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Bob's eyes flutter open from the sunlight peaking through the bedroom window. He rubs his eyes as he stretches his arms out with a groan. He turns on his side to reach out for you on your side of the bed. His eyes shoot open, fully awake now, when he doesn't feel your warmth beside him, only the cold bedsheets left with an indent of your body.

He sits up fast and quickly scans the room for you. He frowns when he realizes he's alone and lazily throws the blanket off of his body. He treads towards the door with a disappointed sigh, sad that he couldn't get his morning cuddles with you.

As soon as he opens the bedroom door, he's hit with the delicious smell of breakfast and he immediately makes his way towards the kitchen. His feet shuffle along the hard wood floor, sleep still lingering on him as his body draws closer to you.

You're stood at the stove cooking eggs when he wraps his arms around you and rests his cheek against your shoulder. "I found you," he groggily mumbles in your ear.

"You found me," you giggle. "And good morning sleepy head." He mumbles a reply back before burying his face further into your neck.

"Breakfast is ready. Go grab a plate." You rub his arm and he reluctantly let's go of you, but not before lazily placing a kiss on your cheek. He pours you both a cup of coffee and places it at your spot of the table.

He waits for you to sit down before eating and he can't help but watch in amusement as you practically drown your food in hot sauce. He can already feel the burning in his stomach and he's not even the one eating it. "I don't know how you can handle all of that hot sauce."

You shrug, "what can I say? I love hot sauce."

"Yeah," he chuckles, "and then you suffer later in the bathroom."

You shrug once again, "it's a risk I'm willing to take."

-

The elevator opens with a ding and you're hit with the smell of cooking. When you walk into the kitchen of the tower, you see Yelena remove a pot from the stove. "Oh! Hi! I made macaroni, if you want some."

"I can eat." Bob says, immediately pulling out two bowls, one for him and one for you.

"I was going to add hot sauce, but since you two are here, I didn't." Yelena tells you as she brings her bowl of mac and cheese to the table.

Bob chuckles, already knowing what's about to happen.

"I love hot sauce!" You announce, ignoring Bob's little 'there you go.' "I've never had it on mac and cheese before though." You join Yelena at the table, sitting across from her.

"Try it. It's so good!" She slides the bottle of hot sauce over to you and you immediately drizzle it all over. Bob sits next to you and watches as you take a bite, waiting to see your reaction.

Your eyes practically roll to the back of your head as you chew. "Mmm oh my god," you say with your mouth still full, "you just changed my life. I'm definitely doing this everytime I make Mac and cheese."

"I told you!" Yelena points to you.

Bob shakes his head at the two of you with a smile, "you two really are best friends."

"And you ever doubted that?"

-

You and Bob walk into the restaurant hand in hand. Joaquin had arrived before you and is already seated at the table. He puts his phone down and immediately stands up with a smile when he sees you. "Hey guys!" He shares a bro hug with Bob and then hugs you. "Nice to see you again."

"Nice to see you. Sorry we're a bit late. Have you been waiting long?" You smile up at Bob when he pulls out your seat for you.

Joaquin shrugs off your apology with a wave of his hand. "Nah, I got seated like five minutes ago? Waiter hasn't even come with waters yet."

You nod and pick up the menu. You scan the appetizers first, your eyes immediately falling onto the hot wings. You gasp and before you even say anything, Bob speaks up.

"You saw the hot wings?"

"Uh huh!" You nod indefinitely.

Joaquin laughs, "I'm guessing you're a fan?"

"Oh yeah! She loves spicy food. Anywhere we go, she's ordering something hot." Bob answers for you.

Joaquin shakes his head, "That couldn't be me, my spice tolerance is... not the greatest."

Bob turns to you when a story pops up in his mind. "Yeah he took me to a taco place a while back and he forgot to ask for mild sauce instead of hot. He had to get multiple refills of ice water and a glass of horchata, that's how bad it is."

Joaquin stares at his friend in disbelief while you laugh. "So you're just exposing everyone here aren't you Reynolds?" Bob shrugs in response before focusing his attention back onto the menu.

As soon as the plate of hot wings is set down on the table, you're immediately reaching to grab some. Bob pushes the plate closer to you, knowing that it's all for you.

He holds out his hand expectedly and you take off your wedding ring. He puts it on the necklace specifically designed for it so you don't get sauce on it and places it back around your neck.

You hum in satisfaction when you take a bite of a wing. "Good?" Bob asks and you nod, still chewing.

You push the plate a little further from you, silently asking if Bob or Joaquin wants any. Bob declines but Joaquin takes one. "Who knows, maybe my spice tolerance has gotten better." Bob watches with a raised brow as Joaquin takes a bite, the heat immediately washing over him.

"Oh fuck..." Joaquin drops the wing back on his plate and drops his head in shame and regret. "Nope! Still bad!" He immediately reaches for his glass of ice water and begins chugging, not even caring if he gets a brain freeze.

Bob laughs at his friend as you continue to eat, "more for me I guess."

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Soft morning light filters into your room through the gaps in your blinds, and you stir, trying to escape Bob’s strong hold. 

“Bob, baby, wake up. You need to be out of here soon,” you whisper softly, patting his hip. His arms tighten around your waist and he pushes his face into the nape of your neck. 

“Don’t wanna. Wanna stay here with you,” he mumbles. 

“It’s the last thing you need to do and then we have three uninterrupted weeks together.” He lets you wriggle free from his grasp and you turn to kiss him on the nose. He smiles. 

“But it’s children. God, what if I suck? What if they hate me? What if I accidentally break their tiny little bones,” he mumbles. You put a hand on his chest and he lays his hand over yours. 

“Bob. You’ll be alright, they’re children and you’re a superhero, and unless you’re rough housing with them I highly doubt you’re going to break their bones. Your control is so much better now. ” 

You shift so you can kiss his forehead. 

“I think you’re forgetting the part where this interaction is being filmed and aired to the entire country later this week.”

“Even if you suck. They’ll either make you look good or focus on everyone else. Don’t worry about it okay?”

You actually give him a peck on the lips, and he takes the opportunity to pull you even tighter, his hand caressing your face.

You pat him on the chest again. 

“Do you want me to come with? For support?”

“No. Definitely not. What if you get the ick?”

“The ick?”

“The ick.”

“I think you’re letting Alexei show you too many TikToks,” you snort as you extricate yourself from his arms. “Why on earth would I get the ick?”

“Maybe you’ll see how terrible I am with kids and you’ll hate me after,” he’s pouting, and it takes a lot of effort not to let a laugh slip past. 

“Bob I’m telling you. Kids aren’t as complicated as you think they are. You are the Sentry. You have a cape and a deep voice and your eyes glow. They’ll love you for that alone,” you reassure as you tousle his hair. 

“Wow. You’re very confident,” he whispers, lips ghosting over yours. 

“I have nieces and nephews, remember? They ask me if I’ve seen the Sentry every time I go visit.”

“And what do you say?” he kisses your shoulder, turns so that he’s pressing you into the mattress. 

