated on Saturday night when you were slurring about how pretty you think she is.” 

The words slip out before you can fully process them—and your face burns immediately. 

His eyes go wide. His mouth opens, but no sound comes out. 

“Shit,” you mutter, covering your face with both hands. “Fuck. I—I’m sorry, Bob. I didn’t mean—” 

“Natasha?” 

You peek between your fingers to find him standing right in front of you now—brows furrowed, cheeks flushed, eyes full of confused disbelief. 

“I—I wasn’t talking about Natasha,” he stammers, “I wasn’t—oh, God. You thought I meant—” 

You drop your hands. “Bob, I’m sorry, but I really don’t want to talk about this right now.” 

He shakes his head quickly, stepping even closer. “No—wait, hold on. You thought I meant Natasha? That that’s who I—no. No, you’ve got it all wrong.” 

You rear back a little, frowning. “Well, forgive me for getting the wrong impression when you were six drinks deep and rambling about how beautiful she is.” 

“I—I don’t remember exactly what I said, but I didn’t mean it like that,” he says. “I swear. I wasn’t even—God, I wasn’t thinking about her. You’ve got this all backwards.” 

You fold your arms across your chest, retreating half a step toward the bench. Your heart is pounding again—loud in your ears, high in your throat. 

“Then what were you thinking, Bob? Because from where I was standing, it looked pretty damn obvious.” 

He runs a hand through his hair, clearly flustered. “No, you don’t get it—what I said wasn’t about Natasha. It was never about her.” 

You scoff. “Sure.” 

“Please—listen.” He takes another step forward, then hesitates. His mouth opens. Closes. He frowns, eyes narrowing. “But if—if you thought I was talking about Natasha… is that why you were mad?” 

The words hit you square in the chest. 

You freeze. 

“I wasn’t mad,” you say quickly. “I was—” You stop, the words catching in your throat. 

“You were mad,” he insists. 

“I wasn’t mad!” 

He flinches slightly at your tone. 

You take a deep breath and drop your gaze. “I wasn’t mad,” you repeat, quieter this time, “I just—” 

You bite the inside of your cheek. You can feel it building—the real reason, the words you’ve buried so deep they’ve started to choke you. But you can’t let them out. Not yet. Not when it’s this messy. Not when your heart feels like it’s dangling off a ledge. 

“I just thought I knew where we stood,” you say instead, eyes burning. “And maybe I was wrong.” 

Bob doesn’t move. 

He’s staring at you now, really staring, like he’s trying to read between every word you’re not saying. 

“You thought you knew where we stood,” he repeats softly. “So… where did you think we stood?” 

You shake your head, but he doesn’t let up. 

“Because from where I’m standing,” he goes on, voice tight with something that might be desperation, “we flew a perfect hop three days ago, spent half the weekend practically glued at the hip. You drove my drunk ass home and looked after me when you didn’t have to—then today you’re… upset. Angry. You start a pointless fight with Phoenix and claim you were just being overcautious.” His eyes search yours, hard and fast. “I’m not stupid, Dove. You knew we’d be okay.” 

You look away. “Drop it, Bob.” 

“No,” he says, stepping closer. “I want to know. I need to know. Why did you do that?” 

You open your mouth—then close it. Your pulse is thudding in your ears again. Loudly. Your hands curl into fists at your sides. 

“I just—” You bite down, hard. “I panicked. I saw the numbers, and I panicked.” 

“Why?” 

“Because I—I’m tired, I wasn’t thinking straight.” 

He shakes his head. “The truth. Why?” 

You lock eyes with him again, breathless at the proximity of him. “I—I wasn’t— 

“Don’t lie,” he whispers—soft, desperate. 

“Because I couldn’t lose you,” you say before you can stop yourself, voice breaking at the edges. 

The words hit the air like a shockwave, echoing in the small space left between your bodies. 

Bob blinks, stunned. 

But now it’s out, and you can’t stop. 

“I couldn’t lose you,” you repeat, voice trembling. “I was in my jet, and I saw that you weren’t steady, and I didn’t think, I just—I reacted. And I know it was out of line—I know what I said was too far, but I just kept thinking that if something happened to you, I would never forgive myself. That if I let it go and you went down in flames, I—” Your breath catches hard in your throat, and you press your palms against your closed eyes. “Shit.” 

You’re crying. Hot, angry tears that blur everything. 

Your breath stutters. 

“I’m in love with you, okay?” you choke out. “That’s why. That’s why I freaked out. That’s why I’m all messed up. Why I was angry—and jealous. Because I’m in love with you and I can’t lose you and—and if you’re in love with her then fine, I’ll deal with it, I will, but I can’t pretend like it doesn’t matter. Because it does. You do.” 

