Sheepy🦖

Reuben blinks, his smile faltering as his brow creases. “Nice to see you too, Phoenix.” 

She heads back to the couch, Reuben trailing behind. 

“Why’d you knock?” she asks. “It’s always open.” 

“Wasn’t the other day.” 

You sit up straighter, rolling your eyes. “That’s because it was two a.m. and I was home alone—sleeping.” 

Natasha drops onto the couch, a little closer to you than before to make room for Reuben. “Do we seriously not have boundaries anymore?” she asks him. “What could you possibly need at two in the morning?” 

He plucks the popcorn bowl off the table and settles it in his lap. “Fanboy really wanted to watch The Princess Bride, but Netflix logged us out and we couldn’t remember the password.” 

You lean across Natasha for a handful of popcorn. “Then get your own Netflix account, you fucking freeloaders.” 

Reuben gives you a wounded look. “Okay, rude.” 

You roll your eyes again and flop back against the couch, shoving a handful of popcorn into your mouth. 

“What’s got your panties in a twist?” he asks, peering at you from Natasha’s other side. 

Natasha snorts but keeps her eyes on the TV. 

“Nothing,” you mutter. “My panties are perfectly untwisted.” 

Reuben chuckles and shifts his gaze to the screen. “Then maybe someone should twist them up—get some of that tension out.” 

You flip him off without even glancing his way, your scowl still locked on the TV. He just laughs again, and Natasha shoots you a sidelong, knowing smirk. 

Twenty minutes later—and after Reuben has all but annihilated the popcorn—the front door swings open and Mickey breezes in, making a beeline for the fridge. 

“Have you guys eaten?” he calls out. “Because I’m starving. I skipped lunch and Mav still kept me back.” He grabs a beer and spins to face the living room. “Isn’t that, like, illegal? Something about duty of care? I’m about to pass out, and it wasn’t even my fault I got held back. Hangman was the one mouthing off—I just told him where to stick it. But no, now Mav’s all professional, like he’s a real CO with a stick up his ass. Honestly? I liked him better before.” 

He yanks open a drawer, fishes out the bottle opener, and cracks the beer. “Anyway,” he says, glancing up at the three of you, “pizza?” 

A long beat of silence stretches through the apartment as you all stare at him. 

“Jesus Christ, Mick,” Reuben mutters. “Take a fucking breath.” 

Mickey just shrugs, heading into the living room. “What?” 

He drops onto the floor—figuring the couch is already squishy enough—and sets his beer on the coffee table before reaching for the remote. 

“No one’s watching this, right?” he asks—not that it matters. 

He doesn’t wait for a response—just clicks a few buttons and starts scrolling through Netflix. Frustration simmers under your skin, because yes, you were watching that, but you bite your tongue. You know you’re in a bad mood, and it’s not worth taking it out on your friends. No matter how irritating they can be. 

He finally lands on The Princess Bride and makes a satisfied little hum as he hits play. Then he tosses the remote back onto the table, picks up his beer, and leans back against the couch—his elbow jabbing your knee in the process. Your glass, balanced loosely on your leg, sloshes and spills cold liquid onto your lap. 

“Whoops,” Mickey says, glancing back at you. “My bad.” 

“Uh oh,” Natasha mutters, scooting slightly away from you. 

“Seriously, Mickey?” you snap, eyes narrowing. “Could you not act like a clumsy lapdog for five fucking seconds?” 

His eyes go wide at your tone. 

“How the hell did you even get into the navy?” you bite, rising from the couch. “You’ve got the spatial awareness of a drunk oaf and the grace of a newborn deer on ice.” 

You storm into the kitchen, slam your half-empty glass on the counter, and tear off a wad of paper towels. 

“Very descriptive insults,” Reuben mutters. 

Natasha lets out a dry laugh. “Yeah, that’s how you know she’s in a mood.” 

“Why?” Mickey asks, cautiously glancing toward you. 

You shoot him a glare over the kitchen island, dabbing paper towel at the top of your thigh. 

“Bob didn’t talk to her today,” Natasha says. “Like, at all.” 

“Ohhh,” Reuben and Mickey sigh in unison, the sound laced with realisation. 

You toss the damp towel into the sink before turning toward the fridge and yanking it open, bottles rattling. 

“To be fair,” Reuben offers, “you two were on different drills today. He probably just didn’t get the chance.” 

You whirl around, beer in hand, glare sharp. “He asked Phoenix if she wanted to go for a run tomorrow morning—while I was standing right there.” 

You shut the fridge with more force than necessary, then yank open the cutlery drawer and grab the bottle opener. 

“Oh yeah,” Mickey adds. “He asked me too. Wants to do the Coronado Island Loop.” 

You pop the cap off your beer and let it clatter to the floor. “Great. That’s great. Thanks, Mick. Love knowing I was the only one not invited.” 

Natasha sighs, her eyes following you as you trudge back toward the lounge. “I told you—he probably just didn’t think you were interested. When have you ever wanted to go running?” 

Reuben nods. “Yeah, you hate when Mav makes us run laps. You’re always the first to complain.” 

You flop down into your spot and take a long pull from your beer, eyes on the screen. “Yeah, well,” you mutter, “he could’ve asked.” 

“You could’ve spoken up,” Natasha points out. 

You roll your eyes. “Yeah, and invite myself to something I deliberately wasn’t invited to? No thanks.” 

Mickey shakes his head. “Bob wouldn’t leave you out on purpose. He’s too nice.” 

“Exactly,” Reuben says. “It’s Bob. He probably just got awkward about it.” 

You scowl and gesture to Natasha. “He asked Phoenix.” 

“Yeah, but that’s Phoenix,” Mickey says. “They’re crammed together in the cockpit almost all day, every day. She doesn’t make him nervous.” 

You scoff and sink further into the couch. “I do not make him nervous.” 

Natasha sighs again. “Yes. You do. I’ve told you before.” 

“And I don’t believe you,” you say, despite the warmth creeping into your cheeks. “You’re always saying Bob has a thing for me, but I don’t see it. Wouldn’t he actually talk to me if he liked me?” 

“It’s Bob,” Reuben repeats. “He’s not like the rest of us.” 

“Exactly,” Natasha says. “He’s polite and respectful. Way better than the rest.” 

Mickey turns from the TV, shooting her a wounded look. “Ouch.” 

Reuben shrugs. “She’s right. That’s why we can’t tease him about it. We can’t even ask him if he likes you—though we’re pretty sure.” 

You roll your eyes. “How can you be sure when he’s never admitted it?” 

“Oh, it’s so obvious,” Mickey says with a giggle. “He gets all googly-eyed whenever you’re around.” 

You shoot him a sceptical look, brows furrowed. “I don’t see it.” 

“Well, of course he’s not going to let you catch him staring,” Reuben says, a smirk tugging at his lips. “He’s a gentleman.” 

“Yeah, and he’s not stupid,” Natasha adds. 

“But whenever you’re not paying attention,” Mickey continues, “his eyes are glued to you, like a magnet.” 

You roll your eyes, determined to seem unconvinced, even though you can feel the warmth rising in your cheeks. 

“Oh, and every time you’re brought up in conversation,” Reuben says, “he’s locked in.” 

“Unless we’re talking about you and another guy,” Natasha adds with a knowing look “Then he gets all huffy and weird.” 

You snort a laugh before taking another sip of your beer. 

“Why don’t you just ask him out?” Mickey suggests. “Put us all out of our misery. Bob will stop being so awkward, and you’ll stop being so—” He stops when you shoot him a glare. 

“So what, Mick?” 

He turns his gaze back to the TV, muttering, “Moody.” 

You scoff. “Yeah, okay. So, I’m just supposed to believe you guys when I haven’t actually seen any of these so-called signs myself?” 

Reuben and Mickey nod, but Natasha just watches. 

“I’m not doing that,” you say flatly. “I’m not asking him out just to be humiliated.” 

The conversation dies as you turn your attention back to the movie, taking another generous sip of beer. Mickey pulls out his phone to order pizza, and Reuben heads to the fridge for another round of beers. 

You keep your eyes locked on the TV, even though you’re barely watching. Instead, your mind is replaying the day, wondering if you missed the part where it was ‘so obvious’ that Bob has a crush on you. 

It’s hard not to agree with Reuben when he says, ‘It’s Bob,’ because it just is. He’s nice, considerate, raised to respect women and the navy. He’s the perfect officer and the perfect gentleman, and that’s half the reason you’re so damn attracted to him. A gorgeous guy with manners and respect to spare? Yes, please. 

But, God, sometimes you wish he was just a little more basic. A little more in touch with his primal side, instead of always using the higher-functioning part of his brain that most guys don’t even know exists. You’ve never even heard Bob say a woman is attractive, let alone spew some of the caveman shit that comes out of Jake’s mouth. 

And yeah, sure, you could ask him out. He might even say yes, just to be polite. But you don’t want to put that kind of pressure on him or the squad. Him dating you out of pity would be worse than flat-out rejection. 

An hour later, full of pizza and halfway through your fourth beer, you’re curled up with your head on Natasha's shoulder while The Ugly Truth plays on the TV—Mickey’s latest pick. 

“Man, what’s with you and romantic comedies?” Reuben asks, nose wrinkling as he watches Katherine Heigl flail on-screen. 

Mickey shrugs. “Don’t judge. Maybe I’m feeling a little lonely lately.” 

“Aww, Mick,” you coo, voice dripping mock-sympathy. “Better get used to it. You’re going to be alone forever.” 

His head snaps toward you, a scowl forming. “Okay, Miss-I-Refuse-To-Ask-Out-A-Guy-Who’s-Clearly-Into-Me-Because-I’m-Terrified-of-Rejection.” 

A smirk tugs at your mouth. “That was way too long to sting.” 

“Whatever.” He rolls his eyes. “You’re mean when you’re not getting laid.” 

“Hey!” you gasp. “How do you know I’m not?” 

There’s a beat—a static moment where you realise you’ve just fucked up—before they all burst out laughing. And even you can’t help joining in, despite the embarrassed flush crawling across your chest. 

Then suddenly, Natasha jerks upright, knocking your head off her shoulder. Her laughter halts as she stares wide-eyed at the screen, lips parted in a gasp. “Holy shit. I have an idea.” 

“An idea?” Reuben echoes, brows lifting. 

“Yes!” She turns to you, eyes sparkling with mischief. “I know how we’re going to get Bob to admit it.” 

Mickey swivels on the floor to face her. “Admit what?” 

Reuben rolls his eyes. “That he likes Sunny. Duh.” 

“Oh.” Mickey glances your way, then back at Natasha. “How?” 

“He’s only human, right?” she says, and both boys nod. “It’s obvious he likes her—he’s just too damn respectful. He probably thinks she’s out of her league. Or he’s worried about dating someone in the squad. But deep down? He’s still a guy. He has the same thoughts, the same... tendencies. He’s just better at hiding them.” 

Mickey snorts. “Oh yeah. If the way he looks at Sunny in a bikini is anything to go by, he’s definitely got those thoughts.” 

You shoot him a glare. “Don’t be gross.” 

“No, he’s right,” Natasha says quickly. “I hate it, but he’s right. Every time we’re at the beach and you’re half-naked, he looks like he’s barely holding it together.” 

You try to keep your face neutral, but your heart is thudding too fast against your ribs. 

“Wait,” Reuben says, leaning forward. “I think you’re onto something. Like when she squeezes into the booth at the bar and hovers over his lap for a second—he looks like he’s about to combust.” 

“Exactly!” Natasha exclaims. “That’s it. That’s what we need to do—we need to make him snap.” 

You narrow your eyes, ignoring the spark of adrenaline beginning to curl in your gut. “Okay... but how?” 

Natasha turns toward you, her eyes wide and full of focus. The same look she wears just before take-off. “You need to... tease him. Really make him suffer.” 

Mickey’s grin turns wicked. “Oh, this could work.” 

Your brow lifts. “Tease him how?” 

“Tempt him,” Reuben says, matching Mickey’s grin. “Push every button. Get close. Make him want you so badly he can’t hide it anymore.” 

You snort. “So, seduce him?” 

“Worse,” Natasha says. “You’re going to give this man the worst case of blue balls in naval history.” 

Both Mickey and Reuben flinch. 

“He’s going to end up in the hospital with a permanent boner,” Natasha adds, mischief blazing in her eyes. “Crying. On. His. Knees.” 

“Bob’s a good man,” Reuben says solemnly. “He’s respectful. Polite. Sensible. And we’re gonna have to break him.” 

“We?” you repeat, pulse racing. 

“Exactly,” Natasha nods. “If this were any other guy, you could get it done in a day. But Bob? Bob’s built different. If we want to unleash his inner caveman? It’s going to take a team.” 

Your stomach flips, anticipation stirring beneath your skin. 

“It won’t be easy,” Mickey says, his smirk returning. “But it will be fun.” 

“Sunny,” Reuben says, locking eyes with you. “Are you in or are you out?” 

That spark of adrenaline snaps through you like a live wire. 

You nod. “Okay. I’m in.” 

- 

The plan is simple. Straightforward. One objective. Everyone's clear on it. It’s been mapped out and set into motion—now all you have to do is play your part. Which is probably why your heart is hammering against your sternum like a damn war drum. 

“I don’t know, Nat,” you mutter as the two of you walk across the crunchy morning grass. “This feels wrong.” 

“What does?” she asks. “The thong or the plan?” 

You roll your eyes. “Both.” 

“Well, suck it up. There’s no backing down now.” 

You squeeze your eyes shut and take a deep breath. Then you release it and reel yourself in. She’s right. You can’t be a chicken forever—and it’s not like you’re doing anything overtly humiliating. Besides, you’ve got a team at your back, and they’re not going to let you crash and burn. 

Last night, Natasha had texted Bob to let him know she was inviting you on the morning run. He’d replied with a simple thumbs up—something you found a little rude, but the boys insisted he only sends that when he doesn’t know what else to say. Which, apparently, is a good sign. 

This morning, you’d dug deep into your underwear drawer for a lacy black thong you bought a few years ago—back when you were more optimistic about your sex life. You pulled it on, despite the discomfort, and borrowed a pair of light blue workout tights from Natasha. Yep, that’s a black thong under pale blue, skin-tight leggings. 

“Without being creepy,” Mickey says from a few paces behind, “the plan is looking really good from back here.” 

You shoot him a scowl over your shoulder as Reuben smacks his arm, even though he’s wearing the same mischievous grin. 

The four of you wait at a picnic table in the park where you’d agreed to meet, and it doesn’t take long before you spot Bob walking across the grass—dark grey sweats and an oversized U.S. Navy hoodie, his hands tucked firmly into the front pocket. Quite possibly the most innocent, basic outfit he could’ve worn—a ridiculous contrast to yours—and yet you still find yourself thinking wildly inappropriate thoughts. 

About what’s under those sweats. About how good they’d look on your bedroom floor. 

Even the soft smile on his lips as he approaches makes you want to scream. How is one man such pure, soft boyfriend material... yet still manages to awaken your most primal instincts? It doesn’t make any sense. 

“Hey,” he says, eyes skimming over each of you before settling on Natasha. “We ready?” 

Natasha nods, and the five of you start walking off the grass toward the footpath before breaking into a jog. She and Bob take the lead while you hang back, with Reuben and Mickey flanking you like a private escort. Exactly as planned. You might be trying to fluster Bob, but you don’t need half of Coronado getting a look at your underwear—hence the two-man protection detail. 

Two kilometres later, you all stop for a quick stretch. Bob wanders off toward a water fountain, and you seize the opportunity to move up beside Natasha, placing yourself at the front of the group. Again—exactly according to plan. 

When Bob returns and joins in on Reuben and Mickey’s conversation, you and Natasha shuffle a little closer. She props one foot up on the bench, leaning into the stretch as she gives a subtle nod—the signal to begin. 

You let out a shaky breath, then slip on your best cool-and-confident facade. 

“I’m never doing this again,” you say to Nat—loud enough for the boys to hear. 

“I’m just gonna get a quick drink,” Reuben announces, conveniently cutting off their conversation. Right on cue. 

Mickey busies himself with stretching, leaving Bob to ‘accidentally’ overhear what comes next. 

“What?” Natasha asks. “Running? I told you you’d hate it.” 

“No,” you reply, pretending to lower your voice—even though you don’t. “Wearing a fucking thong.” 

She snorts, the laugh surprisingly genuine. Either she’s a fantastic actress, or she’s thoroughly enjoying herself. 

“Why are you wearing a thong?” 

You roll your eyes, falling deeper into the role. “Because I forgot to do my laundry and it was all I had left.” 

She snickers. “Well, have fun on the next eight kilometres.” 

“Oh yeah,” you sigh, “can’t wait.” 

You glance casually over your shoulder—and bingo. Bob’s face is bright red. His lips are slightly parted. And he’s blatantly staring at your ass like it’s the final clue to finding the national treasure—and Nicholas Cage is depending on him. 

Beside him, Mickey looks like he’s about to lose it. 

“Ready to keep going?” Reuben asks, walking back up—perfect timing. 

Everyone nods, and Bob clears his throat, licking his lips quickly. “Yep. Let’s go.” 

You and Natasha take off first, keeping yourselves in the lead. 

Every few minutes, you glance back—and without fail, Bob is staring. Each time, it sends your heart skittering, your cheeks heating, and your thoughts wandering into very unholy territory. 

Maybe your friends have been right all along. Maybe he does like you. Maybe this will actually work. 

By the seventh kilometre—with only three more to go—Bob looks like he’s hanging by a thread. He ditched his hoodie about two k’s ago, tying it around his waist. His hair his clinging to his forehead, damp with sweat, and his glasses are fogging up slightly near the bridge of his nose. 

You glance over your shoulder and give him a small smile. His lips pop open and he immediately averts his eyes, focusing instead on the pavement beneath his feet. You turn back, grinning to yourself, and that’s when he picks up his pace and jogs past both you and Natasha. 