“I tell them that the Sentry doesn’t shop in cheap corner stores,” you laugh weakly as he attaches his lips to your neck. “I also tell them that I bet the Sentry has great discipline and gets to his job on time,”you say, pushing feebly at his shoulders. 

He just sighs. 

“Are you sure we don’t have time? Just for a little bit?”

“It’s never a little bit with you. Go get ready,” you whisper, kissing him on the cheek. 

Bob is evasive when you ask how filming was, but over the next few days, it is impossible to pry him off of you. Not that you want to, but he’s never been this clingy before. He clings to you in the mornings, refusing to let you get out of bed until you absolutely have to. He comes up behind you while you brush your teeth, snakes his hand under your t-shirt and just lets his hand rest on your stomach while he presses small kisses behind your ear.

“What is wrong with you?” you ask him when he buries his face between your thighs one day and absolutely refuses to get up until you’re a sweaty panting mess. 

“Nothing, just love you,” he says as he kisses his way up your torso until his lips are over yours and you can taste yourself on him. 

He’s extra touchy after you’ve video called your sister one day, cooing at her new baby. He even waves shyly from the other side of the bed when you turn the phone so the baby can see Uncle Bob, the gold in his eyes dancing as she gives him a toothless smile and gurgles at him. You’ve never seen him like this, he preferred to leave the room when you FaceTimed your siblings and any of their kids, citing privacy as his reason. When you hang up he’s all over you, barely giving you time to process what’s going on before he has you pressed into the mattress and he’s sliding your underwear off. 

“Okay, seriously,” you laugh, even as he kisses your face. 

“You’re just so pretty when you’re in aunty mode. So sweet, turns me on,” he whispers. 

“Freak,” you sigh, when he drags his teeth over the part where your neck and shoulder meet. 

“And yet,” he presses his fingers to your clit, drags them through your folds as he collects the arousal gathering there, “you seem to like it.”

You don’t deny it, can’t deny it when he has you gasping under him, desperate for release. 

He’s muttering under his breath, too low for you to hear but every now and then the words “knock you up,” and “beautiful mom” break through the haze. 

I’ll ask him later, you think as you feel your stomach tighten, feel yourself coming apart underneath him, but by the time he’s done with you, you’re too worn out to remember what you’re supposed to be asking him. 

You’re sitting on the couch, Bob’s head in your lap while you play with his hair waiting for the segment they filmed earlier in the week to come on. Your whole place seems to hum with a restless energy, but when you look at him he’s still, eyes closed; the only evidence that he’s amped up the tiny flickers of gold that flash under his skin. 

“So, what am I in for?” you ask, carding your fingers through his hair. He opens his eyes, gold irises meeting yours. 

“Birthday party, we were the special guests,” he says. He slips his hand under your t-shirt, letting it rest on your stomach, nice and warm. He presses a soft kiss just underneath your bellybutton, then turns so his cheek is pressed flat against your stomach.

Sure enough, when the episode starts playing it opens with a shot of children in someone’s backyard. The birthday girl is in a combination Thor costume and princess dress, hanging upside down off of a playset when the host for the show asks them whether they’re excited for the guests. The children take turns guessing who might be coming, and only about two of the kids manage to guess right. It doesn’t matter, the children let out high pitched peals of laughter when the Avengers walk in through the rickety gate, larger than life. 

Something twists in your stomach when you see just how much bigger Bob is than the kids. They all are, but Sentry has … presence. There’s an awkward round of introductions, but mostly the kids just want to play. They’re weaving in and out of legs, threatening to knock Alexei over, roping John into a game of tag and asking questions about his taco shield.  

Bob immediately finds refuge in the kitchen, helping the mother arrange finger foods on a plate, then moves to the living room to help package goody bags. He looks peaceful, bent over the table and fumbling with the mini juice boxes and kinder eggs — that is until a gaggle of children come inside and practically drag him by the cape back outside. 

You’re surprised at how quickly he eases into their attention, the children practically hanging off him. He throws them up in the air and catches them, spinning them around before putting them on the ground again. One little girl in particular is smitten with him, tugging at his cape and begging to be held in his arms the entire time. She’s got a captain America costume on, paired with a bright pink tutu and her shoes are just a tiny bit too big for her feet but she doesn’t let that deter her as she follows Bob around like a shadow. When the children get treats she lets him split a cookie with her, giving him the bigger half because he has ‘so many muscles’. 

“What’s your name?” she asks him at one point, when he crouches down to help her tie her shoelaces. She takes the opportunity to slip her tiara on his head. 

“Sentry,” Bob smiles and she just giggles, flashes him a wide gap-toothed grin. 

“No silly! Your real name, not just your superhero name,”she laughs. She runs off to go get a slice of pizza before Bob can react and by the time she comes back her attention has shifted to playing with his hair. She weaves loose braids into it, then asks the birthday girl for clips. Bob ends up with a bunch of multicolour clips in various shapes all over his head, with no purpose other than to look pretty.  

“This is how my mommy does my hair,” she smiles at the cameraman before showing a very loose braid to the camera. “Now the Sentry is pretty like me,” she beams. The producers and parents all laugh. 

She falls asleep on him when he starts reading The Lorax, seemingly tired out from crawling all over him. Her head rests on his shoulder, and Bob balances her in his lap, taking all the care in the world not to jostle her every time he turns a page. The other kids are rapt, sitting at his feet, slices of cake forgotten as he does silly voices. Even the other Avengers seems surprised at the way he takes to temporary princesshood. 

The episode ends with everyone waving bye to the Avengers (all sent on their way with personalised goody bags) and you and Bob sit in silence while holiday ads drone in the background. 

“Did you like it?” he asks. He’s looking up at you, wisps of his hair falling into his face. You push them out of his face as you nod. 

“You did so good, and made a new friend,” you laugh softly. 

“Yeah. Her name’s Addie and she’s six years old,” he holds up five fingers and the two of you break out into giggles. 

“See? Nothing bad happened,” you say as you drag him up to kiss you. “God, women all over America are probably fantasising about you right now,” you whisper. 

“You think so?” He presses a kiss into your neck, and you can feel him already half hard in his shorts, as his hips rock gently against yours. You take a deep breath in an attempt to focus on the conversation at hand, your stomach already turning in anticipation as his hand slides into your pyjama pants. 

“Yeah. Something about men who are good with kids is– it’s so good,” you sigh as his fingers press into your clit in tight circles. 

“You feel that way too? You like that I was good with the kids?” 

He’s slipping a finger inside you and you’re trying not to lose all composure as he curls it, your hips bucking up. 

“You gotta answer me sweetheart. You like that?” 

You manage a weak “yes” as he slips another finger in, moans into your neck when he feels you tighten around them. 

“Good. Oh god, that’s good,” he sighs into your neck. He doesn’t stop rocking into you, but he pulls his fingers out of you and pushes them into your mouth. “You’re so beautiful,” he says, as he watches you clean them up, eyes locked on his. “Gonna make such a beautiful mom for me,” he sighs as he uses his other hand to push your t-shirt up. 

“Didn’t know that was something you wanted,” you mumble when he’s dragged his fingers out of your mouth. 