Your voice finally crumbles at the edges, and you suck in a ragged breath, heart hammering, shoulders curled forward like they’re bracing for impact. 

Bob doesn’t speak. 

Not yet. 

He just stares, stunned—and you don’t dare look up to see what’s written on his face. 

For a long, aching moment, there’s nothing but silence. 

Then—he snorts. 

Actually snorts. A small, stunned breath of disbelief that turns into a short, shaky laugh. 

Your hands fall from your face, eyes snapping up to his. “Are you—” You blink hard, throat raw. “Are you laughing at me?” 

“No—God, no.” He shakes his head, still breathless, mouth curled into something halfway between a smile and a wince. “I’m not—I’m not laughing at you. I’m just…” 

He exhales hard, like he’s been punched in the chest. 

“Jesus, Dove. You think I’m in love with Natasha?” 

You don’t answer. You can’t. 

His hand comes up—almost instinctively—then drops again before he touches you. 

“I wasn’t talking about her,” he says, more serious now. “On Saturday—I mean, yeah, I was drunk, and I probably said too much, but none of it was about Phoenix.” 

You stare at him, heart still hammering. 

“I was talking about you,” he says. “It’s always been you.” 

You blink once—then twice. “Me?” 

He nods. “You, dumbass.” 

Your breath catches. He takes a step closer. 

“I honestly thought you knew,” he says softly. “I thought I’d freaked you out. Screwed everything up. You were looking after me, and I was—God, I was so far gone I barely remember half of what I said. But I remember thinking that I’d ruined it.” 

You’re staring now, wide-eyed, frozen in place—and he’s only inches away. 

“And you being mad at me the next day. Avoiding me. I thought it was because I’d crossed a line.” 

“No,” you whisper. “I—I was avoiding you because I didn’t want you to see how upset I was.” 

He lets out another shaky breath. “God. We’re both dumbasses.” 

Heat rises in your chest, crawling up your neck, into your cheeks. The air between you feels heavier now, charged with something neither of you has the will to break. His gaze doesn’t waver, and it’s no longer searching for answers—he’s already found them. There’s warmth there now, deep and unguarded, and it makes your pulse stutter hard enough to hurt. 

Bob takes a step forward, close enough that you can feel the ghost of his breath. His hand starts to lift, hesitates, then settles gently on your jaw like he’s testing whether you’ll pull away. 

You don’t. 

Your name slips from him in a low, almost disbelieving murmur. 

And before you can even think, his mouth is on yours—no warning, no time to brace. The kiss crashes into you, fierce in its need but softened by the way his lips linger, like he’s been holding this back for far too long. You melt into him instinctively, hands curling into the front of his suit, feeling the solid weight of him anchoring you. He draws you closer still, one arm winding around your waist, the other cupping your face like it’s the most precious thing he’s ever touched. 

It’s dizzying, the rush of it—heat, relief, something that tastes dangerously like hope. You gasp against him and he kisses you deeper, like he’s trying to make up for every day he didn’t do this. 

When you finally part, it’s only by a breath, foreheads pressed together, his thumb tracing the curve of your cheek in slow, almost reverent strokes. 

“You,” he says softly. “Always you.” 

Your lips curve into a smile before you even realise, a rush of warmth flooding your chest—and then you’re surging up to kiss him again. Harder this time. Needier. He makes a low sound in his throat as you push into him, and he stumbles back until his shoulders meet the lockers with a dull, rattling thud. 

You don’t stop. You press closer, chasing the heat of him, your fingers sliding into his hair and tugging until he groans. His mouth parts under yours and you take advantage, kissing him deeper, hotter, until the air between you is nothing but shared breath and the faint taste of him. 

He’s flustered now, breathless, his hands clutching at your hips like he’s afraid you’ll pull away. The kiss turns wet and frantic, your mouths dragging together in a mess of heat and want. When you nip at his lower lip, he exhales sharply against your cheek, the sound so rough it makes your knees buckle. 

His hips press forward without thought, and you feel the hard, insistent heat of him through the fabric of your flight suit. The low, helpless sound that escapes him only makes you kiss him harder. 

Bob breaks away just enough to catch his breath, his forehead pressed to yours. His pupils are blown wide, lips kiss-swollen, and he swallows like speaking takes effort. “We need to stop before I—” 

“Before you what?” you murmur, brushing your lips over his again, your smile curling slow and wicked. 