Natasha nearly bursts out laughing, but she smacks a hand to her face, pretending to wipe the sweat from her upper lip. She shoots you a sideways look and a smirk—and the two of you push forward to flank Bob, jogging on either side of him. 

“Hey,” Natasha says, more than a little breathless. “You trying to make this a competition?” 

Bob shakes his head, eyes locked on the path ahead. “Nope. Just staying focused.” 

“What’s so distracting back there?” she asks, fighting a smirk. 

“Is Fanboy being a pest?” you add, giving yourself a layer of plausible deniability—just in case he starts to suspect anything. 

Bob’s gaze flicks to you, then drops briefly to your chest before snapping forward again. “Yeah,” he says, voice uneven. “He’s breathing like Darth Vader.” 

“Hey!” Mickey calls from behind. “I’m not deaf!” 

The five of you share a short, breathless laugh before settling into a comfortable silence. You’re thoroughly exhausted now and decide to give Bob a break for the last few kilometres—merciful, maybe, but also strategic. 

Soon enough, the group slows to a walk as the café marking the end of your run comes into view. 

“Thank God,” Mickey gasps. “I’m starving.” 

“You’re always hungry,” you mutter, shooting him a flat look. 

The café is busier than expected, and you’re about to start crafting a subtle excuse to avoid going in when Reuben steps up behind you and unzips his jacket. 

“Cover your ass up, Sunny,” he says, smirking. “For fuck’s sake.” 

You try—and fail—to suppress your grin as he hands you the jacket. You roll your eyes and tie it around your waist, grateful for the cover. 

Once you’re feeling a little more decent, the group heads inside to order breakfast and find a table out back on the patio. The food and coffee arrive quickly, and soon everyone is digging in, quiet with post-run hunger. Though judging by how often Bob’s eyes keep darting toward you, his appetite might not be entirely food-related. 

“So,” Mickey says through a mouthful of bacon, “are we finishing the Star Wars marathon this weekend, or what?” 

Bob perks up instantly, eyes going bright, the usual stormy blue softening into something more sky-coloured. “Yes. Tomorrow night?” 

Reuben frowns. “But that’s Sunday.” 

“Mav gave us Monday off,” Natasha chimes in. “Weekend rotation, remember?” 

“Oh, right.” Reuben nods. “Yeah, I’m in.” 

“How many are left?” Natasha asks. 

“Six,” Mickey replies. “Not including spin-offs.” 

“We’re not getting through six in one night,” you point out. “We’ll be lucky to finish the prequels.” 

“Unless…” he says, his eyes gleaming with mischief as they flick between everyone at the table, “we had a sleepover.” 

You snort into your coffee before taking a sip, expecting someone—probably Natasha or Reuben—to shut the idea down. But instead, their faces light up with the same devious smirk that Mickey is wearing. 

“We could,” Natasha says casually. “I think it’d be fun.” 

Bob blinks at her. “You do?” 

She nods. “Yeah. Why not? We could play some drinking games and not worry about getting home.” 

“Drinking games!” Reuben echoes with excitement. “You’re a genius, Phoenix.” 

With the way their eyes keep bouncing between you and Bob, it’s clear now: they’re scheming again. Plotting the next phase of Operation Bob's Blue Balls—and your pulse is already quickening with anticipation. 

“We could do it at my place,” Bob offers, earnest as ever. “I’ve got a spare room. Plenty of space.” 

Reuben grins. “What a great idea, Bob.” 

Bob glances around at his grinning friends, the smile on his face tinged with uncertainty. He has no clue what he’s just agreed to. 

- 

“Did you pack sexy PJs?” Natasha asks, her fingers drumming against the steering wheel. 

You roll your eyes. “I don’t own any sexy PJs.” 

She shoots you a sly smirk before her gaze flicks back to the road, her silence thick with something unspoken—as if she already has a plan to remedy your lack of Victoria’s Secret-worthy sleepwear. 

Bob’s apartment isn’t far from yours. In fact, none of you live all that far from each other, but tonight, the distance doesn’t seem to matter. No—the real reason for tonight’s sleepover is something far more sinister. 

You know you’re the last to arrive, not just from the cars parked along the street, but from the group chat where Mickey has been demanding you hurry up so he can order dinner. Your heart beats in your throat as you ride the elevator up, and the ding when it reaches Bob’s level startles you more than it should. 

Natasha’s smirk stays plastered on her face until she knocks on the door, and the second it swings open, with Bob standing there, she’s all business. 

“Hey,” she says casually, walking past him like she’s been here a thousand times. 

A stab of jealousy twists in your stomach—completely unwarranted but sharp nonetheless. Has Natasha been here a lot? 

“Hi,” you mutter, offering Bob a small smile as you follow Nat inside. 

There’s a chorus of hellos from the squad scattered around the living room. Bradley lounges across the two-seater couch furthest from the door, and Mickey is sprawled in a bean bag beside him, grinning like a kid in a candy store. Jake and Javy are tangled together on one end of the three-seater couch, probably having just finished fighting over the remote. And then there’s Reuben, sitting in the middle, with Natasha plopping down beside him. 

“Guess I’ll take the floor,” you mutter, dropping your bag beside the pile of everyone else’s stuff. 

“That’s alright,” Jake says with his usual cocky grin, “You can sit on Bobby’s lap for a bit of comfort.” 

Heat floods your cheeks, but you refuse to let him see the effect of his words. Instead, you roll your eyes and flip him off, then plop down onto the makeshift nest of cushions and blankets on the floor. 

Bob reappears from the kitchen with another round of beers, while Mickey takes orders for dinner. Then Bob settles down beside you, his arm brushing yours just enough to send a sparks crackling across your skin. A moment later, Jake hits play on The Phantom Menace, and the room settles into a comfortable, albeit charged, quiet. 

It doesn’t take long before Jake groans that he’s bored, and Reuben’s eyes immediately flick toward Natasha—like they’d both seen this coming from a mile away. 

“We could play a game,” Mickey offers, all too innocently. 

“Yes,” Jake grins, already invested. “Let’s play a game.” 

“What game?” Javy asks. 

Reuben opens his mouth, but Jake beats him to it. “Truth or Dare, obviously.” 

Natasha snorts and slaps a hand over her mouth, but not before you catch it. That was exactly what Reuben had been about to suggest—and Jake is walking right into whatever scheme they’ve cooked up. 

“How old are you?” Bradley asks Jake, brows furrowing. 

“Not as old as you, Grandpa,” Jake fires back. “But you could at least pretend to enjoy fun.” 

Bradley rolls his eyes but shrugs. “Fine.” 

Everyone else falls in line, shifting around until you’ve all formed a lopsided circle on the floor, your back half-angled toward the movie. Jake claps his hands together like the ringmaster of a circus—which might not be far off from what this night is about to become. 

“Alright. If you’re a chicken and won’t answer the truth or do the dare, you drink. Simple. I’ll go first.” He zeroes in on Bob—poor, unsuspecting Bob, who clearly just wanted to enjoy some Star Wars in peace. “Bob. Truth or Dare?” 

“Truth,” Bob says, almost too quickly. 

Jake leans forward with a shit-eating grin. “Who would you rather go on a date with—Phoenix or Sunny?” 

You choke on nothing, smothering the sound behind your hand and pretending it’s just a casual cough. 

Heat blooms across Bob’s cheeks and starts creeping up to the tips of his ears. He glances your way—just for a beat—then over at Natasha, and your stomach knots. Is he seriously having to think about this? Have your friends been totally misreading Bob this whole time? 

Then, after a moment of hesitation, Bob simply lifts his beer and takes a long sip. 

Jake groans. “Ugh, lame.” 

“Don’t worry, Bob,” Javy says with a laugh. “That was a trap. There was no right answer.” 

Bob chuckles—a low, rough sound right next to you that sends goosebumps up your arms. “I know,” he says, voice deceptively casual. Then he shifts his gaze toward Mickey. “Fanboy. Truth or Dare?” 

Mickey’s face lights up. “Dare.” 

Bob smiles—and for the first time tonight, it’s almost a smirk. There’s something sharp beneath the usual softness, and it makes your stomach flip. 

“Text the last person you hooked up with ‘thinking about you’—no context. And you can't reply until tomorrow.” 

Mickey’s grin drops. “What the fuck, man?” 

Bob just shrugs, raising his beer like it’s a toast. “You picked dare.” Then he brings the bottle to his lips and takes a generous swig. 

And holy shit—you might actually combust from the sight alone. Bob being just a little cocky. Bob utterly destroying Mickey with zero remorse. You know there’s a darker edge beneath that quiet, boy-next-door act. You know he’s got a mean streak. And God, you want to find it. Pull it out of him and ask—beg—for him to do things you can’t even say out loud. 

The group erupts into cackles as Mickey reluctantly pulls out his phone, Reuben peering over his shoulder to make sure he follows through. 

“There,” Mickey mutters, tossing the phone face-down on the floor. “You better watch your back.” 

But Bob doesn’t flinch. He just sits there, calm and collected, with that damn smirk still tugging at the corner of his mouth. 

When you finally tear your gaze away from him, you find Mickey’s eyes locked on you—an evil grin stretched across his face. “Sunny,” he says, voice smooth as silk. “Truth or Dare?” 

You steel your nerves, unsure of what’s coming but already sensing the trap. “Dare,” you reply, trying to keep your voice steady. 

Mickey’s grin widens, tipping his head forward like some sinister villain—and you just walked straight into his web. “Google a dirty line from Fifty Shades of Grey... and whisper it slowly in Bob’s ear.” 

Jake snorts, his face twisted with amusement, and the rest of the group follows—dissolving into fits of laughter. All but Bob, who’s already choking on his beer, turning an even deeper shade of red before you’ve even touched your phone. 

You blink, eyes going wide. “Are you serious?” 

“Oh, I’m very serious,” Mickey replies, practically vibrating with excitement. “And no laughing. You have to sell it.” 

You lock eyes with Mickey, your death-glare sharp as your hands shake slightly while you pick up your phone. Then, you reluctantly tap the search bar and type in ‘dirty line from Fifty Shades of Grey.’ Before you realize what’s happening, Natasha leans over your shoulder. 

“Ooh,” she giggles, pointing at the screen. “That one.” 

You glance up at Bob, your expression a mix of apology and warning. He looks much less confident than before, his lips parted, cheeks flushed, blue eyes wide behind his glasses. His throat bobs as he swallows, and a small part of you—one that feels dangerous—stirs with excitement. 

The room falls into eerie silence, and you realize that Jake has paused the movie. All eyes are on you as you shuffle closer to Bob, getting onto your knees beside him. You plant one hand on his thigh to steady yourself, and you feel the muscles in his leg twitch at your touch. 

His breath hitches, his whole body going rigid. 

You lean in close, your lips barely brushing the shell of his ear as you murmur, “I want your hands on me. Your mouth. I want to feel you everywhere until I forget my own name.” 

A beat of silence stretches, and then Bob exhales sharply, his hand tightening around his beer bottle as if it’s the only thing keeping him tethered to Earth. 

“Jesus Christ,” Jake mutters under his breath. 

“Holy shit,” Reuben says, breaking into laughter. 

Mickey is howling, pounding his fist against the beanbag. “Worth it! So worth it!” 

You slowly pull back, biting back a grin as you settle back into your spot like nothing happened. Bob, however, is still stuck in the mental tailspin you just launched him into, blinking hard and adjusting his glasses like he needs a whole system reset. 

You meet his eyes, and for the briefest second, you see it—buried beneath the shock and heat—that glint of hunger. 

God help you, you're not making it out of tonight alive. 

The game moves on, but you can’t quiet your mind. You’re stuck on the way Bob’s thigh had felt beneath your palm, the way the muscles shifted under your touch. You can’t stop replaying the brush of your lips near his ear, the hitch in his breath, or the way he’d smelled—clean, warm, intoxicating. You don’t just want to fuck this man—you want to ruin him. You want him panting and wrecked, bruised and breathless, oversensitive and spent. There are things you want to ask of him that would guarantee you a one-way ticket to hell. But if he said yes—if he gave you those things—it’d be worth it. 

You’ve never wanted a man the way you want him, and it’s starting to feel like a genuine threat to your well-being. 

“Bob,” Natasha says, her voice snapping you back to reality, “Truth or Dare?” 

You’re not sure how many turns you’ve missed, but Bradley and Reuben seem to have swapped shirts, and there’s a bottle of tequila on the table that definitely wasn’t there earlier. 

“Dare,” Bob replies, seemingly recovered from your whispered indecency. 

Natasha grins. “I dare you to pick someone in this room to do a body shot off of—excluding me.” 

Your heart stutters at the last part. Did she say that because she thought he’d pick her? Would he have? Out of comfort, knowing it wouldn’t mean anything—or for some other reason? 

You shake the thought off quickly and join the group’s laughter, mentally scolding yourself for the jealous spiral. 

“Seriously, Phoenix?” Bob sighs, his brows knit. 

She just shrugs, laughing. “You picked dare.” 

He tips his head back and groans, giving you a perfect view of the long line of his throat, the sharp bob of his Adam’s apple as he swallows. 

“Come on, man,” Jake chuckles, “There’s only one clear choice.” 

Your cheeks flush as Jake nods toward you, green eyes sparkling like he’s the one about to do the dare. 

“As if you’re not going to pick Sunny,” Javy adds, watching as Bob’s eyes slowly scan the room. 

Then his gaze lands on you—soft, but laced with something heavier. Something simmering. 

He licks his lips, and you can’t stop yourself from imagining them on your skin. Imagining his tongue dragging over your body, slow and deliberate. The salt from your collarbone, your abdomen… or maybe lower—right above the waistband of your pants. Would he use the glass? Or would he press his mouth to your stomach, lips sealing around your navel, tongue lapping up the tequila while you tremble beneath him? 

Then the lime—between your lips, waiting for him. His mouth brushing yours as he leans in, breath mingling, tasting more than just the fruit. You imagine the sharp burst of citrus, the tease of contact, tequila heat still slick on his tongue. He’d bite down, lips grazing yours, and it would wreck you more than any kiss ever could. 

“Hangman,” Bob says suddenly, his gaze locked on the man across the circle—who now looks a lot less smug and a lot more stunned. 

Jake’s brows shoot up. “Me?” 

The room erupts into laughter. Bradley throws his head back, already fumbling for his phone to record whatever chaos is about to unfold. Mickey nearly falls over, gripping the bean bag for dear life, and Javy is doubled over, laughing so hard he can’t catch a breath. 

“Why would you do this to me?” Jake gasps, eyes wide. 

“You said there was only one clear option,” Bob replies evenly, the ghost of a smirk tugging at his mouth. “I agree.” 

“You bitch,” Jake mutters. 

“Oh, this is so much better than what I thought was going to happen,” Natasha says. “Shirt off, Bagman. Let’s go.” 

“This could be considered assault,” Jake mutters as he sits forward on the couch. 

“Then press charges,” Bradley says, half-choking on a laugh. “But let him finish first.” 

Natasha bolts to the kitchen for lime and salt, and the rest of the group scrambles to clear space on the lounge like they’re prepping for surgery. Jake peels off his shirt with the theatrics of a martyr, glaring at each of his cackling friends. 

Bob, meanwhile, looks cool as ever—far more composed than Jake. And maybe that’s the point. Picking you would’ve set the room on fire. Picking someone else would’ve gotten laughs. But picking Hangman? That’s just cruel and perfect—and from the slow curl of a smirk on Bob’s lips, he knows it. 

“Let’s go, Seresin,” Natasha says, reappearing with lime in one hand, salt in the other. 

Jake lies back with exaggerated misery, like a man about to be sacrificed at the altar. “I swear to God, Floyd, if you do anything weird with your mouth-” 

“I won’t,” Bob says, calm and unbothered. “Unless you want me to.” 

Your stomach somersaults. He didn’t even look at you—but somehow, it still feels like the line was meant for you. Like he knows exactly what he does to you, without even trying. 

Bob Floyd is fucking smooth when he wants to be. 

The room falls eerily quiet as Bob kneels beside the couch, one hand braced on the cushion beneath Jake’s body, the other holding the tequila bottle. He looks serene—like he’s preparing for a sacred ritual rather than licking salt off another man’s chest. 

“This is happening,” Mickey whispers, wide-eyed. “This is actually happening.” 

“Focus, Bob,” Natasha says solemnly, holding the shot glass as he pours the tequila. “We believe in you.” 

Bob sets the bottle down and leans toward Jake slowly, both hands now braced on the couch as he lowers his head to the other man’s chest. The room is absolutely silent, save for the soft rustle of fabric and the charged hush of everyone holding their breath. 

Jake stares straight up, completely stiff. “Don’t look at me while you do it.” 

“I’m not,” Bob says, deadpan. 

He dips his head and licks the salt clean off Jake’s skin. Jake jerks like he’s been hit with a defibrillator. 

“Oh my God,” Javy whispers, clutching his chest. “This is the best thing I’ve ever witnessed.” 

Natasha hands Bob the shot, and he tosses it back like he’s sampling a fine whiskey. Then he turns to the lime Natasha has jammed between Jake’s clenched teeth. 

“Don’t you dare,” Jake warns. 

“I’m just following instructions,” Bob replies calmly, and leans in. 

There’s a ridiculous half-second where it looks like they’re about to kiss—and everyone knows it. You bite your fist to keep from bursting out laughing… or something else entirely. Because Bob? Cool as ice. Smooth as ever. He doesn’t even flinch as his mouth brushes Jake’s, teeth clamping down on the lime and tugging it free. 

Jake makes a choked sound halfway between outrage and existential crisis. 

Then the room explodes. 