“Didn’t know until this thing either,” he undoes the drawstrings on his shorts, and he laughs when you prop yourself up on your forearms to watch as he shucks his shorts off. He’s so hard it looks like it aches, but he’s not in any rush as he spits into his hand and wraps it around his shaft. “Fuck, didn’t know it until that kid fell asleep on me and I thought about how cute you’d find it. Then I started thinking about the way you talk about your nieces and nephews and,” he leans down so he can press a kiss to the inside of your thigh, “you get this look in your eyes. I didn’t see it before but I couldn’t stop seeing it, thinking about it. When you showed me the baby all I could think about was you holding one of our own,” he finishes as he pulls your shorts and underwear off, discarding them on the floor. 

You don’t have time to think about his admission before the sound of him spitting on your exposed  cunt echoes through the room. 

“Drove me insane. Kept picturing you pregnant, didn’t know what to do,” he says as he finally pushes into you, barely controlled as he kisses you again, nice and slow. 

“Bob, baby,” you gasp as he fills you up. 

“I know, I know, not yet but shit I want it so bad,” he whispers into your ear. “Wanna get you full of me,” he pulls your t-shirt over your head, hands squeezing your tits together when you’re free. He looks like he’s glowing as he looks down at you, soft waves of blond framing his face in an almost halo. You lean up, pushing your fingers under his shirt. 

“Please?” you ask, and he just smiles at you as he pulls it off. 

You’re in awe. You’re always in awe when he’s like this, the soft glow of his skin, the tight muscle of his body, the way he has a light dusting of freckles  across his chest. He kisses your jaw, then he’s shifting, laying down on the couch and pulling you on top of him. 

“Want you on top, before you get too tired,” he says, repositioning himself and pushing into you so fast you have to lean forward, your hands flying out into the couch on either side of his head for support. His hands are on your hips, his thumbs digging into the crease where your hips and your thighs meet. 

“So, so beautiful for me,” he grunts as he bounces you on his cock his eyes half-lidded. There’s an electrical humming that fills the room as he speeds up, his grip getting tighter. 

“Bob. Sentry–” you start, tears pricking at your eyes as he pushes up into you. 

“Love when you call me that. Love when I’m both,” he says, leaning up so he can kiss your chest. The glowing of the overhead light is brighter, but steady. 

“Fuck, you feel so good, it’s like you want me to fill you up,” he groans, pushing his face into your breasts, mouth opening so he can take one in his mouth. He’s sitting up again, arm wrapping around you so that his other one can squeeze. “Oh my god, you’re so soft. Soft now, softer when you’re pregnant,” he sighs into you. He lets go of your boob to press his hand into your stomach. 

“Right here, gonna put a baby right here,” he says around your nipple, pace still relentless. 

You can’t answer, you just dig your nails into his shoulders as you whine out for him, thighs growing slicker as he fucks into you. 

“You want that? I know you want that, can feel you, honey. Fucking… swallowing me, fuck,” he mutters, tilting his face into yours as his lips come over yours in a messy kiss. He slides his fingers down to your clit again, and you let out a surprised gasp when you feel his fingers vibrate against your clit. It’s instant, you’re tightening around him before you can even grasp what’s happening, tears slipping from the corners of your eyes. 

“Aww don’t cry honey,” his voice slips into condescension on the ‘honey’, and against your better judgement you feel a tug of want. He’s kissing the tears, tongue coming out to lick at them gently before he kisses your cheeks. He doesn’t slow down, doesn’t let you catch your breath as he cradles your head.

“Look at me,” he demands, and you open your eyes, stare right down into gold pools of his. “Gonna fuck you stupid,” he says, “right here on this couch. Then on your bed, ’til all you know is me. Fuck you stupid and full ’til we have a baby,” he grunts. His hand is on your stomach again, warm and you watch as little trails of gold seem to shimmer under his skin. “That good with you?”

You nod, but he isn’t satisfied. 

“Asked you a question,” he kisses your throat, then sucks at the skin until he’s sure he’s left a mark. 

“Yes, yeah. ’Til I’m full,” you reply. 

You feel his chest rumble with a chuckle as he lays you back down, putting a pillow under your hips so he can prop them up. You’re sensitive, still recovering from your orgasm and everything feels heightened; the way he kisses you, the way his hands drag over your body, feeling at you like you’ll disappear. He throws your leg over his shoulder, letting out a low, drawn out moan as he manages to push even deeper into you. 

“Fuck you feel so good like this,” he mutters. He keeps his hand on your stomach, watching as your breasts bounce with every thrust, hand slipping down to your lower abdomen so he can feel himself as he pushes into you. “Made for me,” mumbles, “made for me. We go so good together, gonna have perfect babies aren’t we?”

You nod when he looks at you, incapable of speech. 

“Awww… can’t speak?” he sneers, pushing his thumb into your mouth. You press your tongue against the underside and he twitches, momentarily surprised. He presses his hand a little harder into your stomach, and you whine, head fuzzy as you feel yourself climbing again, skin humming with pleasure as you pulse around him. 

“That’s it, honey c’mon,” he grunts, thrusts growing erratic. 

Your bodies are slick as they move against each other, and you’re grabbing at his forearms, begging him to come down and kiss you. He does, but only when he’s right on the edge, only pressing his lips to yours as he starts spilling into you, chest heaving against yours. He doesn’t move, even when you push your hands against his chest. 

“Gotta keep it in, keep you full,” he whispers into your ear. Then you realise he’s still hard, throbbing inside of you like nothing happened. 

“Holy fuck this serum is the second best thing to happen to me,” he says as he presses his nose into the crook of your neck. “Gonna be so easy to fuck a baby into you like this, can keep you here for so long just like this,” he starts moving again, hips moving slowly against you even as you let out low, pathetic whines, arms tightening around his neck in a hug. Your bodies are flush against each other and your thighs ache with the effort of staying spread. The weight of his body on yours makes your brain cloud with pleasure. He presses a kiss into the side of your head. 

“It’s so easy like this,” he presses a kiss to your jaw, “can feel all of you,” he mumbles. He leans down so he can kiss at your collarbone, then he’s wrapping his arms around as he picks you up and stands in one smooth motion. His hands under your ass keep you in place as he keeps himself inside you. It’s only when you open your eyes you realise that he’s not touching the ground, floating as he moves through your apartment. He shoulders the door to your bedroom open (gently) before his feet touch the ground again. 

“There we go, more comfortable?” he asks, as he lays you down again, pulling out briefly so he can turn you onto your stomach. You sigh in relief, but it’s short lived because the moment he gets behind you he’s spreading you open again, his hand pressing in between your shoulders until your chest is flush with the mattress. When he pushes in again, it’s so easy you’re almost embarrassed and he lets out a low groan. 

“So fucking easy,” he says as he uses his other hand to move your hips against his, “you like this? You like taking it like this?” He speeds up, only letting go of your hips so he can pin your wrists behind your back. His hand presses your head into the mattress a little as he pushes deeper, faster. “Won’t be able to fuck you like this when you’re knocked up,” he says, like it’s a given. “Gotta keep you nice and safe, be gentle. Gotta fuck you rough now,” he mutters into the room. Your moans are muffled by the sheets but the way you tighten around him is enough for him. 