A faint groan catches in his throat. He’s still looking at you like you’re something half-dangerous, half-divine when you lace your fingers through his and start backing toward the showers. 

“Come on, Lieutenant,” you say, heat threading through every word. “We’ll both feel better after this.” 

You walk through the door to where the showers are and stop halfway down the row of stalls. Then you reach in, twist the tap, and listen to the pipes groan before water rushes out. It always takes a little too long to heat up, so you turn back to Bob, your hand still in his, and catch the way his eyes flick anxiously toward the door. 

“We shouldn’t,” he says, “someone could—” 

You shut him up with a kiss before he can finish, your mouth hot and insistent against his. His protest melts under the press of your lips, his breath catching as he stumbles back a step. 

Your fingers find the zipper of his flight suit, dragging it down in one slow, deliberate motion. His shoulders go tight, like the good part of him still wants to behave, but you push the fabric back, shoving it down until it hangs loose around his waist. 

“You’re thinking too much,” you murmur. 

Your palms smooth slowly down the front of his thin cotton shirt, feeling the quick stutter of his breath beneath your hands. You linger there, just long enough for the air between you to grow heavier—then you sink slowly to your knees. 

And his eyes go impossibly wide. 

Your fingers curl into the fabric of his flight suit, still bunched low on his hips, and you start easing it down. Inch by inch, dragging it slowly over his thighs until it pools around his ankles. The white of his briefs is a sharp contrast against the dark of his suit, the outline beneath leaving very little to your imagination. 

When your palm slides over him, gentle at first, he inhales hard through his nose. His hands twitch at his sides like he’s not sure whether to stop you or pull you closer. 

“Dove…” His voice is hoarse, strained. 

You glance up to see his jaw tight, his pupils wide and dark, every inch of him pulled taut between doing the right thing and giving in completely. 

You rub him again, slower this time, and his knees flex like he’s fighting to stay upright. 

You lean in closer, warm breath ghosting over his hips as your lips trace the lines of muscle disappearing beneath his briefs. The subtle movement of your mouth, the gentle brush against fabric, is pure temptation—too much for him to resist. 

Bob’s head dips forward, eyes fluttering closed for a fraction of a second before snapping open, wide and glassy. His hands twitch again, hesitating at first, then finally reaching down, clutching your hair gently as if anchoring himself. 

“God,” he breathes out, voice rough and broken. “You’re going to kill me.” 

You part your lips against the fabric covering his hard length, teeth grazing just a touch, making him shiver. The tension between needing to stay composed and losing himself in the moment warps his expression—one foot in restraint, the other sliding toward surrender. 

His hips shift forward, pressing subtly into your mouth, and you take that as your invitation to deepen the motion, sliding your tongue slowly against him, tasting through the cloth. 

He groans low, hands tightening in your hair, pulling you closer like he’s trying to claim what you’re offering—like he can’t wait a second longer. 

You pull back just enough to meet his gaze—those dark eyes wide, pupils dilated, searching yours with a mix of desperation and longing. Then you curl your fingers into the waistband of his briefs and start dragging them down—slowly—savouring the shiver that ripples through him, the subtle hitch in his breath like a secret confession. 

His body stiffens, muscles tightening, but his eyes don’t waver. They stay locked on yours, silent and electric. You see the war in his expression—part restraint, part surrender—like he’s weighing the consequences of being caught here. Like this. With you. 

His hands grip your hair tighter, desperate and possessive, and it makes your pulse spike. The contrast between his tension and the softness in his eyes twists your chest with want. The room feels impossibly small, the only sound your shared breathing—heavy and uneven. 

You tug his briefs lower, inch by inch, the fabric sliding down his thighs. You can feel the heat of his skin beneath your fingertips, taut muscles flexing under your touch. His dark eyes flick to your lips, then back to your eyes, pupils heavy with need and confusion. 

His breath hitches sharply when you free him completely—his cock springing free. Hard, hot, even bigger than you imagined. It bobs barely an inch from your face, making your mouth water and your core clench. 

“God,” he breathes, voice ragged, “you’re driving me crazy.” 

You lick your lips, eyes shamelessly locked on the impressive length in front of you. “Good.” 

You lean in slowly, bracing a hand on each of his thighs, your breath warm against the sensitive skin of his cock. Your tongue flicks out, just barely grazing the tip, tasting the salty heat lingering there—and he lets out a sharp, startled breath. 

The knot behind your hips tightens, your pulse thrumming in time with the wetness gathering between your legs. 

One hand slides up slowly, your fingers curling around the base of him, feeling the way he pulses beneath your touch. His hips twitch forward instinctively, chasing the friction your mouth teases. 