Bradley nearly falls off the lounge, still recording, laughter shaking his whole body. Natasha collapses into Javy’s lap, practically wheezing. Mickey is making noises like he’s being exorcised, and you’re on the brink of tears, shoulders shaking with laughter as Bob calmly returns to his seat, lime in hand, mouth twisted slightly at the tartness. 

Jake bolts upright, wiping his mouth. “I need therapy.” 

Bob frowns. “You needed therapy before that.” 

“Yeah,” Jake spits, yanking his shirt back on. “Well, now I need more.” 

You’re not sure you’ve ever felt it before—and you definitely don’t plan on voicing it—but right now, you are incredibly fucking jealous of Jake Seresin. 

It takes a while, but eventually the group settles down and the game fizzles out—mostly thanks to Jake’s relentless sulking. Not long after, Mickey gets a notification that the food is nearly delivered, and everyone jumps into action to clear the table and grab what’s needed for dinner. 

Less than ten minutes later, you’re all crowded around the coffee table, shovelling Chinese food into your mouths and stealing bites off each other’s plates. Jake’s sour mood has mostly vanished, and everyone is focused on the final battle of the movie playing out on-screen. 

By the time the credits start rolling, most of the food is gone. You and Natasha start carting plates, bowls, and empty containers into the kitchen while the guys finish polishing off their meals, scraping the last of the food off their plates and into their mouths.  

“Did I mention I brought dessert?” Reuben pipes up, eyeing you as you stack a few plates in one hand. 

You raise a brow. “Are you about to make a gross joke?” 

“No,” he laughs, shaking his head. “You know Barb, down the hall?” 

“Neighbour Barb with the yappy chihuahua?” 

He nods. “Yeah. She bakes, like… the most amazing stuff.” 

You narrow your eyes, plates now balanced in both hands. “Do I even want to know how you know this?” 

Mickey answers for him, talking around a mouthful of Mongolian beef. “Because we’re nice to our neighbours.” 

You give him a disgusted look before turning back to Reuben. “Okay. Get to the point.” 

He grins, a smug twist playing at the corner of his mouth. “She made a huge batch of cream pies—I mean, puffs. So she brought some over, and I brought them here. They’re to die for.” 

Your eyes widen almost imperceptibly—but Reuben catches it, and you can see the spark of amusement flash across his face. 

“Have you ever had a cream pie, Sunny?” Mickey asks, beaming up at you with sauce smeared on his face. 

Jake and Javy snort, and behind you—you swear you hear Bob snicker. 

“Yes, Mick,” you bite out. “I’ve had a cream puff.” 

You turn sharply back toward the kitchen, but not before catching the small smirk on Bob’s lips, his cheeks pink as he spoons another mouthful of kung pao chicken into his mouth. 

“That’s not what I asked!” Mickey calls after you, giggling like a grade-schooler. 

You roll your eyes and drop the plates by the sink, where Natasha and Bradley are already washing up. 

“Lookin’ a little red there, Floyd,” Reuben teases, his voice carrying from the living room to the kitchen. 

It’s the chicken,” Bob replies quickly—but there’s something in his voice that makes a stupid, lovesick grin spread across your face. 

Once everything is washed up and everyone has returned to the living room, Jake hits play on the next film. You’re back on the floor, this time with your back pressed to the couch beneath Natasha, who’s curled up with her legs tucked beneath her, leaving you space to lean. Bob is further away now, sprawled on his back across a fluffy blanket, a cluster of pillows beneath his head, hands folded neatly over his stomach. 

You try to keep your eyes on the screen—it really shouldn’t be that hard with both Hayden Christensen and Ewan McGregor to enjoy—but your gaze keeps drifting to Bob. He looks so content, so cute, his lips tipped into a soft half-smile and his blue eyes sparkling behind his glasses. There’s something about him that turns your brain to absolute mush, and you still can’t figure out what. 

Maybe it’s the dichotomy of him. How sweet and quiet he is—some might even say shy, but you know better. He’s just overwhelmingly nice, with a pretty face to match. And yet, you have to remind yourself that this man is in the navy. He’s not spineless—in fact, he’s the total opposite. He’s sharp and quick-witted, strong both mentally and physically. There’s not a single thing about him that’s weak, yet he lets people assume otherwise. 

Maybe it’s confidence. The kind that doesn’t need to be loud. He doesn’t care what people think or say. Not that he isn’t awkward sometimes—he definitely can be—but that’s more about being introverted. He doesn’t need to show off or run his mouth like Jake. He doesn’t need to fly like an idiot to prove himself. He’s just Bob. He knows who he is, and he’s not apologetic about it. 

What is it they call that? 

Oh yeah… big dick energy. 

Your eyes drift down his torso, lingering briefly on his hands—the way his long fingers are laced together—before continuing down to the waistband of his dark blue joggers. There’s a bulge in his lap. A notable one. And a slight outline continuing down the left leg of his pants… 

Wait. That’s like… kind of huge. 

A hard nudge to your shoulder startles you, and you whip around to see Natasha staring at you. Her eyes are wide, her lips pulled into a smirk—half disbelieving, half smug. 

Stop staring, she mouths. 

You press your lips together to hold back a laugh, a little giddy from your fourth—or maybe fifth—beer. Your face feels warm, and you know if you keep looking at Nat, you’ll start laughing, so you quickly turn back to the movie. 

“Okay,” Mickey pipes up, scrambling out of the beanbag and to his feet, “who wants cream puffs?” 

“Only if you serve them warm and full,” Jake shoots back. 

The room erupts—half groans, half childish laughter. Mickey just snorts and disappears into the kitchen, Reuben trailing behind him. A few minutes later, they return, each holding a heaping plate stacked with warm, golden cream puffs. 

“Fair warning,” Reuben says, setting one down on the table, “these things are insane. Like... dangerously good.” 

You grab one without hesitation—soft, golden, still warm to the touch. It’s dusted in powdered sugar and practically bursting with cream. You bite into it and—holy hell—the taste explodes in your mouth. Sweet. Rich. Ridiculously creamy. You moan without meaning to, eyes fluttering shut. 

“Oh, wow,” you say around a mouthful. “That’s... actually insane.” 

The group hums and laughs in agreement, but you barely notice. You take another bite—bigger this time—and it squishes a little too easily in your hand. Cream oozes out the side, trailing down your chin and, with an audible plop, lands squarely between your breasts. 

“Oh, shit,” you mutter, trying to swipe the cream away—but all you manage to do is smear it further. 

There’s a beat of silence, and even the movie playing in the background seems to go quiet. 

“Jesus Christ,” Reuben says, somewhere between impressed and scandalised. “You sure you don’t need a minute alone with that thing?” 

Laughter rumbles around you, and only when you look up do you realise how provocative that just was—the heat in your cheeks deepening. But then your eyes catch on Bob. 

He’s not laughing. He’s not even blinking. 

The lazy smile he wore earlier? Gone. He’s sitting upright now, shoulders tense, jaw clenched. His gaze is locked on you like he forgot what movie is playing, what day it is—hell, maybe even his own name. 

“Floyd?” Mickey nudges his leg with a foot. “You good?” 

Bob jolts slightly, as if waking from a trance. He coughs, shifts, and yanks the blanket from the floor to cover his lap—too quickly to be casual. 

“They, uh...” he clears his throat, voice rough. “They look really good.” 

Your stomach swoops as he leans forward, still holding the blanket tight in place, and reaches for a cream puff from the plate right in front of you—still avoiding your eyes entirely. 

Natasha leans in from behind, her voice low. “You are killing him.” 

You press your lips together to hide your grin, eyes flicking back to Bob—who’s now doing everything in his power not to look in your direction. 

The cream puffs disappear in what has to be a record amount of time. You’re pretty sure you watched Javy inhale at least four, and there was an unnecessarily loud argument between Mickey and Bradley over the last one, which ended in a begrudging decision to split it. 

The rest of the movie plays out without incident, and afterward, everyone decides to change into their PJs for the final film of the night. You’re honestly surprised everyone has made it to movie number three, but you’re not complaining. 

The boys start rummaging through their bags, swapping out jeans for boxers or stretchy pajama pants while Natasha grabs her bag and disappears into the bathroom. You keep your eyes glued to your phone screen to avoid catching a glimpse of something you definitely don’t want to see—because these boys? They have no shame. 

“You can change in my room if you want,” Bob offers. 

You glance up, making sure to keep your eyes fixed on him, because just a little to the left is where Jake is still mid-change. 

“Yeah?” 

Bob nods, a small smile tugging at his lips as he gestures down the short hallway past the kitchen. “It’s the door just after the bathroom.” 

“Thanks,” you mutter, pushing to your feet and grabbing your bag as you slip past the others—now teasing Mickey about his choice of boxers. 

The door is open just a crack, and your heart thuds a little harder than it should as you ease it the rest of the way. The smell hits first—clean and warm, with a twist of vanilla that makes you want to wrap yourself in it and never leave. 

You flick on the light and shut the door behind you, dropping your bag to the floor. You know you should just get changed, but… you can’t help it. You’ve only been to Bob’s apartment a couple times before—once to help him move in (because of course the whole squad helped), and once with Natasha to pick him up before a night out. But never in here. Never in his room. 

It’s almost unusually tidy, but that’s navy life for you. His bed is made neatly, topped with a soft baby blue duvet, coordinated beige and cream pillows, and a throw blanket folded at the foot. It’s a little faded and looks handmade, like something passed down through generations. 

On one side of the room, a bookshelf houses a quiet little collection of well-loved paperbacks, a few aviation manuals, and a line of model planes—some pristine and precise, others clearly glued together by a much younger version of him. A framed photo of a beaming, pint-sized Bob in oversized glasses sits on the dresser, nestled between a small baseball trophy and a display of navy challenge coins. 

A pair of worn sneakers sits neatly by the door, and his uniform jacket hangs off the closet handle, the door slightly ajar. The name tag catches just enough light to pull your eyes toward it. Everything about the room feels like him—modest, thoughtful, quietly proud. It’s the kind of unintentional intimacy that makes you feel like you’ve slipped behind the curtain and gotten a glimpse of the real Bob. 

And somehow… that makes your chest ache. It’s just a room. But it feels so much like him—like you could curl up in here with him for hours, doing nothing but talking and dreaming. Getting lost in each other. Letting the rest of the world wait. And then, later, getting tangled together. Soft kisses, whispered pleas, gentle moans—slow and unhurried, learning one another’s bodies until you know each other better than you know yourselves. 

You shake your head hard and take a breath. You’ve already been in here too long. Pull it together. 

You crouch beside your bag and pull out your pajamas—soft lounge shorts and a matching long-sleeved shirt. It’s nothing special, but a step up from your usual: an old, food-stained navy tee and nothing but underwear. 

You change quickly and shove your clothes into your bag before leaving the room. The lounge room has quieted down, everyone now back in their seats—except for Mickey and Bob, who are in the kitchen grabbing another round of drinks. 

Jake hits play as soon as they return, and everyone settles in again. There’s less chatter now, probably because of how late it’s gotten. Bradley is almost definitely asleep, eyes half-shut on the two-seater, while Mickey is having the time of his life seeing how many of Bradley’s fingers he can get stuck in the top of his beer bottle. 

Natasha is curled up behind you, her head resting on Reuben’s shoulder, and his blinks are getting longer and slower by the second. Jake is surprisingly alert and invested in the film, but Javy looks like his head might lull back at any moment. And Bob—Bob is still wide awake, his eyes sparkling with interest as he watches the screen. 

Halfway through the film, Mickey pushes to his feet and offers another round of drinks, prompting a few sleepy murmurs of ‘yes’ from the others. 

“I’ll help,” you offer, stretching as you rise from the floor and follow him into the kitchen. 

You open the fridge and start pulling out beers while Mickey pops the tops off. But when you close the fridge and turn back around, you spot Reuben—now suddenly very awake—watching Mickey with intent. He’s wearing that little smirk that always means trouble, clearly trying to telepathically communicate something to his WSO. 

Your brow furrows as you glance between them, trying to decode the silent exchange. Mickey looks equally confused for a second... but then realisation dawns and a wicked grin curls onto his face. 

He turns to you and mutters, “Sorry about this.” But he doesn’t sound even remotely apologetic. 

Your frown deepens. “What are you-” 

But you don’t get to finish the question before he starts shaking the beer bottle in his hand. 

“Mick—!” you cry, just as he pops the top off and sprays you with beer. 

You shriek, throwing your hands in front of your face like that’ll somehow stop the onslaught. But it doesn’t. You’re soaked. 

“What the hell, Fanboy?” Reuben calls from the living room, as if this wasn’t entirely his doing. 

“Mickey!” you shout, dropping your arms and glaring at him. 

“Whoops,” he says with a grin. “My bad.” 

Natasha snorts and smacks a hand over her mouth. “Sorry. It’s not funny.” 

“Wow, Fanboy,” Jake pipes up, the smirk in his voice unmistakable. “Is that the first time you’ve made a girl wet?” 

Mickey glares—or tries to. He’s way too pleased with himself for it to land properly. 

“Hey, Floyd,” Reuben calls, “you got any spare clothes for Sunny?” 

Bob is already looking at you, lips parted and cheeks flushed. He swallows hard before turning to Reuben and nodding. “Yeah, of course.” Then he stands, eyes flicking back to you. “Do you want to shower?” 

Mickey gasps, scandalised. “Robert Floyd, are you propositioning her?” 

Bob’s blush deepens, colouring his neck and the tips of his ears, but he doesn’t look particularly ashamed. He looks… flushed. Hot. Close to unravelling. His glare cuts back to Mickey, sharper than usual, a little too dark to be playful. And then his gaze shifts back to you—specifically, your chest. 

You follow his line of sight and immediately wrap an arm around yourself. Your nipples are pebbled beneath your shirt, the damp fabric clinging in all the worst ways. Or the best—if you ask Bob Floyd. 

“Yes,” you say tightly. “A shower would be good.” 

The room dissolves into quiet laughter as you follow Bob down the hall. He slips into his room for a moment, then returns with a folded towel and some clothes stacked neatly on top. 

“Here,” he says, offering them to you. “Take as long as you want. You can use whatever’s in there. Not that there’s much.” 

He dips his head—blush still firmly in place—and heads back to the living room. 

You stare after him for a second, dumbfounded. He got embarrassed about his lack of shower products? That’s what embarrassed him? Not the full-body, post-beer-shower eye-fucking he just gave you? 

You close the bathroom door behind you and lean against it, exhaling hard. You’re buzzing. Overstimulated. Untouched and on fire. You feel like you’re being edged and then abandoned, left to squirm. You’re so sensitive it hurts. Bob is teasing you just as much as you’re teasing him—those glances, the heat behind his eyes, the way his mouth hangs open like he wants to say something but never does. 

You might’ve thought you were playing a game, but Bob Floyd is about to kill you without even realising it. 

You strip quickly, trying not to dwell on the fact that you’re naked in Bob’s apartment. You keep the water on the cooler side—a half-hearted attempt to wash away the heat still simmering under your skin. But it doesn’t help. You shower fast and step out even faster, wrapping yourself in the towel Bob gave you. It’s fluffy, soft, and smells just like him—which makes that spot deep behind your hipbones ache. 

You dry off in record time, then turn to the small pile of clothes on the vanity—Bob’s clothes. Your hands tremble slightly as you lift the satin boxers, dark blue with little white stars, and slide them up your legs. Then the shirt: a worn white tee with a faded Star Wars logo across the chest. 

His scent wraps around you the second you slide it over your head—oversized and impossibly soft against your warm skin. You try not to focus on the rasp of cotton against your nipples. God, if he ever actually touches you, you might just combust. 

You take a deep breath, trying to calm the fire burning low in your belly, then scoop up your beer-soaked clothes and open the bathroom door—steam spilling into the hallway as you step out. 

"Finally," Mickey says, popping up in front of you like he’s been waiting, holding out a plastic bag. 

You blink. “What?” 

“For your clothes,” he says simply. 

“Oh.” You take it and shove the damp material inside. 

His gaze dips—just for a beat—before sliding back up. Then he grins, gives you a cheeky wink, and turns back toward the lounge room. You follow, every eye lifting to you the second you reappear. Warmth floods your cheeks. You’re in Bob’s clothes. Bob's boxers. Bob's shirt. 

“Can we play the movie now?” Jake whines, oblivious to the tension humming through the room. “It was just getting good.” 

You nod, unable to speak, your gaze already locked with Bob’s. 

His eyes rake down your body, slow and deliberate. He takes in the curve of your neck, the slope of your shoulder, the hang of his shirt against your chest. His gaze catches there, as if he can see straight through the fabric, then continues its journey down to the hem. The shorts are barely visible beneath the shirt, and judging by the heat in his eyes, he might be wondering why you're wearing pants at all. 

You shift under the weight of his stare, hyper-aware of every inch of fabric against your skin—of how suddenly hot the room feels. Jake presses play, but no one is watching the screen. Every pair of eyes bounces between you and Bob, waiting—expecting—something to happen. 

Bob looks wrecked. His hands are clenched at his sides, knuckles white, jaw tight. Like he has to physically hold himself back. 

Natasha clears her throat, startling you more than it should. You tear your gaze away and flash her a sheepish smile before finally forcing yourself to move, padding back to your spot on the floor. 

Even then, you can feel Bob’s eyes tracking every step. 

The rest of the movie plays out in near silence, broken only by the soft snoring that eventually starts up from Bradley and Javy. It takes a while for you to settle, but you finally curl up on the floor with a pillow hugged to your chest, watching Anakin fall apart on-screen and become Darth Vader. 

Jake is the only one still fully invested in the film. Even Bob seems distracted now, his eyes flicking toward you more often than the TV. He shifts in place, uncomfortable, dragging the blanket higher across his lap and holding it like a lifeline. You try not to smirk. 

You think you know what might be going on under there… but you’re not about to assume. It couldn't possibly be just because you’re wearing his clothes. 

…Right? 

Eventually, the credits start rolling and everyone begins to stir. 