“Again? Already? Spoiled tonight aren’t you?”

He lets go of your wrists so he can squeeze at the flesh of your ass, sliding it up and down his length. “You should see yourself honey, see the way she’s creaming on it. It’s so good, wanna keep you like this forever,” he mutters as he keeps thrusting into you. He leans down to press a kiss between your shoulder blades, a small act of tenderness in contrast to the brutal way he fucks you, his hand still tight around your wrists. “Gonna fill you up again, you want that honey?”

There’s a small sound of agreement as you nod, his name tumbling out of your lips in hoarse cries. It seems to spur him on, push him even deeper into you as your thighs twitch. You feel his chest press against your back as he takes deep breaths. “You’re so good for me. Just a little longer okay I’m not… I’m not finished,” he says as he kisses behind your ear. 

“Sentry,” you whine, and you feel him twitch inside you. 

“Call me that again and we’ll be here well into tomorrow. Fuck I can’t help myself,” he says as he turns you over onto your back, pushes your knees into your chest, “you just look so good under me. And I keep imagining you all round, tits full of milk. You’ll be so soft,” he says as he presses more kisses into your chest. “Oh my god, honey.” His hand is over your stomach again, rubbing as if his baby is already there. “Wanna see you so full, so full you do that little waddle,” he kisses you just above your belly button. Then his mouth moves to your breasts again, taking turns with each, teeth grazing the nipples slightly. “I’ll take such good care of you baby, won’t have to worry about a thing. Back massages, massage these when they’re sore,” he promises as he puts a nipple in his mouth again. 

You just babble in agreement, cunt still aching at the feel of him, how he splits you open when you’re like this. You want to tell him you’re not sure you bend this way, but he’s already making you, his hands pressed firm into the back of your thighs. He starts thrusting into you again when he slots his mouth over yours, tongue pushing into your mouth, messy and hot. 

“We’re gonna have such perfect babies,” he pants, “gonna be so beautiful, just like their momma,” he continues. 

“Honey–”

“I know, I know, almost there,” he grunts. “Need you to give me one more too,” he says. 

You think you might be numb, unable to focus on anything but the press of his hands into your thighs and his voice in your ear begging you to cum. His fingers are on your clit again, slow and gentle, the push you need to finally let go. He follows soon after, his lips on yours again and his hips stilling as he empties into you. 

He pulls out of you gently, rolls over and lays next to you as he stares at the ceiling. Your hand finds his as you wait for your skin to stop humming and the buzzing in your head to die down. You’re about to speak when you hear a nervous “honey?” from beside you.

“Yes, Bob?”

“You’re on birth control right?”

You snort, then laugh. 

“Yes. Not sure it’s Sentry proof, but yes.”

You hear him sigh in relief. 

“Thank god. I might have gotten ahead of myself,” he replies. 

“Oh feel free to get ahead of yourself more often. It’s nice when you tell me what you want. Then take it.”

The air hung thick and humid inside the cab of Rhett’s battered pickup truck, saturated with the earthy aroma of dust-kicked rodeo grounds, the sharp bite of his polish from the protective vest he was wearing, and the heady, intimate perfume of your arousal mingling with his clean, sweat-salted skin. Faint echoes from the arena filtered in–the muffled cheers of the crowd, the low bellows of agitated bulls, the crackle of announcements over tinny speakers–but it all felt like they were states away, totally irrelevant in this stolen bubble of time where nothing existed but the press of his body against yours.

“Rhett! Oh God, Rhett, fuck! Keep going!” Your voice broke in a desperate urging, laced with a raw edge of need, as he gripped the undersides of your thighs with unyielding strength, hoisting them higher until your knees were pressed against your stomach. The movement opened you completely to him, your aching core fully exposed, slick and throbbing under his relentless touch. He buried his face deeper, his breath hot and ragged against your most sensitive skin, his tongue delving into the gushing wetness that spilled from you like a forbidden spring, lapping with a hunger that bordered on starvation.

The truck’s aging suspension groaned and squeaked in protest with every subtle shit–your hips arching upward in a seeking rhythm to chase the velvet stroke of his tongue, while he rutted against the seat beneath him, the hard ridge of his erection grinding into the unforgiving denim of his jeans. That friction offered him a tantalizing whisper of relief, a fleeting counterpoint to the insistent throb of his cock, which wept pre-cum in steady pulses, darkening the fabric of his boxer briefs and leaving him aching for more, yet he remained utterly focused on you.

A deep, vibrating moan escaped his lips, resonating through your folds, as he captured your clit between them–soft, plush, and insistent–his tongue flicking over the swollen nub with precise, teasing swirls that sent jolts of pleasure radiating outward, coiling tight in your belly and tingling down to your curling toes. Your nails dug into the taut wrapping around his wrist, a protective bandage from his last rough ride, grateful for the barrier that kept your marks at bay; your other arm braced firmly against the door panel, muscles straining to hold you up, allowing you to drink in the sight of him without your head thudding against the armrest.

The windows were a misty veil, condensation beading and trickling in lazy rivulets from the inferno of your combined body heat, turning the cab into a steamy sanctuary. Your dress, a lightweight cotton number in soft lavender that clung to you and complimented every inch of your body perfectly, was rucked up haphazardly around your waist, with the bodice yanked low to bare your breasts–their swells glistening faintly with perspiration and drying saliva, and nipple taut from the cool draft slipping through a hairline crack in the window. He had tugged the fabric down with impatient hands, suckling each peak until they ached, before trailing down your body, leaving the disarray untouched because he revelled in the erotic tableau: your chest rising and falling in erratic waves, each inhale drawing your breasts higher, and each exhale a soft quiver that made his pulse race.

In those fevered moments, anyone could have wandered by from the bustling parking lot–a fellow rider, a curious spectator, one of the ranch hands–and peered through the haze to catch you mid-act: your spine bowed in exquisite abandon, head thrown back against the seat as waves of ecstasy rippled through you; Rhett, utterly unapologetic, his light brown hair disheveled and falling in sweat-dampened strands across his furrowed brow, his piercing blue eyes–darkened to sapphire with lust–fixed on you as he feasted like he hadn’t eaten in weeks, determined to drown in your essence before he’d relent.

But he couldn’t muster a single damn about the risk; this was necessity, primal and unyielding. He craved the tang of you on his tongue, the slick glide over his lips, the way it clung to his stubble shadowing his jaw and cheeks. You were his pre-ride talisman, a ritual etched into his bones, and no prying eyes would deter him from this devotion–especially not when he’d made his escape so blatant, steering you away with a hand on your elbow and a flimsy pretext of ‘needing to talk’ whispered to your friends, who exchanged smirks because they knew damn well your ‘conversation’ would involve far more moans than words.