Your eyes lift to meet his, holding his gaze as you close your lips around the tip—and he gasps. 

Your tongue traces tiny, teasing circles around the head, savouring every tiny twitch that ripples through his body. You pull back just enough to release him, slow and deliberate, as if memorising every desperate sound that slips from him. 

His breathing is uneven now, stuttering sharply when you take him into your mouth again. Deeper this time, letting the weight of him slide against your tongue. You hum softly, tightening your grip, revelling in the way he chokes on his next breath. 

The taste of him is intoxicating—the warmth, the slickness—and you can feel the pool of your own saliva at the corners of your mouth. His eyes never leave your face, glued to the slow, steady slide of his cock between your lips. 

He looks almost completely unravelled—cheeks flushed, pupils blown so wide there’s barely any blue left. His glasses are still sitting crooked, fogged slightly from his heavy breathing and the steam curling through the air. 

Your tongue slides along the underside of his cock, tracing the tender, swollen ridge where the head meets the shaft. Drool slips freely now—slick, warm—dripping down your chin, making every movement slippery and delicious. 

Bob’s breath hitches, his hands tightening again in your hair, holding him steady even as he starts to lose control. You feel the tremble in his thighs, the subtle jerk of his hips—desperate for more friction, more sensation. 

But you don’t rush. You pull back just enough, then take him deeper again. Soft moans escape his lips, barely held back. His pulse throbs visibly beneath your palm, his cock twitching under your touch, telling you exactly how close he’s getting. 

You hollow your cheeks and suck gently, pulling at him like you’re savouring a rare, delicious taste. Your hand strokes in rhythm, slow and steady, and his whole body shudders—a sharp breath catching in his throat. 

His eyes flutter closed, lashes resting against flushed cheeks, but then snap open again, glazed and wild with need. You pull back again, lips swollen, mouth slick with drool and precum. 

“Sweetheart,” he rasps, voice ragged, desperate, “‘m not gonna last if you keep teasing me like this.” 

You smile around him and increase the pressure of your tongue, moving your mouth faster now. His breath stutters, low groans slipping free as his hands tighten in your hair, holding you firm. His body trembles beneath your touch, muscles clenched. 

Then suddenly—his grip on your hair sharpens, almost painfully, and before you can deepen the rhythm, he pulls back with a harsh breath. 

“Seriously,” he mutters, “you’re going to kill me.” 

You glance up, lips parted and cheeks flushed, but before you can answer, his hands slide down to your shoulders, gripping them firmly. With a sharp tug, he pulls you off your knees, making you stumble slightly as your legs lose balance. 

His mouth claims yours immediately—hard, urgent, desperate—silencing every word you might have spoken. The sudden closeness sends heat rushing through you, your bodies pressed tight as his hands slide lower, tracing the curves of your waist. 

When he pulls away, his breath is heavy, chest rising and falling fast. His dark eyes search yours, pupils blown wide with want. 

“We need to be quick,” he says softly, voice thick. “Before we get caught.” 

Without hesitation, you start pulling at the zipper of your flight suit, fingers trembling with anticipation. The fabric falls open, and you shrug out of it, pushing it down around your hips and kicking it off into a pile on the floor. 

Bob moves quickly too, kicking off his flight suit and briefs, and yanking his shirt over his head. 

You can’t take your eyes off him even as you continue undressing—pulling your shirt over your head, discarding your bra, stepping out of your embarrassingly damp panties. 

“God,” Bob exhales, voice low. “You’re beautiful.” 

His lips find your neck, hands wrapping around your ribs. The heat of his skin on yours makes your head spin, but you don’t have time to dwell on it. 

“Shower,” you murmur, voice breathless. 

His tongue laves at your collarbone, soothing the spot where his teeth had just been. 

“Bob,” you breathe. 

He glances up, his glasses almost completely fogged. 

You laugh softly, carefully slipping them off for him, folding them, and placing them on the pile of clothes. Then you turn toward the shower stall and step inside, never losing the heat of his body close behind yours. 

You step beneath the spray of hot water and turn to face Bob, your bodies pressing close, chest to chest, breath mingling with the mist. His lips ghost over your temple, then trail down the curve of your neck, each kiss feather-light but charged. 

Your fingers curl into his hair, tugging him just enough to draw his mouth back to yours. The kiss is softer now—a pause after the urgency—but no less full of want. 

Bob’s hands slide higher, tracing your ribs, skimming the sensitive skin beneath your breasts. You arch toward him, pulse thudding as his touch sets every nerve alight. 