“Where am I sleeping?” Mickey asks, already eyeing Bob like he’s got plans. 

Bob shrugs. “Wherever. There’s the couches and a couple beds in the spare room, but someone’ll have to sleep with me.” 

“I think Rooster’s good here,” Jake says, glancing at the man awkwardly passed out on the two-seater couch. “I’ll take this one.” 

“I’ll sleep with you, Bobby,” Javy says through a yawn, stretching so wide his joints pop. 

“Damn it,” Mickey mutters as he walks past, bumping your shoulder with his. “Missed opportunity.” 

You roll your eyes but can’t help feeling a twinge of disappointment. You know damn well you wouldn’t get any sleep next to Bob—not when he smells like that, looks like that, and keeps looking at you the way he does. So it’s probably for the best, but still, the thought lingers. 

Everyone takes turns brushing their teeth and shuffling off to bed. You end up in the fold-out bed with Natasha in the spare room, while Reuben and Mickey claim the air mattress on the floor. Apparently, there’s no escaping these boys—not even for one night. 

Mumbled goodnights fade into rustling fabric and shifting limbs, then finally, silence. 

Too much silence. 

You lie on your back, eyes on the ceiling, thoughts screaming through your head like they’re in a race. You should be tired—your body aches—but your brain refuses to shut up. You toss the blanket off, overheated, but even with the cooler air, your skin feels flushed. You roll to your side, careful not to jostle Natasha on the creaky mattress, but nothing helps. 

You glance down at the boys, both snoring with their mouths open, and finally sigh. Swinging your legs off the bed, you wriggle out of Bob’s shorts, thinking maybe it’ll help. You don’t usually sleep in pants anyway. 

It doesn’t. 

Ten minutes later, you quietly slip off the bed and tiptoe toward the door, easing it open with practiced care to avoid the squeaky hinges. Then you turn down the hallway, barefoot and warm-skinned, and pad into the kitchen. 

The hem of Bob’s shirt brushes against your bare thighs, stoking the fire already simmering between them as you stop in front of the fridge and pull the door open. A cool flood of light spills across the kitchen tiles. You grab a bottle of water and twist off the cap, stepping back and tipping it to your lips. But the cold rush does nothing to cool the heat thrumming beneath your skin. 

“You always walk around other people’s places half naked?” 

You choke, almost spilling water down your chin as you turn toward the voice—that low, raspy sound that makes your skin prickle and your spine snap straight. 

Bob stands at the edge of the kitchen, leaning casually against the far counter—but there’s nothing relaxed about the way he holds himself. In the dim glow of the fridge light, he looks almost ethereal. His eyes are sharp, lit with something that borders on pain—hunger, maybe, or full-blown starvation—and his arms are crossed over his bare chest. 

Yeah. Bob Floyd is shirtless. 

You register a flicker of jealousy for Javy—the man who gets to sleep next to this—but you don’t let yourself linger on it. Not when Bob is standing right there in nothing but a pair of loose boxers, the fabric doing nothing to hide the impressive shape beneath. 

You don’t know if it’s because he’s a little turned on or just blessed, but damn. 

“You okay?” he asks, though it doesn’t sound like a real question—because he already knows the answer. 

No. No, you’re not. 

You clear your throat, dragging your eyes back up to his. “Yeah, I—uh-” 

Your words falter when his gaze drops to your legs. There’s something almost reverent in the way he looks at you—like he’s trying to memorise every inch. His eyes drag slowly up your bare thighs, pausing at the hem of his shirt before gliding over your waist and stopping at your chest, where your nipples are clearly outlined beneath the thin cotton. 

The heat of his stare burns hotter than any touch. 

“Couldn’t sleep?” he asks, voice quiet, like he’s just making conversation. Like he has no idea what he’s doing to you. 

He pushes off the counter and walks straight toward you—slow, but sure. He stops right in front of the fridge, close enough that if you moved even a breath closer, you’d feel your nipples graze his skin. 

You take a step back—barely. Just enough to let him slip past you. 

He nods slightly—a silent thanks—and ducks into the fridge for his own water. When he shuts the door, the kitchen is plunged into darkness, save for dim moonlight filtering in from the far windows—but you can still see him. His outline, the dips and curves of his lean torso, the tilt of his head as he tips the bottle back and drinks. 

You watch his throat move with every swallow, your lips parting slightly, craving his skin on your tongue. You don’t move. You don’t breathe. You just stand there, watching. 

When he finishes, he turns to the sink and drops the empty bottle in before bracing both hands against the bench. His chin dips toward his chest, and you see the rise and fall of his shoulders as he exhales—hard. 

Before you can stop yourself, your feet carry you forward until you’re beside him, your bare arm brushing against his. You place your own bottle in the sink, then turn toward him and lean your hip against the counter. 

“Bob,” you whisper. 

Every sound in the apartment feels louder now—the faint snores, the creak of the floorboards, your own heartbeat thrumming in your ears. 

He looks at you, only turning his head, not his body. “Don’t—” he says softly. “Don’t say my name like that.” 

You frown, sliding your hand over his. His grip tightens on the bench like he’s anchoring himself. 

“Like what?” you ask softly. 

“Like you want me,” he murmurs. His voice is thick—rough around the edges like it’s been scraped raw. Like he's holding something back with every laboured breath. 

You press closer, your chest against his arm. The contact is electric. Your skin separated only by a whisper of cotton—his cotton. 

“Bob,” you breathe, a little desperate now. 

He exhales sharply and drops his gaze to the sink again, like something there might help him. “This isn’t…” His jaw flexes. “We can’t do this.” 

“Do what?” you ask, playing innocent, even as your fingers trail lightly up his arm. 

You can feel your chest rising and falling faster than it should, your breasts pressing against his arm like some wanton, starry-eyed girl. But you can’t bring yourself to step away. Every inch of you is on fire, every nerve ending singed and tingling. You want him to turn around and take you—bend you over the counter and make you scream his name. Who gives a fuck who’s listening... or watching. You just want Bob. You want him to know how much you want him, how deeply you need him. How desperate he makes you without even trying. 

“Do you have any idea,” he whispers, finally turning to face you fully, “what you do to me?” 

You feel it—hard and thick—pressing against your lower belly. There’s no mistaking it now. 

“Bob…” Your voice is a sigh, wrecked and begging. 

He catches your wrist, his grip firm, nearly bruising. His eyes are wild as they search your face—from your eyes to your lips, down to your chest, and back again—like he’s torn between reason and ruin. 

You hold still. Waiting. Daring. Wanting him to snap. 

But then... he’s gone—his warmth, his scent, the burning look in his eyes. All of it, gone in a breath. 

“Goodnight,” he mutters, so low you barely hear it before the soft click of his bedroom door… and then the snap of the lock. 

You’re left standing there, chest heaving, skin burning. Your eyes sting with unshed tears, and your mind is a mess. What the fuck just happened? Your panties are damp, and your chest aches like you've been torn in two. You want to cry, but you also want to break down his door. How dare he build you up like that? Look at you like that, talk to you like that—and then just walk away. 

It takes several minutes before you can move, your legs shaky, your mind racing. You stumble back to the spare room, collapse into bed, and stare at the ceiling, flat on your back—Bob’s shirt clinging to your skin. 

You don’t sleep. Not at all. 

- 

“He what?” Natasha’s eyes go impossibly wide. “And then he just—he left?” 

You nod slowly, keeping your eyes fixed on your lunch. The mess hall is loud enough to muffle your conversation—one you should’ve had yesterday but couldn’t summon the strength for. So here you are, in the middle of the hall, with the boys a couple tables over, surrounded by lieutenants you don’t know—blissfully unaware of your current crisis. 

“Yeah,” you sigh, stabbing at another piece of pasta you don’t plan to eat. 

You haven’t eaten much in the last twenty-four hours—not since the run-in with Bob. Everything feels bland now, drained of colour and taste, too dull to bother with. Anything that isn’t Bob just feels lacking, and you're starting to worry that one moment—one heated, breathless moment—has completely ruined you. 

“That’s insane,” Natasha mutters. “That’s so... not Bob. How could he be so—I don’t know... rude? I just—I have no words.” 

You shrug one shoulder. “It wasn’t rude. He just seemed... confused, I guess. And I don’t blame him. If I’m not what he wants, then-” 

“Stop right there,” Mickey interrupts, sliding into the chair beside you. 

Reuben drops into the seat next to Natasha, eyeing your tray of food. 

“Sorry,” he says, reaching across the table to steal your apple. “We couldn’t get away any faster.” 

You glance past Mickey, down the row of tables, and catch Bob’s eyes on you—just for a second—before he quickly looks away. Bradley, Jake, and Javy are still deep in conversation with the other guys, oblivious. Bob seems to be the only one noticing Reuben and Mickey’s absence. 

“Start again,” Mickey says. “From the beginning. We knew something happened.” 

Natasha snorts around a mouthful of pasta, and you sigh, knowing there’s no point arguing. They’d get it out of you one way or another. 

Twenty minutes later, when you finally finish recapping the story for the second time, Natasha taps her watch and nods toward the exit. “We better get back before Mav, or he’ll keep us late tonight.” 

Mickey’s brows are nearly touching as he processes everything you’ve said. “What does he mean, ‘you can’t do this’? He clearly wanted to—so why didn’t he?” 

You pick up your tray and follow Natasha toward the return station. “Your guess is as good as mine.” 

“I mean,” Reuben says, brows furrowed, “you said he was... at attention, right?” 

You blow a half-hearted laugh through your nose. “Yeah.” 

“So he definitely wanted to,” he says as the four of you exit the mess hall. “I just can’t think of why he wouldn’t go for it.” 

“I think it’s because you’re in the same squad,” Natasha offers. “He’s probably worried it’ll get weird—or worse, if it doesn’t work out.” 

You roll your eyes as you cross the hot concrete, heading back to the hangar. “But we’re both adults. Why can’t he just sack up and fuck me, and we’ll worry about the consequences later?” 

Your voice comes out louder than you meant, and you don’t miss the odd looks a few passing officers send your way. 

Reuben chuckles. “Maybe you should just say that to him.” 

“No,” Natasha says, turning toward you with a mischievous glint in her eye. “I’ve got a better idea. Call it Plan B or whatever, but now... we’re bringing out the big guns.” 

“So Sunny pressing her tits against him wasn’t the big guns?” Mickey quips with a grin. 

You smack him lightly across the chest before looking back to Natasha. “I doubt anything will work at this point, but... I’m curious. What’s the idea?” 

“How’s your gag reflex?” she asks, tilting her head thoughtfully. 

You rear back, eyebrows raised—and both Reuben and Mickey choke on laughter. 

Natasha sighs, rolling her eyes. “Not like that. I mean you’re going to need a strong stomach and a Juilliard degree to pull this off.” 

You frown, slowing just slightly as the hangar looms into view. “Okay...” 

She straightens up and faces forward, a proud smirk tugging at her mouth and her chin tilted high. “We’re going to make Bob jealous.” 

- 

Out of Mickey and Reuben, you all collectively decided that Reuben was the more convincing option. Not that you don’t think Mickey’s gorgeous—you do, and so does he—but his acting skills are questionable at best. You at least have a little more faith in Reuben’s ability to fake flirt without making it weird. 

The plan is simple. Convince Bob that he’s lost his shot—or that he’s just about to. Make it clear you’re happy to move on. If he wants you... well, now he’s going to have to fight for it. Because tempting him wasn’t enough—apparently—you need to dig deeper. Tap into something primal and pull it to the surface. Exploit what lingers under the skin of every man: jealousy and competition. 

You’re going to make this a game he can’t afford to lose. 

“You ready for Phase Two?” Natasha asks as you cross the base, the sun still barely above the horizon. 

You take a deep breath of fresh morning air. “Let’s do it.” 

She and Mickey take off ahead of you and Reuben to arrive in the training room first. It’s a known fact that Bob is always ridiculously early—so you know he’ll already be there. You hang back with Reuben, rehashing the plan and trying to get used to flirting with him without cracking up. 

At exactly ten past six, Natasha texts you to give the green light—no doubt having casually pointed out to Bob that you’re not with her, which you always are. 

“What if he doesn’t care?” you ask Reuben softly as you climb the stairs. 

He rolls his eyes like you’ve said something utterly insane. “He’ll care, trust me. He might be Bob, but he’s still a guy. And he’s obviously down bad for you—just needs a little push.” 

You snort. “Little?” 

Reuben chuckles. “Okay, more than a little. It’s Bob.” 

You laugh too, quietly, and then steel yourself as you reach the door—slipping on your game face. You glance at Reuben, catching the smirk tugging at his mouth. 

Then you both nod. It’s show time. 

“So, you’re saying eye contact makes it better?” he asks as you step through the door, voice pitched perfectly. 

You nod, casual but with a hint of something else. “Yep. A thousand times better. And bonus points if you know where to put your hands.” 

He raises a brow, lips twitching. “Where do I put my hands?” 

You giggle, soft and flirty, pausing a few steps into the room. “How about I show you later?” 

His grin breaks loose. “Promise?” 

“Promise.” 

You head toward the rows of seats, sliding into your usual behind Natasha—not missing the way Bob’s gaze locks onto you like he’s been caught mid-thought. His head swivels as Reuben sits beside you instead of next to Mickey. 

“See,” Reuben says, leaning in a little, “all these years I thought speed was the key. But you’re saying it’s finesse?” 

“Oh, definitely finesse,” you say, holding his eyes. “Go too hard and too fast, and it’s just... messy. Sloppy. Unimpressive.” 

Reuben licks his lips, his eyes flicking sideways to Bob—just for a second. “So, you’re offering me private lessons?” 

You lower your voice slightly, knowing it’s still perfectly audible to the rest of the room. “Depends. Can you follow instruction without getting too flustered?” 

Reuben’s grin sharpens. “I don’t fluster, sweetheart. I excel under pressure.” 

You pause, your pulse a little too quick—partly from Bob’s stare, which he’s not even trying to hide now, and partly from the fact that yeah, it’s been a while. And if this whole plan does blow up in your face... well, Reuben doesn’t seem like the worst option for a little stress relief. 

You fight down a laugh at the idea and finally drag your gaze toward the front of the room. Bob—just one row ahead—snaps his eyes forward like he’s been caught eavesdropping, but the bright red of his cheeks, the tight set of his shoulders, and the way his jaw flexes say it all. He’s tense. He’s listening. And he’s absolutely not okay. 

A moment later, Maverick strolls in, completely oblivious to the emotional warfare brewing right beneath his nose. 

The rest of the week passes in much the same way. Each evening, you regroup with your friends to scheme and strategize, brainstorming new antics to pull off the next day. Nothing over-the-top—just enough to catch Bob’s eye. 

On Wednesday, you get Reuben to help you into your flight suit. You both time it perfectly: he exits the locker room just ahead of Bob, and you appear a second later, flashing a flirty grin before asking sweetly for his help. You giggle and call him a sweetheart while Bob nearly trips over his own feet, glancing back with a clenched jaw and a look that could burn a hole through steel. 

Thursday morning, Reuben brings you a coffee—exactly how you like it—straight to the briefing room. You proclaim, not so quietly, that he’s giving total boyfriend material before he drops into the seat beside you and you both giggle over a (completely fabricated) inside joke. 

That afternoon, during a short break between drills and the next briefing, he offers you a bite of his protein bar. You take it right from his hand, licking your lips and throwing him an innocent little wink before sauntering off like it’s nothing. 

By Friday, Natasha warns you that the others are starting to notice. But you’re in too deep to pull back now—not when Bob looks like he’s about to unravel. He’s been tighter than ever, watching you like a hawk, eyes dark and stormy instead of their usual calm denim blue. You’re close. So close. And honestly? You’re kind of having a little too much fun. 

That afternoon, during post-flight checks, Reuben sidles up behind you under the guise of pointing out something ‘mechanical’ on your jet. You’re not actually doing anything with it, but that doesn’t stop him from standing unnecessarily close, guiding your hand with his as he gestures toward something supposedly critical. The two of you are seconds from cracking up, but Bob doesn’t know that. Bob, from all the way across the hangar, looks frozen—eyes locked, breath held, jaw tight—as Reuben presses flush against your back. 

Natasha really shouldn’t be enjoying this as much as she is, but honestly? She can’t help it. It’s too damn entertaining. 

“Hey,” she says, nodding at Bob as she approaches. “You good?” 

He blinks, then turns his sharp gaze on her, jaw tight. “Yeah.” 

She snorts. “That was very convincing.” 

He rolls his eyes and turns robotically back to the maintenance logs he’d been filling out. 

Natasha glances at the paperwork, noting the hard press of his pen and the uneven ticks and crosses—some scribbled over multiple times—down the checkbox column. 

“Wow,” she mutters, raising a brow. “You sure you earned your pen licence? Or should you still be on pencils?” 

Bob’s blue eyes flick up, darker than usual beneath his furrowed brow. “Ha. Ha.” 

“Okay,” she says, biting back the laugh rising in her throat. “So, bad day?” 

“Bad week,” Bob grumbles. 

Natasha nods slowly. “Well, hey, why don’t we fix that by hitting up The Hard Deck tonight?” 

He snaps the logbook shut and tucks the pen into his pocket. “Pass.” 

“Oh, come on,” she sighs. “It might make you feel better.” 

His eyes flick toward you again, watching as you and Reuben dissolve into giggles beside your jet. 

“I doubt it.” 

“Sunny’ll be there,” Natasha says, her voice light and teasing. 

Bob doesn’t respond. Just keeps packing up his things—every motion a little too sharp, a little too fast. 

Natasha exhales. “Come on, dude. Just come for one drink—it doesn’t have to be beer. Blow off some steam. If you hate it, you can bail early. But it won’t be the same without you.” 

He takes a breath and closes his eyes for a beat before letting it out slow. “Fine. One drink.” 