“God, baby…You taste so fuckin’ good,” He rasped against you, his voice a gravelly drawl thick with desire, vibrating straight to your core, “Wish I could be down here forever…Might just forfeit the ride to keep pleasin’ you like this.” The words were punctuated by a grunt as your fingers released his wrist to weave into his hair–which had been begging for your grip–scrunching them between your digits, tugging with just enough force to elicit a pleased hiss from him as you bucked your hips, grinding your slick heat against his open mouth and the masterful flick of his tongue. Your arousal smeared across his features in a glossy claim, mingling with his saliva to coat your swollen clit, your tender folds, and the line of his chin.

You felt the rough texture of his calloused palm–hardened from endless hours gripping reins–glide down the supple curve of the back of your thigh, leaving a trail of goosebumps in its wake, before reaching your fluttering entrance. With effortless familiarity, he slipped two thick fingers inside, the stretch a perfect burn that drew a sharp, breath-stealing gasp from your parted lips. They curled inward with unerring accuracy, stroking the velvety, ridged spot that made your walls clench and your thighs quiver involuntarily, while his lips sealed around your clit once more, sucking with a rhythmic pull–gentle tugs alternating with firmer draws–that melted your resolve, turning your limbs to liquid fire against the worn upholstery.

You yanked at his hair, the strands slipping silkily through your fingers as his rhythm accelerated, fingers plunging in steady, rapid thrusts that coaxed obscene, wet sounds from your body–sounds that were music to Rhett’s ears, spurring him on like applause. He detached from your clit with a slick, audible pop, his breath fanning hot over the swollen nub.

”Mmm, you gonna give me one more, sweetheart? Gonna let this pretty little pussy soak my fingers? Huh?” His query was a sultry challenge, the pace of his fingers ramping up, relentlessly massaging that inner sweet spot until your legs trembled , your core gripping him in desperate pulses.

“Tell me, baby…C’mon…” He cooed, then spat directly onto your clit–feeling the warmth of it sliding over the skin, flowing over to where his fingers were thrusting into you–before diving back in, his blue eyes snapping up to ensnare yours, intense and unblinking, as if he’d halt everything if you didn’t give him an answer.

Through the swirling fog of lust and arousal in your mind, words formed in fragments: “Go-Gonna give you…Everything you want.” You whined it out the sound high and needy, watching as he nuzzled impossibly closer, his nose brushing your mound while his tongue lashed with focused intent, driving you toward the precipice of your orgasm for the second time that evening. He knew this was merely the prelude; after the circuit, with the night’s adrenaline still coursing through him, he’d take you home and he’d spend endless hours coaxing climax after climax from you, his appetite being utterly insatiable, especially if victory sharpened his edge.

Your core throbbed around his invading fingers, drenching them in fresh waves of slick as tremors built in your legs, escalating to full-body shudders. Then it finally hit–an avalanche of pure overwhelm, unleashing in a symphony of whimpers and gasps as you tugged his hair harder, feeling the damp sweat at his scalp seep into your skin. Your release surged, bathing his fingers, his tongue, and his face in a warmth that painted him in your ecstasy. Every nerve ignited, an electric surge racing from your center outward, heightening the brush of air on your skin, the rasp of his stubble, the lingering pressure inside you until overstimulation set in, your body quaking as he lapped a few final, languid strokes before withdrawing with a contented sigh. He eased his fingers out deliberately slow, letting you savour the drag against your fluttering walls one last time.

They emerged glistening, coated in your release like a trophy, and he lifted them to his mouth, sucking on each finger slowly–tongue swirling, cheeks hollowing–as he held your gaze, witnessing your laboured breaths, the way your breasts undulated with each pant, a subtle sheen of sweat illuminating their contours. With a soft pop, he released them, trailing the saliva-slick digits to your tender nipples, circling them in lazy spirals that drew fresh shivers from you.

Leaning in, he bestowed gentle kisses upon each, his stubble grazing like fine grit against silk, before claiming your mouth in a kiss that shifted the heat in the truck–it was tender now, a soft melding that belied the feral storm he’d unleashed, letting you taste your own sweetness on his tongue, an elixir you drank down greedily, as if it were sustenance from him alone.

He draw back gradually, your mingled breaths filling the space between you, warm and syncopated, as his eyes–framed by faint crinkles of satisfaction–traced the planes of your face, a small affectionate smile tugging at his swollen lips, softening the rugged angles of his features.

“Fuckin’ perfection,” He murmured, cupping your cheek with a gentleness that contrasted the fervent need that he had when he was between your thighs, his thumb sketching delicate paths just below your eye, brushing away and errant lash, “My good luck charm.” He added. You smirked, leaning into the warmth of his hand, the callouses a comforting roughness against your skin as you exhaled a contented sigh.

“Won’t be your good luck charm tonight if you don’t start making your way back to the gates. I’m sure the ranch hands are looking for you.” He shook his head, stealing a swift peck from you.

“Pretty sure by this point they know my routine…What d’you think they assume I’m doin’ when I disappear before a ride?” You shrugged, your fingers deftly straightening the rumpled collar of his plaid button-down, the fabric cool and slightly damp under your touch from his sweat, before resting your palm on his shoulder–the solid bulk of his protective vest absorbing your heat, the stark chill enveloping your fevered skin.

“Maybe they think you’re leading a double life.” A rich, resonant laugh bubbled from deep in his chest, sending vibrations through you as he eased back a fraction, his eyes sparkling with mirth.

“I think you forget I’m such an open book there’s no way I could lead a double life…Why d’you think some of the rodeo guys say I have a silver tongue?” The question hung playfully, your brows lifting as you felt his hands–still warm from your body–gently readjust your dress, smoothing the wrinkles with care to restore your composure.

“I thought it was because you flirted too much and had a way with words…Cause that’s what silver-tongued means.” He hummed thoughtfully, shaking his head as he pushed your hair from your face.

“It’s more ‘cause they know I have an affinity for buryin’ my face between a specific set of thighs.” Your jaw dropped in feigned astonishment, a disbelieving laugh escaping you as you gave his shoulder a light shove.

“You told them?! Rhett! We hang around with these guys and their girlfriends after almost every circuit!” He leaned forward undeterred, pressing lingering kisses to the swells of your breasts, leaving moist imprints that cooled instantly in the air.

“So what? If anythin’ their girlfriends are probably jealous of you…” His tone was casual, but laced with smug pride, prompting your brows to arch higher.

“And why’s that?” You prodded, tilting his chin upward with a finger, locking eyes with those captivating blues that gleamed like polished stones.

“‘Cause their partners aren’t as enthusiastic about eatin’ them out like I am with you…The boys were shocked when I even referenced that we do it more than we have sex, so…Pretty sure that gives away their preferences.” He quipped, then dotted your face with feather-soft kisses–along your cheekbones, the bridge of your nose, your forehead–eliciting a giggle from your throat.

“Or you’re just absolutely obsessed with going down on me that these guys are worried about you…Not that I have any complaints, though.” He placed a wet, open-mouthed kiss at the corner of your lips, humming in agreement, his breath a warm caress over the damp spot.