If you had a moment to think, you’d probably nearly faint at the fact that you’re naked with Bob in the shower right now. But there’s no time. You’re on base, and if you get caught—the consequences would be too severe to imagine. 

“I need you,” you whisper, barely audible over the rush of water. 

A low groan rumbles deep in his chest before his lips find yours again—more urgent this time. Your hands grip his shoulders as his slide down your sides, fingertips tracing wet skin until they settle at your hips. 

He pulls back just enough to lock eyes with you, his expression suddenly serious. 

“Are you sure?” 

You press your body tighter to his, hips moving deliberately to grind his hard length against your slick skin—and he chokes on a moan. 

“Yes,” you murmur. “I’m sure.” 

That’s all it takes for one of his hands to slip between your legs, fingers sliding easily through your wet heat. 

“Sweetheart,” he sighs, eyes fluttering shut, voice thick. “You’re so wet.” 

Your cheeks flush as a tremor rips through your body, aching low and fierce. His fingers move slow, teasing, coaxing you open—each touch setting fire to your nerves. 

“F—Fuck,” you breathe out, breath hitching. “I’m not going to last long.” 

He chuckles low and presses a finger to your entrance. 

You gasp sharply, gripping his shoulders tighter, nails digging in. He pumps once—then twice—and then slides another finger in, curling just right, making your knees wobble. 

“‘M sorry, baby,” he murmurs, voice husky. “Gotta get you ready.” 

You nod, resting your forehead against his shoulder and trailing lazy, open-mouthed kisses along his chest as his fingers stretch you. When he adds the third, the delicious burn makes your muscles tremble and a broken moan spill free. 

“Shh, sweetheart,” he soothes. “We have to be quiet. Someone could hear.” 

The way he’s holding you steady while coaxing you open—so tender yet so commanding—makes your chest ache with something fierce. You’ve never seen this side of Bob before—obviously—but you always knew every part of him was perfect. Especially this part, raw and vulnerable, naked and intimate… and about to fuck you right here in the showers at North Island Naval Base. 

“Turn around for me,” he says softly. 

You whimper at the sudden loss of his fingers, and he chuckles low against your skin, pressing a kiss to your temple. His hands find your shoulders—turning you to face the wall—before sliding down and gently gripping your wrists, lifting them until your palms rest flat against the cool tile. 

His lips drop to your shoulder and trail up your neck, tongue flicking softly beneath your ear, sending shivers down your spine. “You ready?” he whispers, breath hot against your skin. 

“‘M ready,” you murmur, voice trembling. 

His hands glide down to your hips, fingers digging in as he pulls you flush against him. Your back arches instinctively, your ass pressing against the hard length of him, and he lets out a choked sound—half groan, half sigh. 

You glance over your shoulder, breath heavy, catching sight of his hand dipping down to trace through your slick again. “You’re so ready for me, sweetheart.” 

A low whimper leaves your lips and you push back, desperate for more. 

The hand still on your hip tightens while the other guides his cock to your entrance, the head nudging between your folds. His eyes flicker between your face and where he’s about to sink in, torn between watching you and watching the way you take him. 

Then, with breath held tight between you, he pushes forward. 

You gasp at the delicious stretch—the first inch testing you. 

“It’s okay, baby,” he murmurs, voice thick. “You can take me.” 

His grip on your hip tightens—almost painfully so—as if bruising your skin will ground him enough to hold back some of the need threatening to overwhelm him. The other hand slides up your ribs, palms your breast, fingers pinching your nipple until you gasp sharply—and that’s when he pushes in another inch. 

“So good for me,” he mutters, voice rough and strained. 

You let out a breathy, garbled moan, hips wriggling slightly. The stretch is immense, filling you completely—intense but not painful, just enough to make you ache for more. 

Slowly, reverently, he sinks deeper. Your breaths come ragged, moans choked and urgent. You both know the danger—any noise could give you away, the clock ticking mercilessly down as the threat of being discovered looms. 

Bob’s hand stays on your breast, fingers teasing your nipple just enough to distract you from the growing pressure of him buried inside. And finally, he bottoms out, hips flush against your ass. 

“That’s it, sweetheart,” he breathes. “You’ve got all of me.” 

He pauses for a moment—still—but you feel the tightrope of his control beginning to fray. 

“It’s okay,” you whisper, voice trembling. “You—you can move.” 

His hands find your hips again, this time gentle, grounding. 

“I’ll go slow—” 

“No,” you interrupt, glancing over your shoulder again, breath hitching. “I want you to fuck me, Bob. We don’t have much time, so just—please.” 