Natasha grins, her eyes sparkling even in the dimming light of the hangar. “Perfect.” 

Later that night, Natasha drives the four of you—Reuben and Mickey included—to the bar. Everyone else agreed to meet there, and she insisted on driving so you could have a few drinks. Not just to loosen up for another round of torturing poor Bob, but to actually let loose a little. She can tell this whole thing is winding you up, and she figures a few beers and a night with friends might help ease the tension—and the guilt—and maybe even the gnawing fear that this whole plan could blow up in your face. 

“Nat, are you sure this dress isn’t too short?” you ask, holding the hem down against the curve of your ass as you follow her toward the main entry door. “I haven’t worn it in years.” 

“There’s no such thing as too short,” Mickey says, deadpan. 

You roll your eyes and step inside, into the warm glow of golden lighting and the low hum of half-drunk conversation. You let go of your dress now that there’s no breeze threatening to lift it, and try to relax, even with the strange sensation of bare legs in public. You’re used to flight suits, not feeling this on display. 

“Ready to put on your best performance yet?” Reuben murmurs, slinging an arm over your shoulder. 

You take a deep breath, feeling it rattle faintly in your chest. “Let’s do this thing.” 

Natasha shoots you a wink over her shoulder, already striding confidently across the bar, her gaze locked on the usual booth where the rest of your friends are waiting. 

There’s a chorus of greetings as the four of you approach, and you all grin and wave, waiting as Bradley, Jake, Javy, and Bob shuffle around to make room. Natasha pointedly takes the spot beside Bob, with Mickey sliding in next to her. You claim the seat beside Jake—which puts Reuben on your other side. Just as planned. 

It’s a little squishy, but after so many nights like this, none of you really notice. Except Bob. He’s noticed tonight. His eyes are locked on the way your side is pressed to Reuben’s, his arm is slung casually over the back of the booth, fingers just barely grazing your shoulder. 

“He looks like he wants to kill me,” Reuben whispers in your ear, low enough that you can barely hear him over the chatter of the bar. “Pretend I said something funny. Laugh like you’ve got a secret.” 

You blink slowly, resisting the urge to roll your eyes, and let out a soft giggle as you lean toward him just a little. 

“You’re a pretty good actress,” he mutters before pulling back slightly. 

You glance up at him through your lashes, feeling more at ease with the close proximity after the past week. Then you straighten your spine and lean in, your lips grazing his jaw as you whisper in his ear. 

“You’re annoying.” 

He chuckles quietly, though you know he really wants to snort and smack you on the shoulder. You’re both enjoying this just a little too much, getting a kick out of your undercover roles. 

When you turn back to the rest of the group, Natasha is very deliberately not looking at you—and you know it’s because she’ll laugh if she does. Mickey, on the other hand, is watching with wide eyes, as is Javy. Jake and Bradley are still arguing about something on your other side, and Bob… Bob still looks like he’s ready to commit first-degree murder. 

“Drink?” Reuben asks after a beat, his smile smooth. 

You nod. “Absolutely. I’ll help you.” 

You both stand and offer a round to the rest of the table, most of whom accept—which makes it less suspicious that you’re going together. At the bar, you make sure to stand just a little closer than necessary as he orders a round of the usual from Penny. 

“Are you sure we’re not pushing it?” you ask, your voice laced with quiet worry. 

Reuben shakes his head. “Nah, not yet.” 

You frown. “Yet?” 

“He’ll snap one way or another,” he says, leaning casually against the bar. “He’ll either lose it and blow up over something totally unrelated—and that’s when we’ll know we’ve gone too far. Or he’ll wake the fuck up and fight for what he wants.” 

You open your mouth to voice another concern, but Penny is already sliding the tray of drinks across the bar. Reuben thanks her with an easy smile as you grab the two beers that didn’t fit, flashing her your own grateful grin before following him back to the table. 

When you set the beers down, you feel the neckline of your dress slip just a little lower. Your eyes flick up to see if anyone’s noticed—and of course… Bob. His gaze is dark and locked on your chest, clearly able to see right down your dress. He doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t even try to look away. He just stares. 

But then he blinks and glances aside, not flustered or ashamed—just determined not to meet your eyes. 

You straighten up and clear your throat. “I’m just going to duck to the bathroom.” 

Then you turn and begin weaving your way through the bar, desperate for a moment to yourself—even though you haven’t been here that long—and to check that you don’t look completely ridiculous in the dress Natasha convinced you to wear. 

You take your time in the stall, then rinse your hands under the cool water for a little longer than necessary. When you glance at your reflection in the full-length mirror, you’re surprised—and a little impressed. Because damn… you do look good. Maybe this dress deserves to see the light of day more often. And if Bob’s stare is anything to go by, it’s definitely not a bad idea. 

You take a deep breath before pushing open the bathroom door, ready to continue your little charade—but you barely make it a few steps before someone blocks your path. You blink and stumble, stopping short before you run right into him. 

You sigh when you realise who it is, that cocky smirk etched across his face. “What do you want, Hangman?” 

“I want to know what’s going on.” 

Your pulse spikes, but you do your best to keep your expression calm. “What do you mean?” 

“Between you and Payback,” he says, narrowing his green eyes. “Because I know that’s not real.” 

Your breath catches—too quickly—giving you away as your gaze flicks to the side. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” 

He rolls his eyes and leans in slightly, keeping the conversation low and private in the hum of the bar. “Don’t try to gaslight me, Sunny. I’m not an idiot. I know Phoenix is in on it—because of course she is—and Fanboy too, judging by the way he giggles every time you and Payback so much as look at each other.” He quirks a brow, daring you to challenge him. “The only reason Coyote hasn’t said anything is because he’s too polite, and Rooster hasn’t noticed because he’s too wrapped up in his own shit.” 

You cross your arms and narrow your eyes, matching his bravado. “You missed one.” 

He frowns. “What?” 

“You listed all the members of the squad… except one.” 

“Right,” he chuckles dryly. “Bob. That’s the funny thing, because ever since we got to this island, you’ve been starry-eyed over Floyd, and he’s either too clueless to notice or too stupid to ask you out.” He pauses, letting it sink in, then leans just a bit closer. “Which is exactly why I’m not buying whatever you and Payback have been trying to sell this past week.” 

You stare at each other for a beat, both stubborn and scowling, waiting for the other to fold first. 

Then you sigh. “Okay, fine. But you have to swear yourself to secrecy.” 

His smirk stretches into a full grin. “I knew it.” 

“Swear it.” 

“Okay, okay,” he says, holding up a hand. “I swear. I won’t even tell Coyote, and my pillow won’t hear a thing about it.” 

You nod. “Good. Now come over and pretend to pick a song so this doesn’t look suspicious.” 

You grab his wrist and tug him toward the jukebox, leaning over it and pretending to scroll through options while you give him a quick summary of Operation Bob’s Blue Balls—leaving out a few of the more... intimate details. 

“So there,” you finish. “It’s underhanded and immature, but that’s what’s going on.” 

His expression barely shifts the entire time, just the usual entertained glint in his eye and that ever-present smirk. 

“Underhanded and immature?” he says. “I’m surprised I wasn’t in on this sooner.” 

You roll your eyes. 

“I want in.” 

You blink, brow furrowed. “What?” 

“I want to help,” he says, plainly. 

You narrow your eyes, sceptical. “Why?” 

He sighs and braces one hand on the jukebox, leaning in like he’s about to reveal some classified information. “Believe it or not, I’m not the worst guy in the world. I have a few ideas, and I think you two would be cute together.” He pauses, then adds in a quieter voice, “Besides, I’ve been going through a bit of a dry spell, and I figure helping other people get laid might buy me some good karma.” 

You snort softly as he pulls back, his cheeks faintly pink. 

“Alright,” you say. “You can help. But nothing obvious and nothing stupid. The last thing I need is Bob figuring this out and hating me for it.” 

He rolls his eyes, that signature smirk firmly back in place. “Bob could never hate you. But I’ll be subtle.” 

“Good.” You glance past his shoulder toward the booth across the bar. “We better get back before they get suspicious.” 

“Wait,” he stops you with a hand on your shoulder. “One more question.” 

You raise your brows, prompting him to go on. 

“When you fantasise about Bob, is he the top or the bottom? Because I just think you should manage your expectations—ow!” 

He winces, rubbing the spot on his chest where you smacked him, watching you with a wounded look as you shove past with an exasperated sigh. 

Great. Now Hangman is involved... 

You spend the rest of the night practically glued to Reuben’s side, as planned. But now you’re a little on edge. You keep half an ear tuned to Jake’s voice, waiting to see when he might strike—and what he might say when he does. You trust him not to blow the whole thing, but you’re more than a little nervous about what his version of ‘helping’ might actually look like. 

“Another drink?” Reuben asks, just as you finish the last of your third beer. 

You nod, a bit too eagerly. “Yes, please. Maybe something stronger this time.” 

He chuckles and slides out of the booth, offering his hand. You take it, letting him guide you up toward the bar. You’re so wrapped up in your thoughts that you barely register the feel of his hand slipping from yours and settling at the small of your back, his thumb rubbing slow, comforting circles there. 

But Bob notices. 

And Jake notices Bob noticing—taking special joy in the way Bob’s hand tightens around his bottle of Coke, knuckles going white. 

Jake clears his throat and casts a glance toward the bar, leaning forward slightly. “They’re cute, don’t you think?” 

There’s a beat of silence as Bob swallows—hard—and Natasha just blinks, clearly trying to catch up. Then the lightbulb goes off, and a wicked grin stretches across her lips. 

“Yeah,” she says, her eyes following Jake’s. “I think they’d make a good couple.” 

Bob snorts. Actually snorts. But he keeps his gaze fixed on the label he’s been picking at on his bottle. 

Natasha arches a brow. “Something funny?” 

Bob shakes his head. “No.” 

“Really?” Jake presses, grinning. “Could’ve sworn you just laughed, Floyd.” 

“It wasn’t a laugh,” Bob mutters. “More of a… breath.” 

“Oh, a breath,” Natasha echoes, clearly amused. “Because it sounded suspiciously like judgment.” 

“Or jealousy,” Jake adds, leaning back with a smug grin. 

Bob’s gaze flicks to the bar—and to you—then just as quickly snaps away. “I don’t care who she dates.” 

Natasha hums, fighting a smirk as she lifts her beer to her lips, “Didn’t say you did.” 

Shortly after you and Reuben return to the table, giggling like idiots, Bob leaves. He mutters something about not feeling well and ducks out before even saying a proper goodbye. Part of you feels wrecked with guilt—but another part… is quietly hopeful. Because Bob isn’t like this. He’s good at regulating his emotions, even better at staying calm under pressure—he’s a fighter pilot, for God’s sake. But this? This is different. He’s never stormed out on the brink of losing control. Sure, he can get a little frustrated sometimes, maybe throw a snarky comment—usually at Jake when he pushes too far—but that’s as far as it goes. 

If you didn’t know any better, you’d say he’s starting to unravel… 

You spend most of the next day on the couch with the aircon blasting, while Natasha works through some paperwork at the kitchen table. It’s too hot to go outside, and you’re too distracted to do anything that requires even an ounce of brainpower. So instead, you let your mind rot with cartoons, obsessively checking your phone for signs of life in the group chat. 

“I can’t believe Hangman is in on this now,” Natasha mutters, not even glancing up from her papers. 

You sigh and roll from your side onto your back, staring up at the ceiling. “I can’t believe he hasn’t cracked yet. If the roles were reversed, I’d be like a feral cat in heat by now.” 

She snorts and lifts her head, flashing you an amused smirk. “You were already like a feral cat in heat for that man. Hence this whole situation.” 

You laugh softly. “Yeah, not wrong.” 

Your head drops to the side as you half-watch the TV screen, until the apartment door swings open with a dramatic gust of air. 

“I hate to say it,” Mickey says as he breezes in, eyes wide, “but the man is a genius.” 

Reuben follows close behind, and then Jake—grinning like he just solved world peace. 

“Oh, God,” Natasha mutters. “They’re multiplying.” 

“I don’t know why you didn’t come to me sooner,” Jake says, strolling toward the couch. “I’m the king of seduction.” 

You sit up, curling into the corner to make room for Reuben and Jake as Mickey heads straight for the fridge. 

“I wouldn’t go that far,” you mutter, narrowing your eyes at him. 

“Just wait until you hear the plan,” Reuben says, practically buzzing. “It’s perfect.” 

Intrigued now, Natasha gathers her papers into one neat pile and joins you on the lounge. “Alright, Bagman. Let’s hear it.” 

Jake’s eyes sparkle with mischief as he settles in beside Reuben. “Tomorrow, we’re going to the beach.” 

“You’re already way off,” you cut in. “Bob won’t agree to hang out again. Not after last night.” 

Natasha nods. “She’s right. He needs to cool off before we wind him up again.” 

“Absolutely not,” Jake snaps, brow furrowed. “You need to strike while the iron’s hot. You need to push his fucking limits.” 

Mickey appears from the kitchen, a bag of pretzels already open in his hand. 

Natasha frowns. “Okay, but how? He won’t agree to go if he thinks Sunny and Payback will be there.” 

Jake grins. “Which is exactly why he’s going to think they won’t be there.” 

“You want us to lie?” you ask. 

He gives you a flat look. “After all this emotional warfare, now you’re drawing the line at lying?” 

You shrink back slightly. “I guess not.” 

“Exactly.” He leans forward, elbows braced on his knees, hands clasped. “So—I’ll pitch the idea in the group chat. Sunny, you reply immediately that you’re busy—before Bob gets a chance to decline. Then Payback says something vague, like he might come or might not. That way, it looks like low numbers. And if Bob says no, the rest of us can guilt-trip him into coming. Which he will, as long as he thinks you’re not going to be there.” 

Natasha tilts her head. “So... she will be there though?” 

“Yes,” Jake says. “Just not right away. Give him time to relax, have some fun. We’ll play games—I’ll rile everyone up and get that competitive energy going.” 

Everyone nods along, faces weirdly serious, like this is some highly classified mission briefing. 

“Then, you two show up together,” Jake continues, gesturing to you and Reuben. “It’ll throw Bob off, but we won’t give him a chance to leave. We’ll keep the games going. Something with contact. You need to get right up in his space. Go all in. Because then... you’re going to knock him off his feet.” 

“Literally,” Mickey mumbles, chewing a mouthful of pretzels. 

You frown. “What?” 

“Bump into him,” Jake says. “Literally knock him over. Skin-to-skin contact. I’ve seen the way he looks at you in a swimsuit—it’s borderline pornographic. Touching him? It’ll fry what’s left of his self-control. And then, when there’s a moment—just a second where you could apologise for being too competitive or whatever... you’re going to say something that makes him snap.” 

You lean in, heart pounding now. “What am I going to say?” 

- 

The sun is high and brutal in the sky, and you’re already sweating—even though you’re still sitting in Reuben’s car with the aircon blasting. 

“Do you really think this is going to work?” you ask, nervously bouncing your knee. 

Reuben snorts. “If it doesn’t, the man isn’t human.” 

“I feel bad,” you mutter, eyes scanning the stretch of gold sand through the windshield. 

“You won’t feel bad when you finally see what’s in his pants,” Reuben says, barely paying attention as he scrolls through his phone. 

Your eyes go wide and your head whips toward him. “So it is huge? I wasn’t just imagining that?” 

He chuckles and looks up. “Oh yeah, he’s big. Like... big big. I remember the first time in the locker room—no one’s trying to look, obviously, that’s just not the vibe—but... damn. We couldn’t not look. Then everyone lost it. I think Hangman nearly cried.” 

You press your lips together, trying to hold back a grin, but it’s no use—your cheeks are on fire, and your whole face feels like it's bright red. 

“Damn,” you murmur, turning your gaze back to the front as your heart slams against your ribs. 

Reuben laughs again, then cuts the engine, killing the aircon. “Alright. Pull yourself together. It’s go time.” 

You climb out of the car and immediately wince at the lick of heat curling across your skin. It’s blistering—almost hostile—but at least you’re at the beach. Worst-case scenario? You’ll drown yourself in the ocean. Just walk into the surf and keep going. No one would blame you. 

“Relax,” Reuben says, sliding a hand into yours like this is nothing. “This is going to work. Hangman might be insane, but I’m pretty sure it’s because he’s an evil genius.” 

You roll your eyes, exhale hard, then square your shoulders and lift your chin. 

You let Reuben lead you onto the sand, legs already working overtime to stay steady in the heat-softened grains. You can hear the chaos before you see it. Shouts and thuds echo over the sand as your friends tumble and crash around in a messy game of what looks like overgrown keepy-uppies. 

“No hands!” Javy yells, just as Mickey swats the ball to avoid a direct hit to the face. 

“Damn it, Fanboy!” Jake shouts. “You’re giving away points.” 

Mickey drops his hands to his knees, panting. “Can we play literally any other game? I hate this.” 

“You only hate it ‘cause you suck at it,” Natasha says, catching the ball like it’s second nature and bringing the game to a halt. 

You swear you can see Mickey roll his eyes from here. You and Reuben are still on approach, trudging through the soft sand, unnoticed—so far. 

“What about football?” Jake offers, tossing the round ball aside and already pulling a proper football from their pile of gear. “Dog-fight football?” 

“Three versus three?” Javy asks, sceptical. 

“What about four v. four?” Reuben calls, hand cupped to amplify his voice. 

Everyone turns, and there’s a beat of stillness as they clock you. Then Natasha flashes a wide grin beneath her sunglasses, and Jake’s face lights up like a very satisfied evil villain—his plan falling perfectly into place. 

“Well, if it ain’t Sunny and Payback!” he calls, spinning the football lazily in one hand. “You two done playing your own games already?” 

You ignore the jab and focus on not rolling your ankle in the damn sand. At the pile of bags, you stop to drop your stuff and hesitate at the button of your shorts. 