For a long time, the list was very short. Only Peacemaker. A short time later, he added Eagly. His family didn’t count (fuck his brother, and his overbearing mother definitely didn’t make the cut). In high school, he included the group of guys he played Dungeons and Dragons with, but as they grew up and went to college and got new lives, he lost touch with all of them, and they eventually got cut.

When he met the 11th Street Kids, his best friend list quadrupled in size overnight. He also eventually added a few coworkers from Fennel Fields that he found tolerable. It grew again when they founded Checkmate and he added Fleury and Bordeaux into the mix. Even Judomaster had a spot at the very bottom, but he was on thin fucking ice. If he considered the entire multiverse, his alternate self would definitely get added, but he didn’t want to make things too complicated. And that didn’t feel fair to everyone else, really–how could they compete with himself?

Adrian sits down at least once a month to review the list. Names shift up and down all the time, but John and Ads tend to stay near the top. Eagly has been at number two for a long time, but he gets knocked down a peg or two occasionally if he bites Adrian. He’ll typically be forgiven and moved back into position when he gives him a small dead rodent as an apology.

The only spot that stays 100% constant is Chris. Adrian’s not an idiot. He knows that he’s not at the top of Chris’s best friend list. Chris is kind of a mess; he probably doesn’t even have a list. That might help him work some shit out, actually, Adrian thinks. But Chris is still his best friend, and that means something to him. It makes his world make sense, to know where his priorities lie, to know who he trusts and admires and enjoys spending time with the most.

All this to say, the list is a key tool for Adrian, so when you get hired at Checkmate and introduced into the tight-knit crew of the 11th Street Kids, and it becomes clear you aren’t going anywhere any time soon, he slots your name in at the bottom of his list, right above Judomaster where everyone starts when he first meets them. But you don’t stay there for long.

Really, you fit in surprisingly well, considering you weren’t there for all the butterfly-induced trauma bonding or Nazi-universe hopping. It helps that you get along with everyone individually.

Adrian knows he can be overbearing. He’s a lot, he’s heard Harcourt say. He notices the twitch in John’s eye when he talks a bit too much, the way Chris has to stop himself from yelling sometimes. So he tries not to overwhelm you when you first arrive, staying back and giving you space to settle in. He watches, instead–you and Chris shooting the shit in the back of the van on the way to missions, you chatting with Ads about queer music icons, you complimenting John on his endless collection of graphic t-shirts, you sharing your secret chocolate stash with Harcourt when she’s particularly cranky.

A few weeks in, he realizes you’re watching him, too. He starts to warm up to you, testing the waters with little jokes and animal facts. It takes him a while to get a read on you–facial expressions and body language are notoriously difficult for him–but you never tell him to shut up when he’s rambling like Chris. Never get twitchy like John after too long in his general vicinity. You just listen intently, giving him your full attention in a way that no one else really does. You ask him questions not just to humor him, but because you actually think it’s adorable that sea otters hold hands when they sleep and it’s interesting that an octopus has three hearts, and you want Adrian to tell you more about it.

“You’re only my fourth best friend now, Economos,” Adrian calls across the office one day when John does something to piss him off.

“I don’t fucking care where I am on your stupid best friend list, Adrian,” John says, and you overhear the conversation from your own desk. Your eyes bounce back and forth between them, confused.

“Best friend list?”

“Adrian has a stupid list where he ranks his friends,” John tells you. “Kinda messed up, actually. Like we’re in some fucked up competition for his friendship.”

“It’s not stupid or fucked up,” Adrian protests. “It’s important! Everyone should know where they stand. Communication is important in friendships.”

“That’s actually true,” you agree. “Communication is important.”

“See, John, I told you!”

“Why the fuck are you agreeing with him?” John asks, bewildered. You ignore him, turning to Adrian.

“Am I on your best friend list?” you ask, truly curious whether you’ve made the cut.

“Of course,” Adrian says, like it’s obvious. “In fact, you’ve just moved up several spots because you’re actually nice to me, unlike some people in this office.” You flush, apparently pleased, and for some reason, Adrian feels heat rising in his own cheeks, too.

John scoffs as he looks between you. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

You’re also funny, Adrian quickly learns, and smart, and kind, and loyal. Pretty, too, but he doesn’t usually use that as one of the criteria for the best friend list. He still thinks it, though, and catches himself watching you sometimes from across the room. Sometimes you catch him, too, but you never make him feel like a creep–you just smile at him and wave with an adorable little wiggle of your fingers. He feels good around you.

On a particularly rough day, he thinks you look a little stressed. Your hands are gripping your hair like you want to pull it out at the root, and he knows that he only does that when he’s really frustrated. 

“Do you think she’s okay?” he asks Ads, and she looks surprised that he’s even asking, that he’s noticed someone else’s emotions at all.

“You could just ask her what’s wrong,” she suggests. He looks terrified by the prospect, so she backtracks. “Or you could just…go say something reassuring.”

“Okay,” he says, taking a deep breath and steeling himself. “Okay, I can do that.”

So Adrian stops by your desk and says quietly, “You’re doing a great job. It’s okay.”

You look slightly self-conscious, like you’re embarrassed to be caught having a meltdown, but also happy, and he thinks he’s done something right.

The next day, when walks in, there’s a bag of watermelon Sour Patch Kids and a thank-you sticky note with a little doodle of Infernape sitting by his keyboard, and he grins, wider than he has in a while.

He likes that you remember little things about him like his favorite candy and his favorite Pokemon. It makes him feel important.

So when he gets to Checkmate HQ early one day, he decides it’s time to review the list. He has a lot to consider. He hasn’t known you very long, but you make a significant jump from the bottom, leaping over his old coworkers from Fennel Fields (the ones he keeps in touch with, at least), the guy who works the counter at the video arcade, and almost all of the other employees at Checkmate–even Fleury, who is constantly willing to entertain Adrian’s strange conversations. Then all that’s left is the 11th Street Kids, and for the first time in a while, he has to really think about it.

Chris stays at the top, obviously. John’s been spending a lot of time quizzing him on animal facts this week, so he currently occupies the number two spot. Then Eagly, then…Ads? Yes, that makes sense. She was nice enough to give Adrian a ride last week while the Vigilante-mobile was in the shop. Then there’s just Harcourt and you, and he hesitates, considers.

Harcourt can be kind of a bitch. Adrian tries not to hold it against her–he knows he can be a lot, sometimes. But you never yell at him the way she does, even when he does something stupid, and he does stupid things, like, every day.

“That can’t be right,” he says to himself. He’s only known you a month, and you’ve made your way into the top five?

His train of thought is interrupted as the door to the building swings open and he hears you laugh at something John is saying.

“Hey, Ade, I grabbed your favorite while I was at the store this morning,” you say, chucking a bag of sour cream and onion chips at his head. He smiles, wide, snatching them out of the air.

“Thanks,” he says, looking down at the potato chips with pleasant surprise.

Maybe you did deserve that top five spot.

A few months later, you’ve worked your way even further up the list, all the way up to number three. Eagly is Chris’s friend more than Adrian’s, he’s realized, and while Ads is always nice to him, she won’t sit with him and play board games for hours on the weekends the way that you will.