His hips jerk back and then thrust forward, the sudden movement nearly buckling your knees if he wasn’t holding you so steady. 

“Fuck,” you choke out, breathless. 

“You want me to fuck you?” His voice drops low, dangerous. 

You throw your head back, pressing your fingertips harder against the tile. “Yes. Please.” 

“Such pretty manners,” he murmurs, voice laced with heat. “Such a good girl.” 

He thrusts forward again—harder this time. And again. And again. There’s no stopping now. 

His movements are relentless and rough, but his touch holds a tenderness that makes you feel like something sacred—like you’re his alone to claim. He fucks into you with fierce need, and the noises climbing up your throat are raw and inhuman, impossible to fully stifle. 

Every thrust hits the perfect spot, sending your vision hazy and your skin aflame. You can hear his ragged breaths, the obscene, wet slap of skin against skin—but his rhythm never falters, steady and unyielding. 

“Fuck,” he groans, voice rough and broken. “You’re so perfect.” 

He leans forward, hands sliding up your sides. One finds your breast again, fingers pinching your nipple hard enough to make you cry out, while the other dips between your legs. 

His fingers draw teasing, deliberate circles around your clit—coaxing, taunting—careful to avoid the bundle of nerves just enough to make you ache. He rolls your nipple with practiced ease, like he’s always known exactly how to make you come undone. Like it’s etched into his very bones. You and him. Perfect pleasure. Perfect harmony. 

“Bob,” you whine—really whine this time, desperate and breathless. “Please.” 

He grunts low into your ear, chest pressing against your back, claiming you utterly. 

“Please what?” 

“T—Touch me,” you choke out, the words riding the rhythm of his thrusts. 

His hand slips from your breast to grip your hip, steadying you both—and for the first time, his hips stutter. You know he’s close; neither of you are lasting much longer. 

“I am touching you, sweetheart,” he breathes against your skin, voice thick. 

You groan, frustrated, bratty, and desperate. 

He chuckles softly. “You want me to touch your clit, baby?” 

Before you can answer, his fingers find it—making you choke on a sharp breath. The pressure is perfect. The fullness of him inside you. The slick heat of his skin against yours. You’ve wanted this—wanted him—so badly that you’re trembling, on the edge, about to come apart embarrassingly fast. 

His thrusts grow harder, sharper, until each one drags a broken sound from your throat. You can’t think, can’t breathe, can’t do anything but take it, his cock stretching you just right while his fingers work you into a fever. 

“Bob—” His name leaves your lips in a gasp, your knees threatening to give out as white heat coils low in your belly. 

“I’ve got you,” he rasps, voice fraying at the edges. His hips piston into you, chasing the end, the wet sounds between you filthy and relentless. “Come for me, baby. I want to feel you.” 

It hits hard. Your orgasm rips through you with a sharp cry you barely manage to swallow, clenching tight around him, body shaking under the force of it. His fingers stay firm on your clit, drawing it out, making you gasp and whimper through every pulsing wave. 

“Jesus, sweetheart—” His voice breaks as his rhythm falters. One, two more deep drives and he’s gone, spilling into you with a guttural groan, hips pressed tight against yours. His forehead drops to your shoulder, breath ragged, heartbeat thundering against your back. 

Neither of you move for a moment. The air is thick with steam, heat, and the heavy sound of breathing. His hands stay on you—steadying, grounding—as if letting go might mean waking from a dream. 

It’s only when your heartbeat starts to slow that the world begins to filter back in—the tile under your palms, the rush of water, the faint sounds of life outside. And you remember that you’re still on base, in the showers, with the door locked and his cum inside you. 

Bob shifts behind you, gently pulling out and turning you in his arms. You go willingly, your legs a little unsteady, your gaze catching his. His hair is wet and plastered to his forehead, his eyes dark in a way you’ve never seen before—raw, open, and a little unsure. 

Without a word, he pulls you against his chest. His arms wrap around you, strong and solid, the heat of him sinking into you, indistinguishable from the shower’s embrace. You press your face to his shoulder, inhaling the faint scent of sweat beneath the steam. 

For a moment, there’s nothing but the beat of his heart against yours, the steady rise and fall of his chest. The reality is there, a quiet hum beneath the comfort—what you just did, what it means, how much has changed—but neither of you say it. Not yet. 

You swallow hard, chest still heaving. “We should—” 

“Yeah,” he murmurs, voice low in your ear. “Before someone finds us.” 

When you pull back, he’s smiling softly—boyish, almost shy—and it makes your chest ache. How can this man do what he just did to you and then have the audacity to look so damn sweet about it? 