Jake’s eyes are practically gleaming. “How about a swim to cool off first?” 

Reuben strips his shirt with a single tug. “You read my mind, Seresin.” 

The guys—already in their swim trunks—bolt for the water, crashing into the surf in a chaotic stampede. Natasha peels off her shirt and shorts, shoots you a wink, and strolls in after them like she owns the ocean. 

Reuben doesn’t say anything before he leaves you, but he gives a barely-there nod—directed past your shoulder. 

You don’t need to turn around to know who it’s aimed at. 

Bob’s still standing where he was when the game fizzled out, statuesque. His hair is tousled and his lips parted just enough to make your stomach flip. You’re at least ten feet away, but you can see the rise and fall of his chest—too fast, too hard. But he’s not out of breath. He’s not flustered. 

He’s furious. 

And those blue eyes? Laser-locked on you. His entire focus narrowed like a sniper sight. Not a blink. Not a breath wasted on anyone but you. 

You swallow and force your body into motion, unbuttoning your shorts and shimmying out of them before pulling your loose shirt over your head. You drop your clothes on Natasha’s pile and turn toward the water, steady on the lumpy sand. 

And then you hit the firm part—wet, packed, perfect footing—and you dig in. Hips swaying, deliberate and lethal. 

You don’t need to look back. You can feel the heat of his stare on every inch of exposed skin. It’s scorching. Possessive. Almost punishing. Like if he could touch you right now, he’d brand you. 

Hangman might be a genius after all. 

You hit the water with a sigh, not even hesitating before diving beneath a wave before it can knock you off your feet. It’s the perfect temperature—delicious against your too-hot skin. 

You dive under the next wave, cool saltwater rushing over your body, and come up laughing as you slick your hair back. Natasha is standing beside you, arms outstretched as the water laps at her waist, her eyes fixed on the shore. 

You wade closer, smirking. “Did you see his face?” you ask breathlessly, heart still pounding from the walk down the beach—or maybe from the way Bob had looked at you like he was plotting your murder. “I thought he was going to spontaneously combust.” 

She doesn’t answer. Just keeps staring past you. 

You frown as her jaw goes slack and her brows creep up, sunglasses slipping down her nose as she stares at something on the shore—expression caught somewhere between shock and awe. 

You freeze. “What?” 

She still doesn’t speak—just tips her chin the slightest bit, silently gesturing toward whatever has her stunned. 

You twist around. 

And promptly forget how to breathe. 

Bob Floyd is pulling his shirt over his head. 

Bob Floyd, the man who never takes his shirt off. The man who wears it in the ocean and somehow isn’t bothered by the soaking wet material clinging to his body like a second skin. 

And holy shit. 

It’s glorious. 

Sure, you’ve seen him shirtless before. Once. That night. But that was in the dark—his body tense, your mind scrambled, neither of you thinking clearly enough to appreciate what was right in front of you. 

But in the light of day? 

Alabaster skin. Broad shoulders. Deep-cut abs like he walked straight off the set of a Marvel movie. Lean muscle rippling across his chest and arms in a way that feels criminal on someone so quiet and careful. Droplets of sweat cling to his torso like even the heat doesn’t want to let him go. 

The sudden silence behind you confirms it—everyone else is staring too. 

You blink, dumbfounded, mouth dry. “That’s illegal.” 

Natasha huffs out a laugh like she’s short-circuiting. “I mean, I knew he was strong but—wow.” 

You swallow. Hard. “I think I’m going to pass out.” 

Your eyes follow him as he drops his shirt and turns toward the water, cutting through the waves like they’re nothing. He doesn’t glance at any of you. Just keeps his gaze locked on the horizon, jaw set tight, his body moving with single-minded purpose. 

Before you can say something—or even blink—a surge of water smacks you in the face. 

But it’s not a wave. 

You cough and splutter, wiping the salt from your eyes and checking to make sure your sunglasses are still intact. When your vision clears, Jake is standing right in front of you. 

“Wipe the drool off your chin,” he says, deadpan. “You’re supposed to be teasing him.” 

You narrow your eyes, resisting the urge to shove him aside and keep watching Bob. “How did all of you know how cut that man is and not tell me?” 

Jake blinks, thrown for a beat, then grins like the devil. “Wait—you’re mad because we didn’t tell you how ripped Bob is?” 

You nod, arms crossing tight over your chest. “Correct.” 

He lets out a disbelieving chuckle, shaking his head. “Well if that’s got you steamed, you’re gonna be beside yourself when you find out he’s got a massive-” 

“I know,” you cut in smoothly, a wicked smirk curling at your lips. “Payback told me.” 

Jake gapes at you, brows knitting—but before he can get another word out, you shove his shoulder and send him sprawling into the water. 

When he resurfaces, sputtering and grinning, he points at you like a man on a mission—then lunges. 

You squeal, laughing as he barrels toward you, sending up waves in every direction. The two of you splash around like kids, Jake playing it up—grabbing you, poking at your sides, both of you pretending to wrestle. All for show. Because you both know Bob is watching. 

Eventually, the others join in, playful chaos erupting around you. And before long, you’re panting and breathless, dragging yourself back to shore, your cheeks and chest aching from laughter. 

Everyone settles for a few minutes, drinking from their water bottles and trying to knock water from their ears. But then Jake stands up, football in hand and a wicked smirk on his lips, ready to commence Operation Bob’s Blue Balls – Phase Three: Straddle and Conquer. 

“All right, I’ll pick teams,” he announces. 

Normally, this would cause an uproar. But since most of you are in on the plan, everyone just nods in agreement. 

“Phoenix, Payback, Bob,” he says. “You’re with me. The rest of you are on Rooster’s team.” 

You narrow your eyes and cock your hip—it would seem strange if you didn’t challenge Jake just a little. “Why are you two always team captains?” 

He winks. “Because we’re the best.” 

You roll your eyes and turn away, joining the huddle with your teammates as Bradley and Javy argue over what your game plan should be. 

After a few minutes of strategizing, the game kicks off. You’ve never loved dog-fight football—not like some of the others—mostly because it can get a little rough. But today… it’s more than just a game. It’s a full-blown performance. 

You hang back for a bit, letting Jake and Bradley rile each other up and fire up their teams. Bob is still shirtless, which is a tactical advantage he isn’t even aware of—because every time he has the ball, every time he runs or blocks or is just generally in your line of sight, your knees wobble. 

You’ve nearly forgotten what you’re supposed to be doing when Reuben jumps in front of you and snags the ball before you can—thrown by a very disappointed-looking Javy. 

“Getting tired, Sunny?” Reuben teases, his grin smug. “I’m just getting started.” 

Right. The plan. Flirting. Banter. Teasing Bob. 

You step closer, slowing the game down a touch as you stretch onto your toes and drop your voice—but not too low. “Tired? Please. I’m still waiting for you to make me sweat.” 

There’s a beat where you worry Reuben might break, might laugh—high on adrenaline and endorphins. 

But then Jake hollers, “Cut it out, you two! Save the dirty talk for the bedroom!” 

And the game is back on. 

The sun beats down mercilessly, making every flexed muscle shine, every drop of sweat slide in slow, glistening trails. The sand is hot beneath your feet, but it’s nothing compared to the heat building as you and Reuben turn the game into one of Bob’s personal nightmares. 

You dart to the left, brushing past Reuben with a smug grin, your fingertips dragging across his chest like you’re checking his heart rate. 

“C’mon, hotshot,” you tease. “You could try a little harder.” 

He laughs—low and amused—but gives chase, throwing a hand around your waist as you pivot. It’s all too easy to make it look a little too intimate, a little too tight. He lifts you off the ground to ‘block’ your goal and your head falls back in a laugh that’s just shy of indecent. 

And Bob sees everything. 

You feel it—his stare like hot coals dragged across your skin. When you glance up between plays, he’s standing at the edge of the group, jaw tight, shoulders tense, hands flexing like they’re ready to throw a punch. His eyes follow your every move like he’s marking a target, and if looks could kill, Reuben would already be six feet under. 

You catch a toss, and Reuben crashes into you to intercept, spinning you both until you fall together into the sand. You land side by side, giggling like idiots—some might even say lovesick idiots. 

He pushes up first and grins down at you, tipping his head suggestively. “Need a hand?” 

“Oh, I don’t mind being on my back,” you say sweetly, just loud enough for everyone to hear. 

You take Reuben’s hand and let him haul you off the ground, pulling you into his body just a little more than necessary. 

“Damn, Sunny,” Jake calls from the other side of the makeshift field. “Takin’ a few hits today. Hope it doesn’t affect your game.” 

You scoff, rolling your eyes dramatically as you dust sand off your body like everyone else paid to watch. “You know I like it rough, Hangman.” 

There’s a chorus of oohs and a whistle from Mickey, laughter rippling through the group. 

Except Bob, of course. He’s suddenly very interested in the sand, eyes locked on the ground—even though his rigid posture is telling you everything you need to know. 

The game revs up again, and after a few scuffles, you snag the ball off a fumbled toss and break into a sprint, cutting across the sand with laser focus. Reuben’s behind you, winded, and the others are tangled up with the second ball—leaving only one person standing in your way. 

Bob. 

“Stop her!” Jake shouts, too far behind to intercept. 

Bob plants his feet like he’s ready to block—muscles tensing, arms coiled. It’s almost enough to distract you. But you’re feeling competitive. A little reckless. And you’re seconds from a goal. 

He hesitates when your eyes lock, just long enough for your wicked grin to register as you blow past him and skid to a halt—well over the line. 

Your team erupts into cheers behind you, and you throw your hands up, chest heaving as you catch your breath. When you turn back around, he’s still watching you—eyes wide. 

You flash him a slow smile as you walk past, brushing close enough to feel the heat rolling off his skin. 

“Don’t worry, Lieutenant,” you murmur. “I’ll go easy on you next time.” 

After a breather and a drink of water, everyone lines up for another play. Jake and Bradley drop the footballs into the sand, crouched and ready. Jake turns his head your way and gives you a subtle nod. 

This is it. 

Your heart thunders behind your ribs as you sprint and block and laugh along with the others. The competition hasn’t cooled—everyone is still hungry. Even Bob has snapped into focus, finally playing like it matters instead of just standing there watching. 

And for a moment, it is just fun. No schemes, no strategy. Just friends, shouting and stumbling and laughing too hard to score. 

But then the ball is in your hands again—and it’s time. 

Bob is on defence—Jake made sure of that. You just have to get past him again. Or at least… make it look like you’re trying. 

You tear forward. Jake is already behind you, Natasha lunges and misses by a breath, and Reuben very dramatically wipes out in the sand. 

It’s just Bob now. 

He sets his stance, head tipped down in focus. He’s going to stop you this time. Poor thing. He has no idea that’s exactly the plan. 

You charge, feet kicking up sand, heart in your throat. His eyes widen just a second before you collide—your body slamming into his with just enough force to topple you both. 

The ball flies from your hand as you hit the sand hard, clutching at whatever you can—his shoulders, his arms, solid and warm beneath your grip. You spit sand from your mouth and sit up fast—only to freeze, breath caught in your throat. 

You’re straddling him. Hips locked against his. Chest heaving. His hands on your waist. 

You don’t move. 

You’re both panting. The air between you buzzes like static, and everywhere your skin touches his feels sunburnt and alive. His blue eyes are locked on yours—wild and stunned. Bright enough to drown in. 

Your chest rises and falls with ragged breath, but you stay put. 

“Does this count?” you ask, voice low and rough with adrenaline. 

His lips are parted, soft and pink, breath coming in short bursts. His curls are wild, tangled with sand, and his glasses—crooked from the fall—are still somehow on. He looks wrecked. Shattered. Like you’ve stolen every coherent thought out of his head. His gaze flickers—searching your face, desperate not to meet your eyes. 

You lean in just a little. 

“If anyone else looked at me like that, I’d probably kiss them,” you murmur, squeezing your thighs around his waist. Then you bring your mouth dangerously close to his ear. “But we can’t do that... right?” 

His breath catches—and his eyes finally snap to yours. 

They’re wide and stormy now, brows drawn tight. He doesn’t breathe. He just looks. His mouth parts a little further, and you can see it all happening behind his eyes—every thought, every realisation. 

Everything falls into place—the flirting, the giggling, the deliberate touches, the stolen glances. All of it. You’ve been baiting him. This whole time. 

Before you can say anything else—before you can blink or breathe— 

He snaps. 

He flips you, smooth and fast, moving your body like you weigh nothing. Suddenly, you’re on your back, pressed into the sand, and he’s the one on top—straddling you, his weight holding you down. 

And the look in his eyes could burn the sky. 

He leans in, gaze sweeping over your face—your lips, your eyes, the pulse at your throat. He watches it thrum, just for a second. 

You’re frozen beneath him. Every nerve on fire. Every inch of your body sparking. Your lungs are screaming for air, but you don’t know how to breathe. You can’t think. You can barely feel anything except him. 

His breath ghosts your lips as he whispers, “Oh, you’re in trouble now.” 

And then he kisses you. 

Hard. 

It’s not careful. It’s not sweet. It’s months of tension and stolen glances and aching want—every second of restraint finally unravelling in a dizzy, reckless crash. His mouth claims yours like he’s starving, like he’s waited too long and can’t wait another second. 

His chest presses into yours, slick with sweat and dusted with sand, and you arch into it with a gasp. He groans against your mouth, a low, broken sound that feels like fire in your veins. You can feel every inch of him—solid and hot and so hard against your hip, unmistakable and unignorable. 

You shift beneath him, dragging your leg up around his waist, just enough to tease. His breath hitches, and then he’s kissing you deeper, hungrier, like the noise you just pulled from him unspooled something he can’t reel back in. 

You claw at his back—muscles tense and trembling under your fingers—trying to pull him closer when there’s no space left between you. The kiss turns feverish, tongues sliding, lips parting in desperate sync. You’re panting into each other’s mouths, completely lost. 

There’s sand in your hair, in your mouth, sticking to your sweat-slick skin, but none of it matters. All that matters is the way he moves against you, the way he feels—like every bit of control he’d been clinging to has shattered. 

When he finally tears his mouth from yours, he doesn’t go far. His forehead drops to yours, both of you gasping. He’s pink-cheeked and wide-eyed, lips swollen, pupils blown. 

“Jesus Christ,” he mutters, voice wrecked, “you’re gonna kill me.” 

And the way he says it—like a confession, like a prayer—makes you want to do it all over again. 

“YES!" Mickey shouts, loud enough for all of North Island to hear. 

Your friends erupt into cheers and screams, laughter lacing their gleeful proclamations as they jump and dance just a few feet away. 

“Well, fuck me,” Jake drawls. “That was the hottest thing I’ve ever seen.” 

You both slowly—reluctantly—turn your heads toward the noise. 

“I can’t believe it worked,” Reuben mutters, grinning wide, eyes sparkling. “Phase Three actually worked.” 

You’re still pinned beneath Bob as they all close in, every face lit up with smug satisfaction. 

“You named it?” Bob asks, closing his eyes as his cheeks somehow grow even hotter. 

“Oh yeah,” Mickey says, beaming with pride. “Operation Bob’s Blue Balls. Phase One was the run and the sleepover. Phase Two, Reuben. And this—” he gestures wildly at the two of you tangled in the sand, “this is Phase Three: Straddle and Conquer.” 

Bob makes a noise. Somewhere between a strangled groan and a whispered prayer for death. 

“You planned this?” he rasps, forehead dropping against yours again like he might just burrow into the sand and disappear. 

Reuben shrugs, all innocence. “Worked like a charm.” 

“Honestly,” Natasha adds, “we were starting to think you’d never get there. So… you’re welcome.” 

You bury your face in Bob’s shoulder, mortified. He’s burning up beneath your hands—still—and breathing like he just ran a mile with you on his back. 

Jake snickers. “Glad we could help you two get laid.” 

“We haven’t—!” Bob blurts, redder than a stop sign. 

You slap a hand over his mouth, grinning wickedly now despite the embarrassment. “Yet.” 

There’s a beat—a millisecond of silence—before they all burst out laughing again. 

Mickey curls over, clutching his stomach. Reuben walks away, cackling with his head tipped back. Natasha mutters, “Jesus Christ,” but she’s definitely smirking, and Jake claps his hands once as he says, “God bless the U.S. Navy.” 

Bob drops his face into the crook of your neck and groans again, muffled, “I hate all of you.” 

“Even me?” you ask, voice soft and teasing. 

He lifts his head, chuckling softly. “No. But for all that? You’re definitely still in trouble.” 

You lick your lips. “There’s no place I’d rather be.” 

He sighs like you’re actively trying to kill him, then sits up and pushes to his feet—only to glance down at the massive bulge in his shorts, which looks borderline painful. 

“Shit.” 

You scramble up after him, stepping in close and pressing your body to his, barely able to contain your giggles as you shield him from the rest of the beach. 

“Need a minute?” you tease, laughter lacing every word. 

His eyes flash—dark, hungry. “You and I are gonna need more than a minute to deal with this.” 

Heat floods your face and pools between your legs, thick and insistent. 

“But,” he says, glancing toward the water, “I’m just gonna go for a quick swim.” 

You nod, eyes wide and dreamy, watching him from beneath your lashes like an absolute idiot in love. 

And he looks at you like you hung the sun. Like you’re everything. It’s enough to make your heart stutter and your pulse race. He has no business being this beautiful—this sinful—a perfect contradiction of sweetness and respect, with just enough hunger in him, just enough darkness, that you know you’ll be walking funny tomorrow. 

And probably for the next few weeks while you learn how to handle his massive dick. 

“Don’t look at me like that,” he mutters, a shy smile curling his lips. “You’re making it worse.” 

Your jaw drops. “It gets bigger?” 

He laughs, then leans in to press a kiss to your open mouth—chaste, but lingering. Like it physically pains him to pull away. But he does. And when he flashes you that boyish smile—equal parts sexy and shy—it knocks the breath out of you. 