He’s started hanging out with you outside of work all the time, actually. He probably spends more time with you than any other person he knows, and he marvels at the fact that you’re not sick of him yet. He keeps waiting for the other shoe to drop, but you still come into the office every day with a smile and ask, “What are we doing this weekend?” and he will take whatever you will give him for as long as you’re willing to give it.

He likes you. Like likes you, and the others are starting to notice his infatuation, even if you haven’t. The way he blushes when you compliment him, and how he hangs on your every word. Normally he won’t shut up, and it’s hard for anyone else to get a word in, but when it’s you talking, he’s puppy-eyed and laser-focused. Everyone’s learned that if Adrian needs to know anything important, they need to tell you to tell him.

Chris and John, who currently occupy spots one and two, call him out on his big fat crush one day in the break room.

“When are you going to man up and ask her out for real, dude?” Chris asks. 

“That’s a sexist concept,” Adrian says. “Why is it ‘man up’ and not ‘woman up?’”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m a sexist asshole. You’re avoiding the question! She hangs out with you all the time. She stayed late last night to help you repair your Vigilante suit. She’s obviously into you.”

“Her stitches are neater than mine,” Adrian says defensively. “She offered.”

“Because she likes you, you moron,” John says, exasperated.

You walk into the room on the tail end of John’s sentence. The three men look at you like they’ve been caught doing something they shouldn’t have been, and you frown, expression hardening.

“Fuck off, John,” you say. “Quit calling Adrian names. You know, all of you should be nicer to him.”

Adrian sags a bit with relief when he realizes you didn’t hear the beginning of the conversation. His secret is safe, for now. 

But he also smiles, because he really likes it when you tell people to fuck off for being assholes to him.

For the rest of that week, Chris and John are on their best behavior around you. The second they open their mouths, all you have to do is glare at them. Adrian spends so much time protecting other people that it’s nice to be protected, for once.

You have his back during ops, too. Over the next few months, you become his preferred mission partner, even more so than Chris–you two have become a kind of dynamic duo in the field, falling into sync like you’ve been training together all your lives. If he thought he was having fun killing bad guys before you came along, it’s a dozen times better with you by his side, because you actually laugh at his stupid jokes.

“Gotcha, you shithead!” Adrian laughs, holstering his gun in his utility belt after nailing a drug dealer with a headshot. He’s in full Vigilante uniform. You’re in your own less flashy Checkmate uniform–simple black pants and jacket with the logo.

“That everyone, Harcourt?” you ask into your earpiece, standing back to back with him in the abandoned warehouse. The gunfire has ceased, and you’re surrounded by a dozen bodies.

“Yep,” she says. “Meet back at the entrance, we’ll regroup and make a plan for cleanup.”

Adrian’s already drifted off, poking his nose around into boxes he probably shouldn’t be.

“Ooh, look at this beauty!” he says, pulling a machine gun out of an open crate.

“Adrian, don’t touch that,” you say, like you’re talking to a toddler. You can’t see his face through the mask, but you’re positive that he frowns at you as he drops it back in.

“Why not?” he complains.

Then you see a flash of movement out of the corner of your eye, and you don’t even think, just react, stepping in front of Adrian right as one of the apparently-not-dead bad guys on the floor raises his gun and fires a shot.

In the split second, Adrian has already drawn his own weapon, and he takes the guy out with a shot to the head faster than you can blink. Then he looks at you with wide eyes. At the hand pressed to your thigh that’s bloody when you pull it away.

“Oh, no,” he says, and you hit the ground. “No, no, no.”

“What the fuck was that?” Harcourt demands over comms.

“She’s hit!” Adrian reports, distraught as he takes a knee and reaches for you, pressing hard into your leg where the bullet entered your thigh. You cry out. “One of them wasn’t dead. Oh, fuck. Sorry, I’m sorry, I know it hurts.”

“Get her out of there, Chase,” Harcourt orders.

“I need you to keep pressure on it,” Adrian says urgently. “So I can pick you up and carry you out. Okay?”

“Fuck,” you gasp, wincing. “Yeah. Yeah, I can do that.”

“Economos, pull the van around,” you hear Harcourt say, and John gives the affirmative.

Adrian gets his arms under your back and your knees. You flinch with the movement and curse. There’s a lot of blood, he thinks. Too much of it, red and thick and spilling everywhere, darkening the fabric of your pants in a way that Adrian does not like. God, why was there so much blood?

“If you die, I’m gonna kill you,” he says as he races back through the warehouse. His heart is pounding with a kind of fear he hasn’t felt in–well, ever. “And then I’ll kill everyone else, too. So don’t even fucking think about it, okay?”

You laugh, but the sound is faint, your eyes fluttering like you’re struggling to keep them open. But you’re smiling, so he smiles, too, even as he feels like his heart is going to beat out of his chest. 

“I don’t feel so good, Ade,” you pant. “I think–fuck–I think he nicked an artery.” Then you go limp in his arms, head falling back against his shoulder, and he curses and picks up speed, a full-on sprint toward the entrance.

“No, no, no,” he says frantically, kicking open the warehouse doors. Tires screech as John pulls the Checkmate van around, and Harcourt throws the door open.

Adrian jumps up inside with you cradled in his arms, places you down on the floor, and snaps at John. “Fucking step on it, dude! She needs a hospital!” 

Both John and Harcourt look almost a little terrified of him. They’ve known Adrian for years now, but they’ve never really been on the receiving end of his Vigilante rage. The van falls quiet for a split second, everyone shocked into silence, before Harcourt just says, “Go,” and John takes off.

Adrian has already turned his focus back to you, ripping his Vigilante mask off and tossing it aside so he can see you more clearly. He taps your face, tries to bring you back to consciousness, hits you harder when it doesn’t work at first. When you finally blink blearily up at him, he’s so relieved he feels like he might vomit.

“We’re going to the hospital, okay?” he says, cradling your face with his gloved hands. “You’re going to be okay. I need you to stay awake for me, sweetheart.”

They get you to the hospital, and Adrian sits, worried sick, in the waiting room for hours while he and Harcourt wait for news from the doctor. He’s radiating anxious energy, wringing his hands and tapping his foot and huffing a frustrated sigh every thirty seconds, and Harcourt doesn’t even call him out for being annoying because she’s never seen him like this before, like one wrong word could set him off at any moment.

Once you’re out of surgery, the doctor finally comes to see them.

“She’ll be just fine,” she says, and the relieved noise Adrian makes is almost inhuman. “She can have one visitor, but she’s not awake yet. Room 203.”

Adrian looks to Harcourt for permission, begging silently with wide eyes. She doesn’t hesitate. She knows who you will want there when you wake up.

“Go,” she says, and Adrian bolts.

He sits at your bedside and holds your hand. While you sleep, he reorganizes his best friend list. He moves you up to a new, permanent spot at number two.

When you finally wake, wincing at the bright fluorescent light, Adrian’s hand tightens in yours.

“Hey,” you say. You don’t ask what happened; you remember. “Thanks for the save back there.”