You can’t stop yourself from grinning as you push up onto your toes and press a quick kiss to his mouth, both of you smiling into it like idiots now. You pull away before it gets dangerous again and rinse off in a rush. The water shuts off with a squeak, and you crack the stall door just enough to snag the single towel hanging on the hook outside. 

There’s only one—since you weren’t exactly expecting company—but you make do, passing it between you in quick swipes, bumping elbows, stealing kisses, stifling laughter. 

Bob redresses and tugs his flight suit up just enough to hang loose around his hips, hair still wet, while you wrap yourself in the towel. Then you head back to the locker room together, about to round the corner toward your row of lockers when— 

“You know the lock didn’t latch properly, right?” 

Natasha is perched on the bench in the middle of the room, brows arched, lips pursed. 

“Holy shit,” you gasp, stumbling back into Bob. 

“Oh my God,” he mutters, dropping his head into your shoulder as if he can hide there. 

“H—How long have you—” 

“Only a few minutes,” she says, and her smirk is lethal. “Which is about two minutes more than anyone should have to endure. You’re lucky I’m a professional.” She tilts her head. “I came in earlier to apologise to Dove and heard… noises. I recognised your voice—” she gives Bob a pointed look that turns his whole face crimson— “and immediately fled for my own survival. But then I ran into Mav, who was wandering this way, so I had to stall him with a full TED Talk on the history of carburettors versus fuel-injection. You’re welcome.” 

Your eyes go wide. “He didn’t… hear anything, did he?” 

She shakes her head. “Nope. I saved you from public humiliation and probable court-martial. And now…” She crosses her arms, grinning like the cat who caught the canary. “I get to sit here and watch you two try to pretend you’re not freshly defiled in a government facility. This is my new favourite reality show.” 

You groan. “Nat—” 

“Relax,” she says, eyes sparkling. “Your secret’s safe with me. But you owe me a therapy session.” 

Your lips twitch. “Happy hour at The Hard Deck?” 

“That’s my girl.” She winks, already backing toward the door. “Now get dressed. I’m parched, and the others are dying to hear all the details that I’m definitely not keeping to myself.” 

Then she’s gone—the door clicking shut before you can even think of a comeback. 

You turn to Bob. “We’re never living this down, are we?” 

His cheeks are still flushed, but he shakes his head. “Never.” 

“And she’s going to tell everyone before we even get there?” 

He nods, a sheepish smile tugging at his lips. “Definitely.” 

You narrow your eyes. “Then why are you smiling?” 

He shrugs, sliding his arms around your waist and tugging you close. “Because I just had sex with the woman I’m in love with—for the first time.” 

Heat rushes through you so fast it’s almost dizzying. “Yeah?” 

He rests his forehead against yours with a dramatic sigh, his shoulders sagging. “And now I get to be interrogated about it by my entire squad.” 

You giggle softly. “Or… we could skip the interrogation and go back to my place.” 

His groan melts into your mouth as he kisses you. 

“I’d love to,” he murmurs, “but you promised Phoenix cheap cocktails and free therapy. And frankly, I fear her more than the navy.” 

You sigh. “Yeah, you’re right.” 

He kisses you again, deeper this time, and your arms loop around his neck. 

“How about,” you murmur against his mouth, “one drink, just enough explanation to make Mickey stop asking questions… then we go home and have Olympic-level sex until we pass out?” 

His grin is warm against your lips. “Deal. And then I’m never letting you go.”

His parents’ voices had filled the screens. Cold. Calculating. Words translated by Luthor’s machine, twisted for effect.

There’d been gasps. Accusations. A bottle thrown. Guy’s voice cut through like a whip about a secret harem.

Clark almost exploded.

Instead, he turned his back and shut down. His shoulders curl inward. His vision tunnels. He hears everything. Every whispered insult, every shifting heartbeat, but it all becomes white noise. He doesn’t know where to go. Doesn’t know if he should run or scream or fly to the moon and never come back.

And then he hears your heartbeat. Slower. Hesitant. Near the doorway.

His eyes snap up.

There you are. Standing just inside the room, the doors swinging closed behind you. You’re still in your work clothes. Jacket wrinkled. Eyes wide. Not angry. Not yet. But not certain, either. There is no sign of fear, not yet, but hesitation. Concern.

Hope.

And that’s worse.

He doesn’t know what to do. His whole body jerks like it wants to bolt. He wants to run to you. To collapse into your arms, fall to his knees, bury his face in your stomach and sob until the pressure leaves his lungs.

But he sees the way you hesitate. You don’t run to him. You don’t throw your arms around him and tell him it’s okay. You just… take a step forward. Tentative. Careful.