Then he turns and jogs toward the water. 

It takes you more than a minute to remember how to move—how to function—but eventually, you manage to drag yourself back to the others, who are still laughing and chatting like the beach hasn’t just tilted sideways. 

Natasha passes you your water bottle. “What’s Bob doing?” 

You glance over your shoulder, catching sight of him ducking under a wave. A smile tugs at your lips. 

“Cooling off.” 

You were in a ditch, mud and leaves carefully plastered on the walls like it was a work of art. Under the moonlight, your gaze wandered to the other side of the pit, noting the way the twigs were so intricately braided together. It looked like a giant bird’s nest, filled with bones instead of worms.

You don’t remember passing out, nor did you remember ending up wherever this was.

Your hands found their way to your face, and you closed your eyes, memories of the past hours flooding back to you.

The factory.

The Inquisitors.

Han and Chewie.

Your lightsaber.

You paused.

Seventh Sister had shattered it, cleaving the hilt in two just as she seized the upper hand. In desperation, you had hurled the broken weapon at her, buying yourself a moment’s escape. The memory still burned. You bit down on your lip until the sharp tang of blood filled your mouth, fury knotting in your chest. You longed to strike, to break something, anything, while the image of her smug, unyielding face seared itself into your mind.

Your fingers tightened as they dug painfully into your scalp. You had survived the ordeal, yes, but at what cost? Han and Chewie may be safe for now, but what guaranteed they would be safe the next time? You had no means to protect them now that your lightsaber was gone. Fighting off the Inquisitors with a weapon was hard enough, now you had to do it without.

Moreover, the last thing that connected you to your Master was gone, reduced to metal shrapnels and ash. You suppressed a sigh. He had told you once that your weapon was your life, and then you went ahead to have it wrecked in a lightsaber fight like an absolute buffoon. Maker, you were such a disappointment. A failure. You were glad he wasn’t there to witness that tomfoolery you willingly put yourself through, but you knew deep within, you would do it again, because nothing mattered more than the people you loved, even if it meant losing your most prized possession.

Your self-loathing monologue went on for a few more minutes before a sharp screech cut the night air. You stilled, blood freezing at how close it sounded.

You held your breath, turning your head slowly to come face to face with something that could only be described as a featherless version of the Fishcatching birds of Eredeen Prime.

You remained still despite your fear, watching as it pecked at the already clean bones, its short narrow beak gleaming under the moonlight. That bird was a baby, with its eyes still closed and wings tightly pinned to its side as if it had just broken out of its shell, yet it stood at your height, with skin exactly the same shade as yours.

Your hand twitched. No wonder you had ended up here. The mother must have thought you were one of its younglings who had wandered away from the nest when she had found you passed out in the forest, the exhaustion causing you to drop like a sack of beans in the middle of nowhere.

You stood up from where you were seated, right hand braced against the wall to maintain your balance on the uneven ground built of things you had no wish to identify for your own sanity. One step in, and pain engulfed you. You pressed your other hand to your side as it throbbed, and the contact almost had you collapsing. Jolts of pain ran through the entirety of your body, electrifying your nerves from your toes to your eyes.

Your lips parted, but no sound left. You endured it in silence, too afraid to alert anyone or anything in the surroundings. There was not a single fight left in you anymore.

Your fingers peeled back your shirt, and the sight of the bruises littering your skin had you tilting your head towards the opening of the ditch in resignation.

They were as dark as the midnight sky with light bursts of green, blue and yellow, the parts that hadn’t already ripen into full blown bruises yet. The paleness said nothing, because it all ached the same, with the intensity of a burning volcano or the molten sting of a blaster wound.

The wound Boba Fett had left on your arm as a parting gift had healed cleanly, but the scar remained. You often found your eyes drifting to it, a reminder that you had escaped once, and a promise to yourself that you would escape again. But this time, there would be no Ben to pull you through.

You had escaped the jaws of the Empire once more, saved only by the bitter rivalry among the Inquisitors themselves. But you couldn’t get caught again. Next time, death would surely be waiting at your door.

Your luck was running thin.

You pressed your hands against the walls, searching for any fissure in the mud, any foothold that might let you climb free. The ditch was deep, its walls unforgiving. Your fingers kept scraping at mud and leaf, searching for purchase. Then at last you found it, a jagged bone jutting from the wall, slick but solid. You hauled yourself upward, boots kicking against the earthen side until you caught another hold, then another.

The cries of the newborn hatchling echoed below you, thin and piercing. For a moment, you stared at it. A life just beginning, while yours clung to the edge. You couldn’t stay. This place wasn’t yours, and time was slipping fast.

With a final heave, you dragged yourself over the rim, chest heaving as you collapsed onto the grass from the effort. The hatchling’s cries echoed faintly, a reminder of what was left behind. You pressed a mud-streaked hand against the ground, steadying yourself.

Now what?

The mud still clung to your hands as you rose, but your mind was already elsewhere. The factory. The place where the Inquisitors had nearly ended you.

Your lightsaber was gone, shattered in that brutal crash. The hilt had been nothing more than scrap when you last saw it, but the crystal… the crystal might still remain. It was more than a weapon. It was part of your Master. It was part of you.

The thought ate at you with every step you took away from the pit, You could flee, vanish into the shadows, and perhaps live another day. But without the crystal, you would never be truly whole again. The Empire had taken nearly everything. You couldn’t let them have this too.

The woods were quieter now, but not silent. As you picked your way towards the factory, the ground told the story of who had passed through not long ago.

Boot prints pressed deep into the soil. Charred branches where blaster fire had scorched the trees. A discarded ration wrapper, trampled into the mud. The Stormtroopers had combed this place thoroughly, fanning out through the undergrowth in their hunt for you.

You knelt, pressing your palm to the faint impression of a steel-lined heel, still sharp at the edges. They couldn’t be more than a few hours gone.

A chill threaded down your spine, if you hadn’t been dropped into that ditch— your jaw tightened at the thought— you would have been right here, sprawled across the grass unconscious when their search was at its fiercest.

You let out a slow breath, the image of the hatchling flashing in your mind. The mother bird hadn’t meant to save you. To her, you had been nothing but a misplaced youngling. Yet, by some twist of chance, her mistake had sheltered you from the Empire’s grasp.

Luck. Nothing more. But luck had teeth, and you were still alive because of it.

The outline of the factory loomed through the thinning trees, and your focus sharpened. Whatever fortune had spared you before, it wouldn’t protect you now. If your crystal was still inside, you would have to take it back with your own hands.

The air began to reek of scorched metal and ash the closer you got, the echoes of your last fight still fresh in your memory, Seventh Sister’s sneer, the snap-hiss of blades clashing, the moment your saber split apart in your hands.

Every instinct screamed at you to turn back. To leave it buried with the ruin and blood. But your heart pulled you forward. Somewhere in the wreckage, beneath steel and shadow, your crystal waited.

You had to find it.

The hangar gaped open before you, its metal ribs twisted and scorched from the firestorm that had consumed it. The stench of fuel and char still clung to the air, mingled with something heavier, something that spoke of flesh and finality.

You stepped carefully over shattered transparisteel and charred debris, every sound echoing in the cavernous ruins. The silence was suffocating, broken only by the faint groan of warped beams settling above. The factory was out of commission, the damages far too extensive for it to be functional barely hours after it was wrecked.

And then as you turned, you saw him.

The Third Brother. His hulking frame lay pinned beneath the collapsed structure of a TIE fighter, crushed in the explosion that had brought the fires licking high at the roof. The mask of fury he had worn in life was gone, replaced by a stillness that felt both alien and intimate.

You froze, throat tightening. The image of your blade striking, the anger in his eyes, the desperation in your own, it all surged back with the weight of silence all around.

He would have killed you.

It was him or you.

But the echo that answered your thoughts was hollow, unconvincing even to yourself. Survival had demanded it, yes but survival offered no comfort, only the heavy stone of guilt pressing harder against your chest.

You turned away, jaw set, trying to bury the weight with each step deeper into the ruin. You told yourself again it was necessary. Again, and again. But the corpse in the hangar didn’t argue.

You moved deeper, each step heavier than the last. Your fingers sifted through ash and twisted steel, the sting of your bruises still fresh on your skin. But the harder you searched, the louder the guilt became. You killed him. The thought came unbidden, as persistent as your own heartbeat. And you did it by choice. You didn’t have to drive him back into the burning TIE, yet you did.

You had taken a life.

Your hands trembled as you lifted a scorched panel, only to find nothing beneath but shattered glass. You clenched your jaw, whispering under your breath as if the words themselves might hold you together, “It was survival.”

You tore through the wreckage until your fingers bled. Metal sheets shrieked as you pried them up, broken circuits scattered under your boots, ash and soot clung to your face and hands. Every overturned beam, every hollow pipe, every shattered casing— nothing.

You dug deeper, crawling on hands and knees through the rubble, driven by a hope as fragile as glass. The crystal had to be here. It was yours. It had survived everything with you, bled with you, burned with you. It couldn’t just be gone.

But piece by piece, the factory gave up only emptiness and guilt.

Then, nothing left to overturn, no shadows left to search. You stared at your shaking hands dusted with ash. Empty.

The breath left you in a ragged sob. You tried to swallow it down, tried to grit your teeth and force steel back into your spine, but the dam cracked wide. The weight of failure, of loss, of guilt broke through all at once. You collapsed into the ruins, shoulders heaving, fists pounding weakly into the cold metal floor.

For the first time in a long time, you let yourself break.

Your vision blurred, and you felt the edges of despair closing in, your thoughts spiraling as sobs racked through your chest.

Then, bootsteps.

You froze, every nerve locking tight. Tears still rolled down your flushed cheeks, and you forced yourself to swallow down the whimpers threatening to escape your chest. With a hand dragging your dirty sleeve over your face, you moved swiftly, crouching behind the overturned crates to hide as best as you could.

Intertwined in the mess of your emotions, you had neglected to pay attention to your surroundings. The force had barely thrummed to alert you of anyone who had crossed the corridor to the hangar.

“Kid?”

Han. His voice cut through the haze, sharp and searching.

The familiar tone eased something in you, and you found yourself slumping back against the crate, body loosening in relief at the thought that he was still safe and in one piece. But as soon as the comforting feeling dissolved, something uglier snarled in your chest.

A low rumble echoed— Chewie.

Your stomach lurched. No. Not them. Not here. You couldn’t be seen like this, your hands raw, eyes wide, crouched in the wreckage like prey. Worse, if they found you, you knew they’d never let you go again. They’d tether themselves to your fight, and the Empire would grind them down for it. Han acted like he didn’t care, but you knew from the first time he’d panicked when a stray shot almost hit you, that he felt more than he let on.

If they had come for you, then they had no intention of ever letting you go. It should have filled you with uncontrollable joy, but all you could feel was the gripping heartbreak at having to disappear from their lives like smoke in a violent burst of wind.

You shoved yourself back further into the shadow of the overturned crates, biting down hard on your lip. The smoke cloaked you, but Chewie’s growl told you he was close to catching your scent, too close to dragging you out into the open.

Your hand clenched empty air where your saber should have been. The absence ached.

Stay hidden. For them.

You pressed yourself lower, nails digging onto your palm until they hurt. Han’s footsteps echoed across the durasteel floor, cautious but searching. Chewie huffed, frustrated, scanning the wreckage.

You shut your eyes, forcing your lungs quiet, praying that they would just give up and leave. Boots scuffed against the floor, slow and deliberate. Han’s silhouette flickered through the smoke, a shadow cut into shifting light. Your heart pounded so hard you were sure he’d hear it.

Chewie padded ahead, nose working, growling low in his throat. He stopped near the wreckage of the TIE and rumbled sharply.

Han stopped beside him, staring at the body, half-covered in ash and scorched plating, beneath the warped wing. He swore under his breath, and crouched carefully, studying the body without getting too close. The thing was big, imposing even in death. The armor wasn’t standard trooper issue. This was something nastier. Something that belonged to the kind of people you didn’t want to owe money to.

“Has to be one of those religious freaks. Who else dresses up like that?”

Chewie barked a low agreement.

“Not exactly what I expected from an Imperial shootout. What’s that stubborn little thing gotten herself into this time?” Han sighed. He knew you had a knack for walking straight into the middle of trouble, and the blast at the factory hangar was the biggest mess on the planet. If you were anywhere. Han figured you’d be near it.

He said your name, his voice softer now, not demanding, but almost pleading. “You don’t have to run, kid. Whatever’s going on, we can work it out.”

Chewie let out another growl. The sound vibrated through your ribs, a comfort and a threat all at once. You pressed your forehead against your knee, fingers tightening in your fists until your knuckles bled white.

Han hummed and nodded at Chewie, “You’re right, looks like the scavengers already stripped the place down. Come on, we’ll look somewhere else. She can’t be that far.”

The words hit you like a blade. Scavengers. They would have taken everything. Not just metal. Not just weapons.

Your crystal. How didn’t you think of that?

You tightened your eyes shut, breathing slowly through your nose, forcing down the guilt bubbling up your throat at the thought of them looking for you.

Chewie casted one last uneasy look at the wreckage, then followed Han out of the hangar. Their footsteps echoed on the scorched deck, then faded into silence.

You didn’t move until they were gone, until you could no longer feel their warmth through the Force. Only then did you crawl from the shadows, eyes fixed on the collapsed fighter where the Third Brother’s corpse lay entombed.

The scavvers had gotten to your crystal first.

And just like that, you’d have to hunt them down just like the Empire were hunting you.

The market noise pressed in from every side like it had yesterday. Stalls overflowing with cloth and spice, traders bellowing offers, children laughing as they darted between carts.

Your belt still felt wrong. Light. Empty.

You cut down a side street, away from the heavy press of bodies. You knew she’d be here. Exactly where you had bumped into her yesterday. Information brokers didn’t move far from the flow, Han told you once. They let the currents come to them.

Sure enough, there she was. Siddi Dren with the same worn coat, same lean against the clay wall leading to the spaceport, hands tucked inside her sleeves like a woman with nothing to hide. The first time you’d met, she had come to you, murmured the Inquisitors had landed, had names on their tongues. A warning dressed as generosity. You hadn’t known if it was the truth or bait, you hadn’t even stopped to think whether it was or not, too consumed with the threat that your friends might be in danger, but she had been right.

This time, you were the one to approach.

“You said they were here,” you said, voice low but edged. “You were right.”

The broker’s mouth curved into the faintest smile. “I’m always right. Otherwise I’d be dead.” Her gaze flicked to your eyes, scratched raw with your tears and your fingers alike, then to your belt, the empty space where your saber should have hung. “You seem lighter than before.”

Your jaw tightened. “The scavvers,” you said, voice rough. “I was too late. Did they take it?”

Her smile didn’t change, but her eyes sharpened. She leaned a fraction closer, voice soft for you alone. “They pulled many things from the wreckage. Blasters. Parts. Scraps. But yes… one of them mentioned something else. A crystal. Bright. Warm. Almost alive.”

Your throat tightened.

“You know where it is?” you asked, more demand than question, forgetting your manners in your desperation.

The Togruta chuckled low. “That’s two you will owe me. Are you sure you want that on your shoulders?” she said casually, as if you were asking her for directions to the best tea vendor of the market.

You hated her at that moment. Her calm, her patience, the way she dangled truth like bait. But you needed the answer. You needed your crystal back before anyone else took it to somewhere unreachable.

“What do you want?” you asked flatly, frustration bubbling inside, threatening to take over your body and do something you would most definitely regret barely a few seconds later.

Her smile widened, pleased. “Nothing, this time. Let’s say I’m investing. I warned you once. Now I point you again.” She slipped a small datapuck from her sleeve into your palm so smoothly no one around you even noticed. “Coordinates. Outskirts of town. A scavver camp. They don’t even know what they’re sitting on, but you should hurry. Something with so much value in the black market won’t last long.”

You curled your fingers around the puck. You wanted to ask why she was helping you, but you already knew the answer. She wasn’t. She was playing her own game.

By the time you looked up, she was already gone, swallowed by the flow of the market.

When you had reached the scavenger camp, they were already long gone. Your crystal had been sold, passed on to someone far more dangerous than you were ready to face alone. You had memorised the name, whispered it like a curse. Karl Drixx. A crimelord of Ord Varnis, rumored to collect more than just weapons. A man whose reputation alone could make a grown bounty hunter sweat.

You didn’t have a ship. Not anymore. The Falcon was gone with Han and Chewie, so you had taken passage on a civilian cruise liner, one of the slow, clunky freighters that ferried passengers and cargo between the Outer Rim worlds. It wasn’t the Falcon, but it wasn’t the vents either, so for that you were grateful.

The journey had been long. Days watching the stars shift through the reinforced viewport, listening to the drones of the engines and the dull murmur of the passengers, all oblivious to the danger trailing you. You had gone over the datapuck repeatedly, tracing every route, memorizing every possibility where Drixx’s men could intercept. Every plan you’d considered, every contingency, sharpened by necessity.

And now, as the liner broke through Ord Varnis’s thick atmosphere, you felt the familiar coil of tension tighten in your stomach. From the viewport, the planet sprawled beneath you, rust-coloured cityscapes clinging to poisoned wastelands, towers leaning like broken teeth, landing platforms glowing dimly though the haze. The sight didn’t thrill you, it warned.

The landing struts locked with a metallic clang. The liner hissed as the ramp lowered, the air of the planet crawling in. The stench of fuel, rust, and something fouler you couldn’t name. You tightened your cloak around your shoulders, fingers brushing the empty space at your belt.

You exhaled slowly, centering yourself. The thread led straight to Drixx. This was the end of the trail you had been given. The beginning of what you would have to do yourself.

And you were ready.