“What the fuck was that,” Adrian says, confused and almost angry, but mostly relieved because you’re awake and you’re talking to him and you’re going to be okay. “You just–stepped in front of a bullet! Why the hell would you do that!”

“You’re my best friend. I didn’t want you to get hurt,” you say, like he should already know that, and he kind of does, but this–this is–

“I don’t feel emotions like people do, but I still feel emotions. And I would feel sad if you died,” he says, tears welling up in his eyes. “So please don’t do that again. Please.”

“Hey, hey,” you say, soothing, your hands coming up to his face to brush away the errant tears that slip their way down his cheeks. “Don’t cry, honey. I’m okay.”

Maybe it’s the sweet pet name that does it, or the soft tone of your voice. He’s not really sure why he does it, or if he needs a reason, but he stands up, cups your face in his hands, and kisses you.

“I really like you,” Adrian says when he pulls away, and you beam at him, wide and bright.

“I hope I’m not just high on painkillers right now,” you whisper. “I really like you too.”

He laughs and kisses you again.

Adrian realizes a few months later that it’s been a while since he reviewed the list. There’s been a lot going on, and it just fell to the wayside–you’d been healing up, Adrian was still going on mission after mission, and now that they’re an official business, Ads is making them do a shit ton of paperwork, too.

There’s also the fact that he hasn’t had a spare minute to himself because he’s been spending them all with you, not that he minds. He prefers it, actually, to being alone, especially now that you’re doing things like kissing and saying I love you instead of just playing video games and skirting around your feelings.

So one night while he’s sitting with you on the couch in your apartment, watching reruns of Doctor Who, he closes his eyes and thinks about his best friend list.

He starts at the bottom and works his way up, his usual method. Not much has changed toward the bottom, but Judomaster is starting to grow on him. He’s been teaching him some wicked fighting moves. Maybe he could move up a spot or two so he’s not at dead last.

Then he gets to the top: Harcourt, Ads, Eagly, John, you, Chris.

Adrian stops. Something feels wrong.

He shifts things around again, swapping Ads for Eagly, then Eagly for John, even trying Harcourt in a higher position than usual, but something’s still off.

His eyes blink open. He looks down at you, munching on pretzels, laying horizontal with your feet in his lap. You feel his stare and glance back at him, furrow your brows. Then you smile, softly, and it clicks in his brain.

“What?” you ask, still smiling, but confused as you read some kind of realization on his face. “Did you forget something at work?”

Adrian stares at you like you’ve just turned his world upside down. Maybe you have, in small, incremental ways over the months that he’s known you, working your way into his soul until you’re suddenly, unquestionably, the most important person in his life.

“Hey, let me up for a sec?” he says, shifting your feet from where they lay in his lap. You acquiesce easily, letting him stand.

“Sure. Are you okay, Ade?”

“Yeah, I’ll be right back.” He bends down and presses a kiss to your cheek, but when he draws away, you pull him back in for a real one, lips pressing up into his.

“I love you,” you tell him, because he’s acting weird.

“I love you, too,” he says, and his chest floods with warmth the way it always does when he hears you say those words. He kisses you again, more thoroughly, unable to help himself. “I’ll be right back. Really.” You reluctantly release your hold on him and he heads toward your bedroom, head swimming with this sudden internal crisis.

Adrian’s world has revolved around Chris for so long. At some point, it had become a kind of irrefutable truth of his life that Chris was his best friend. But–he trusts his gut. This list means something to him, and if Chris isn’t at the top of it anymore–well. 

If his world revolved around you, now, instead, he thinks he’s okay with that. More than okay with it, really, because for the first time in his life, it’s mutual, and your world revolves around him, too.

Adrian reaches to the bedroom and closes the door most of the way, leaving it open just a crack so he can hear you call if you need him. Then he pulls out his phone and dials.

“Hey Vig, what’s up?” Chris asks, and Adrian hesitates, just for a breath.

“Hey, Peace. I have something to tell you, but I don’t want to bum you out,” he says. 

“Just tell me, dude.”

“You’re not my BFF anymore,” Adrian says, quickly, like he’s ripping off a bandaid.

Chris is silent on the end of the line for a second.

“You called me just to tell me that I’m not your best friend? I already knew that, Adrian.”

“No you didn’t–how the hell would you know that? I didn’t know that until two minutes ago!” Adrian protests.

“Adrian,” Chris says. “It’s okay, man. I’m still number two, right?”

“Well, yeah, obviously.”

“Listen, I’m cool with that. I’m your friend,” Chris says, “but she’s your person. She gets you in a way that I never could. I don’t know how she does it, but you two were like, made for each other. It’s kinda freaky how perfect she is for you.”

“I never told you who was number one.”

“I’m not an idiot. Obviously it’s your girlfriend. Now get the hell off the phone with me and go be with her.”

“Okay,” Adrian says, but Chris has already hung up on him.

He stares at his phone for a minute after he hangs up. His lock screen is a picture of you that he took three weeks ago, taken at the local arcade. You’re beaming, showing off your skee-ball high score.

When he walks back into the living room, you notice immediately. You’ve laid out on the couch and pulled a blanket over yourself. You hold it up, an invitation.

“Come cuddle,” you demand, and he follows your order happily, settling himself on top of you and pulling the blanket over you both. Your hands come to settle in his hair, fingernails gently scratching. He closes his eyes; he likes the way it feels.

“Were you on the phone?” you ask. “You were gone for a while.”

“It was just Chris. No biggie.”

“Did he need you for something? We can always do this another night,” you say, gesturing at the television.

“I have something important to tell you,” Adrian says, suddenly feeling anxious about it. It feels big and important. You hear it in his voice, and your hands stop their gentle movement in his hair. He starts fiddling with the hem of your shirt, an expression of nervous energy.

“You can tell me anything, you know that, baby,” you say. “Hey, look at me.”

Adrian tilts his head to look up at you, props himself up on one elbow. You plant a lingering kiss on his lips and feel him relax into you.

“What is it?” you ask, with one final peck to the side of his mouth. He smiles down at you.

“You’re my best friend,” he tells you, matter-of-factly. Surer of that than he ever has been of anything else in his life.

“I’m number two, I know,” you laugh.

“No,” he says, and you feel like your heart might stop at the look on his face, the adoration that radiates from his wide puppy-dog eyes. “You’re number one.”

You feel the weight of the words as they sink in.

“Really?” you whisper, feeling emotional. You already know that he loves you, but this feels different, even more important somehow.

“Yeah. I just told Chris he’s not my best friend anymore.”

A laugh bursts out of you.

“Did you really call him to tell him he got demoted?”

“What? He deserved to know!”

You smile; it shines out of you, lights up your whole face, makes him feel golden. How did he not realize before today that it could only ever be you?

“Number one, huh? Do I get, like, a special certificate? Or a trophy?”

“I can definitely make you one of those if you want it! You can keep it at your desk at work. We can go to the craft store tomorrow?” Adrian suggests. “Or maybe we can get matching BFF necklaces! Chris would never wear one, so I never even bothered asking, but–”