“Clark,” you say, and his name on your lips almost undoes him. He flinches. Like it hurts. You swallow. Your voice trembles. “Is that…” you pause.

It shatters him. A broken breath slips from his lips. Not even a full sound, just a whimper, high and helpless. His hand clenches at his side, his mouth falls open like he wants to speak, to explain, but nothing comes out.

“I’m not,” he tries, and his voice breaks. A sob curls in the back of his throat, swallowing his next words. He lowers his head, ashamed. “I’m not what they said I am,” he finally whispers. “I swear. I didn’t come here to hurt anyone. I didn’t even know what they said until today.”

Your eyes shimmer. You take a step forward. He sinks. Literally folds at the knees. He drops to the ground in front of you like his strength has given out, like the only thing keeping him upright was the hope that you’d believe in him. His forehead presses to your abdomen. His hands grasp at your hips like a drowning man clinging to driftwood.

“I’m not a monster,” he whispers, broken. “Please…don’t look at me like they do.”

Your hands tremble as they reach for him. He feels it. He feels you hesitate again and then he feels your fingers thread into his hair.

And he weeps.

He folds like he’s been shot. One breath he’s Superman, the next, he’s Clark, breaking open at your feet. His knees hit the tile with a thud that makes your chest seize, and then he’s curled into you, forehead pressed against your stomach, arms wrapping around your waist like he’s trying to hold the world still.

You freeze. Only for a second. His fingers tremble against your sides, clutching the fabric of your shirt like it’s the only thing anchoring him to the planet. And then you hear it again. A sob. Not loud. Not theatrical. Just a sound, guttural and wet and terrified, torn from somewhere deep inside his chest. His shoulders jerk with it, and your own eyes sting in response.

Your hands move instinctively. One slides into his hair, his soft, sweat-damp curls, and the other cups the back of his neck. He’s warm. Too warm. Like his skin doesn’t know how to regulate his grief.

You hold him. Gently. Firmly. The way you would a child who’s just seen something they shouldn’t have. You bend low and whisper, “I’ve got you.”

He doesn’t lift his head. Just shakes it, forehead still pressed into you like he can’t bear to look you in the eye. His grip tightens. “I didn’t know,” he chokes. “I didn’t know they said that. I never wanted…they think I’m something I’m not.”

Your voice is quiet but sure. “You’re not.”

“You don’t know that.”

“Yes, I do.”

He sucks in a broken breath. “You looked scared.”

“I was,” you admit, fingers brushing the back of his neck. “Not of you. Never of you. I was scared someone had twisted something beautiful and made you think you had to carry it alone.”

That gets him. He lifts his head just enough to look up at you. His cheeks are wet. His eyes are glassy and red-rimmed, the blue of them stormy with shame and desperation. He looks like a man about to crumble again.

“I don’t want to lose you,” he whispers.

“You won’t.”

“I’m not what they want me to be.”

“Good.”

He blinks. “What?”

You kneel down slowly, sink onto the floor in front of him, and cradle his jaw in your hands. You wipe the tears from his face with your thumbs, even as more spill over.

“Let them want a god. Let them demand a king. I only ever wanted you. Clark. Not their symbol. Not their weapon. You. The boy who apologizes to pigeons when he startles them. The man who listens to every voicemail I leave, even the ones I end with, ‘Don’t call me back, I just wanted to hear your voice.’”

His mouth wobbles.

“I know who you are,” you whisper. “You love hard. You try harder. You never stop believing the world can be good, even when it’s cruel to you.”

He closes his eyes and exhales like he’s letting go of something heavy. His forehead presses to yours, hands cradling your waist now, like he’s scared you’ll vanish.

“They said I was born to dominate,” he murmurs.

“And you were,” you say, “but not the way they think.”

He pulls back, just a little. Brows drawn.

“You were born to dominate hearts,” you continue, “with kindness. With that ridiculous, stubborn hope. With how much you care. That’s your power. Not just your strength.”

His lip trembles and then he kisses you. It’s messy. Wet from his tears. Breathless from his crying. But it’s him, vulnerable, aching, desperate to feel something real. Your hands fly to his face and hold him there as he kisses you like he’s sorry, like he’s grateful, like you’re saving him from drowning.

When he finally pulls back, his voice is almost gone.

“Will you stay?”

You nod, your hands never leaving him. “Always.”

And when he finally lets you pull him into your arms—his massive frame curling into yours like he’s trying to disappear, you hold him for as long as it takes.

Until the shaking stops.

Until the pain quiets.