You spent the last days tucked into the shadows of Ord Varnis’s undercity. You watched the crimelord’s compounds and his patrol routes from afar, noting shifts in guards, supply drops, and the coming and going of anyone who might be connected to your crystal. Every day you traced the movements, your eyes narrow, your breathing steady. You knew you had to be patient because one wrong move meant that your lead could vanish like smoke. But despite that, you couldn’t help the resentment growing in your chest. You felt angry at everything. Angry at the world, angry that you had landed yourself in this situation, angry that you were not strong enough to hold your own against the Seventh Sister, angry that you had lost the one thing your Master had entrusted you with.

Gone was the version of you who had once felt guilty for stealing a poncho on Tatooine.

That night, you found yourself perched on a rooftop overlooking Drixx’s palace, a colourful building that screamed of wealth, while the rest of the neighbourhood rotted in the jaws of poverty and famine. It was late, two hours after midnight when you noticed the newcomers, a family of bounty hunters moving in on your position. They were cautious but efficient, scanning rooftops and alleyways, weapons always at the ready.

You climbed down the roof, disappearing into the shadowed alleyways to lead them away from the palace to somewhere quieter, somewhere the people wouldn’t blink an eye to the presence of a corpse.

You slid down the curved wall, landing on the platform under the bridge connecting the wastelands to the city, the sound of the river drowning out the distant noises of the nearby streets.

“You breathe like a bantha, you know that?” you said casually, staring straight to where you knew for a fact, the daughter was hiding, crouching behind the same wall you had slid down earlier. You leaned against a metal beam, waiting for either one of the three bounty hunters who had followed you down to reveal themselves.

A woman appeared, blaster pointed straight at you. “Now, there’s no need to get rude,” she said, her tone dripping with the same sternness Master Kelriss used whenever you stepped inside the house with muddy shoes.

“Well. excuse me if I don’t particularly enjoy being hunted down simply for breathing,” you snapped.

The lead hunter, a tall man with cold eyes and a scar running down his forehead appeared from the shadows. He didn’t fire immediately, just tilted his head, studying you. The daughter, barely older than yourself, stayed crouched behind him, tense and ready to strike if he gave the order, but you didn’t straighten or move your hands to where they would be visible. You stayed still, leaning against the beam, your lips twitching in slight annoyance as if daring them to come any closer.

90You hadn’t slept in 3 days, and the last thing you ate was half a ration pack you had found discarded on the side of an alleyway, which definitely didn’t help your mood.

“Look, I really don’t want to hurt you, but the last person who tried to kill me ended up under a burning TIE,” you mumbled sincerely, the exhaustion clear on your face as the moonlight deepened your eye bags.

The mother tightened her grip on the blaster, taking a few steps closer to you to shield her daughter from your line of sight. Your heart twisted in pain, the memory of your Master’s last words surfacing back.

For a heartbeat, there was silence. Then the father’s lip twitched in what might have been a smile, or maybe a wry acknowledgement. He studied you closely, noting the youth in your posture, the stubborn set of your shoulders, and something clicked as he spared his daughter a glance.

The father raised a hand in a slow gesture. “Let her go,” he said softly. The daughter blinked, confused.

“Husband?” the woman questioned, never letting her gaze slip from your figure.

But you didn’t wait for more. You melted back into the shadows, leaving the bounty hunters alone under the bridge, silently hoping they wouldn’t change their mind come morning.

You had ended up back on the same rooftop you had started the night on a few hours later. It had become yours for the last few nights, a place high above Ord Varnis’s stink where the air was at least breathable. You had slept curled against the low wall, cloak drawn tight, your body trained to stir at the smallest sound.

You woke with the first gray stench of morning light spilling over the jagged skyline. For a moment you thought you were alone, the hum of the airspeeders below blending into the haze of half-dreams. But then you shifted, and saw movement in the corner.

A child. Bundled in patched cloth, knees pulled up, half-hidden in the shadows where a vent jutted from the roof. He was staring at you, wide-eyed but unafraid, as though you were the intruder.

You blinked hard, sitting up. Your first instinct was to reach for your belt, and then the emptiness there reminded you that your saber was gone. You let your hand drop, exhaling.

“You live here?” you murmured, realization settling in.

The child gave the smallest nod. He wasn’t a street urchin who had climbed up by chance. This was his refuge, his corner of the city above the noise and smoke. You had been the trespasser.

You let a hand through your hair, sighing in defeat.

The child’s eyes flicked toward the stairwell door, then back at you, a silent question you understood immediately. Are you leaving?

You shook your head slowly. “Not yet.” Your tone softened. “But I won’t take this from you. I’ll be gone soon.”

The child didn’t answer, only tugged the blanket tighter around his shoulders. But after a moment, his posture eased, just slightly.

You pulled your cloak tighter as well, turning your gaze toward the awakening palace. For the first time in days, you felt the edge of your anger dim.

At first, the child didn’t speak. He just watched you with those sharp, dark eyes while you came and went, returning at night to claim your usual corner of the roof. You respected the silence, never offering more than a smile or a nod.

On the third day, you found half a ration bar near the vent.

By the fifth night, the child offered a piece of stale bread himself. You took it without comment, through the corner of your mouth twitched in something that almost felt like a smile.

The days blurred together. You moved through the city, always coming back to the same rooftop. The child’s silence became less hostile, more curious. He began to mirror you, sitting cross-legged when you did, tilting his head at the same sounds below. When you muttered curses under your breath after another dead lead, the child’s lip twitched as though he wanted to mimic you.

Finally, one evening as the smog-thick sun sank behind the leaning towers, the child spoke. His voice was soft, unused.

“Why do you come back here?”

You were caught off guard. You leaned against the low wall, arms crossed, and after a long pause, answered honestly.

“Because it’s high enough to breathe. And because nobody else wants it.”

The child nodded as if that was reason enough, and for the first time, he inched closer to your side of the roof.

By the end of the week, you were sharing stories in fragments. The child pointed to a broken tower and claimed he once climbed halfway up before being caught by a neighbor. You told him about flying through asteroid fields, but you left out the part about running spice routes with Han and Chewie, and just called it “piloting jobs.”

And when he asked if you’d ever been scared, you surprised yourself by answering truthfully, “All the time. But you learn to keep moving anyway.”

On a misty night, he finally whispered his name.

Tillian.

And you offered him yours.

Not Crystal.

Your real name. The one that hadn’t touched your lips in so long.

And the day after that, he waited on the rooftop until dawn broke, his fingers worrying his tattered blanket in anxiety.

You were gone. Just like everyone else.

The night had started badly. The waitress uniform you had stolen turned out to be two sizes too small, and wearing your dirty clothes was definitely not an option. Karl Drixx’s auction nights were far too fancy for the likes of you wandering around the lavish ballroom with the scent of trash and sweat sticking to your clothes. So that left the only viable option. The sewers and the vents.

The sewers stank, but at least the rodents weren’t larger than the size of your palms. The vents turned out to be much more spacious than the ones of the Ardent Whisper, so for that you weren’t complaining, but things took a turn for the worse when you had actually broken into the palace.

You could feel the low thrum of your crystal, but every time you so much as closed in on it, your chest deflated with the absence of its signature in the Force. It was almost like it had feet on its own, moving around and teasing you like you were playing hide and seek.

After a close encounter with the guards, it became clear that there was one thing you had missed from your stake-outs. Everything in the lineup for the auction was evidently being moved around purposely to deter the assets from being stolen by thieves like you.

You bit your lip. You had managed to get in undetected, so you could hypothetically get out safely and come back in again once you found the solution to the new problem that had risen, but there was no guarantee the Kyber crystal would still be here. If it wasn’t, you might have to do this all over again. Board another over-filled passenger cruiser to the next planet and hope that whoever had bought the crystal wasn’t a crimelord with a reputation such as that of Karl Drixx’s.

You let out a sigh. This was your only chance. You didn’t have any other choice.

The heist went as well as you expected. You found the crystal in the end, still intact, still shining as bright as you last saw it, but it came with a cost. The guards were fierce, and they protected the crystal like they had everything to lose. It wasn’t until they were lying unconscious on the ground that you noticed it. Missing fingers or ears… There wasn’t a single guard who hadn’t had part of their body mutilated or burned away. Karl Drixx’s cruelty ran deeper than you had even imagined, and for a moment, you could feel your heart in your throat. You just brought more pain and suffering to these people.

You looked away. Because if you hadn’t, the guilt would have made you do something you would regret.

Just as you slipped away, one of the guards cracked one of his eyes open, blinking through the tears, the image of you burnt at the back of his head. The Rodian let out a relieved sigh as he let his head rest on the floor. The crystal may be gone, but he wouldn’t lose a hand this time, not when he had something to bargain with, though as for his colleagues, he couldn’t say the same.

When you burst out of the sewer, the night was still young, and the chaos you expected in the palace hadn’t broken out yet. You sneaked a glance at the rooftop, the memory of Tillian still fresh in your mind. You hesitated, your fingers running over the crystal, savouring the warmth and the reassurance it offered. Paying him one last visit could put him at risk. The guards had seen you no doubt, and surely one of them would remember your face, and if it was as you suspected, the stormtroopers would be barricading the city as soon as news of the heist broke out.

When dawn broke, your assumptions held through.

And a few hours later, you found yourself running through the narrow market place, the busy town square that smelled strongly of ammonia, the only thing between you and the stormtroopers.

You could feel your lungs burning and your heart pounding so hard you were convinced it would just jump out of your chest. Civilians ducked as blaster bolts sliced overhead. Stalls went up in flame, the air thick with smoke and the smell of burning fabric.

“Stop! In the name of the Empire!”

You didn’t stop. You darted between two vendor carts, flipped one over behind to block their sight, and ducked into a side street.

Straight into another squad.

You spun, searching for a way out. There wasn’t one.

Then a sharp whistle cut through the noise.

You turned. There, above the square, half-hidden by a rooftop sign, a small figure waved once. Thin, wiry. Eyes wide in the glow of the morning sun.

Tillian.

Your chest tightened. What was he doing here?

The child vanished from the roof and moments later a crate fell into the alley beside you, knocking loose a tarp that revealed a narrow gap between two buildings. Just wide enough for you to fit.

You slipped through it, scraping your arm on the duracrete. Ahead, you saw the kid waiting in the next passage, pointing furiously.

“This way!” he shouted.

You didn’t question how he knew where to go. You just followed. He darted through the labyrinth of alleys like smoke, cutting corners seconds before patrols appeared, ducking under the bridges right before blasterfire scorched the walls. Every turn seems impossibly lucky.

Too lucky.

The realization hit you when you skidded to a halt at a dead-end. The kid turned back, eyes wide, but instead of fear, there was a strange calm, like he was listening to something you couldn’t hear.

“Wait,” he said quietly, and pointed to a blank section of wall. “Here.”

Before you could ask what he meant, an old service hatch flickered and slid open with a hiss of compressed air. Dust billowed out.

Tillian blinked in surprise, like he hadn’t known it would work.

You stared. Your heart pounded, not from the chase, but from recognition. You had felt the ripple, faint but there, brushing against the edges of your awareness like a breath in the Force.

You had felt him.

“Go,” you said, pushing him towards the tunnel. He scrambled inside, and you followed, sealing it behind as the troopers’s shouts faded overhead.

You didn’t stop until the tunnel curved into silence. The only sound was your breathing.

You leaned against the wall, sweat dripping down your temple, clutching the pouch at your belt. The crystal pulsed faintly.

Tillian sat a few feet away, hugging his knees, eyes wide and uncertain.

You watched him for a long time. The way the dust shifted subtly around his hands when he moved. The strange, untrained steadiness in the chaos.

“You’ve done that before,” you said softly.

The kid shook his head. “Done what?”

You hesitated. “Listen to something no one else can hear.”

He frowned, not understanding. “I just felt the wall was wrong.”

You didn’t tell him what it meant, not yet.

Instead, you said, “You saved my life.”

Tillian looked away, embarrassed. “You looked like you needed help.”

You huffed a laugh. “I usually do.”

You climbed until the noise of the city dulled into a distant hum. The tunnel had spat you out near the industrial quarter, and from there, a half-collapsed stairway led to the roof of an old comms building. The place was deserted, like most things in this city that didn’t serve Karl Drixx or the Empire.

You pulled yourself up first, then reached a hand down for the kid.

From up here, the city stretched like a wound, exhaust plumes, green fog from the river, the steady movement of patrol ships cutting lines through the haze. It was almost peaceful if you didn’t listen too closely.

Tillian sat on the ledge, legs dangling, watching the traffic below. “You think they’re still looking for you?”

“Hopefully no, they’ll assume I got out of the district.”

He gave a small nod, then went quiet again.

You reached into your pouch and took out the kyber crystal. Even in the dim light, it glowed faintly, catching in your palm. The kid leaned forward, eyes widening in wonder.

“What is that?”

You turned it slowly between your fingers. “Something that used to belong to me. Something I wasn’t supposed to get back.”

“It’s pretty.”

“Yeah,” you mumbled. “And dangerous.”

For a moment, he just watched it. The yellow shimmer reflected in his eyes, and you saw again that flicker in the Force, subtle, curious, unshaped. Like a moth drawn to flame.

You hesitated, then asked quietly, “Do you ever feel things before they happen?”

He blinked, unsure. “Sometimes. Like knowing when to move before something falls. Or sometimes when people are lying.” He frowned. “My mom says it’s luck.”

Your chest tightened. “It’s not luck.”

The words came out gentler than you meant them. You set the crystal down between you and him.

“What happened back there,” you said, nodding toward the city below, “the way you knew where to go, that wasn’t chance either.”

He looked at you, confused. “Then what was it?”

You exhaled, tracing the outline of the city. The word felt dangerous in your mouth.

“It’s called the Force.”

He tilted his head. “Like… the stories?”

“Not stories,” you said. “It’s real. It’s what kept us both alive tonight.”

His brow furrowed. “But I didn’t do anything.”

“You did more than you think.”

Neither of you spoke after that.

Then, he whispered, “Are you one of them? The people who can use it?”

Your jaw tensed. You wanted to lie, say no, say you had just heard stories too, but the truth had already found its way into your tone.

“Yes,” you whispered.

Tillian studied your face, as if searching for some mark that proved it. “Is that why they’re after you?”

You looked down at the crystal, turning it once more in your hand. “That’s why they’ll always be after me.”

The wind shifted, carrying the faint hum of a passing speeder.

You continued to stare at the crystal.

Months of chasing it.

Months of sleeping in cold corners, bribing liars, and dodging imperials, all for this, and holding it didn’t even feel like victory.

You’d fought so hard to get this piece of you back. But looking at it now, you couldn’t tell if you wanted it because it mattered, or because you had nothing else that did.

The crystal was supposed to belong to you. But maybe it didn’t anymore. Maybe the Force had other ideas.

“You should have it,” you said.

He blinked, turning to you. “What?”

“The crystal. You should keep it.”

His head snapped toward you. “No, no, you said you just got it back!”

“I know,” A small smile tugged at your lips, faint but real. “Maybe that’s why it makes sense.”

He frowned. “But you don’t even know me.”

“I don’t have to, the Force tells me enough.” You held it out for him. His small hand reached carefully. The glow dimmed between his fingers, as if settling.

“It’s yours now,” you said quietly. “Don’t try to force it. It’ll find you when you’re ready.”

He stared at you, wide-eyed. “What about you?”

“Me?” you murmured. “I’ll figure something out.”

You had recovered your crystal, and lost it again. But somehow, this time, it didn’t feel like losing at all. The Force rippled softly around, then it settled into an unusual calmness, as if everything that led you here was meant to be, as if the crystal was meant for his hands instead of yours.

Morning came quietly.

You hadn’t slept much. You had stayed on the rooftop until dawn broke, the kid curled on the other side, still clutching the crystal you had given him. You left before he woke. It was better that way, you told yourself that as you walked through the streets, hood drawn up, hands deep in your pockets. Just another face in the crowd. Just another morning.

And for a while, it was. You sat by the water fountain, hand reaching every once in a while to quench your never-ending thirst. You almost — almost— let yourself enjoy the ordinary noise of life again.

Then you saw it.

A merchant yelling at a trooper. A cage overturned. A blur of feathers and noise as something small and furious took off down the street.

A kestrel hawk. Bright, fast, and terrified.

The trooper fired a stun bolt. It missed. The crowd ducked and scattered. You froze mid-sip, hand halfway to your mouth. The bird slammed into a wall, fell hard, flapping helplessly.

And before you could think, before you could remind yourself you are being hunted, you idiot— you moved.

You vaulted the stall, ducked under the trooper’s arm, and scooped the injured creature into your jacket in one smooth, impulsive motion.

“Hey!” the trooper barked.

“Relax,” you said without looking back, already walking off so that he wouldn’t notice how your face was eerily similar to the thief currently being hunted down. “It’s just a bird.”

But apparently, on this particular nerfherding planet, kestrel-hawks were registered property of the governor. Which made taking one, however accidentally, theft.

So when the second trooper called for backup and a crowd started gathering, you knew it was too late to disappear quietly.

You sighed, pressing your lips together.

Two minutes later, you were face-first against a speeder, wrists bound, the bird squawking indignantly from inside your jacket.

The trooper scowled as he confiscated it. “You realise you just stole from the governor’s preserve?”

“It was dying!” you shot back. “You could’ve just left it—”

“Save it,” he replied. “You can explain it to the officer.”

You rolled your eyes. “My favourite part.”

By the time you were dragged into the detention centre, you had stopped fighting. They hadn’t recognised you yet, and if the detention centre was what you hoped it was, it could actually be your one way ticket out of here. The cell block smelled like rust and recycled air. The corridors buzzed with the distant hum of faulty power couplings.

And then, as the guards marched you past a row of holding cells, you heard a strikingly familiar voice. You froze. Every muscle locked.

‘ —I told you, I didn’t know it was Imperial rations! You said take what you can carry!”

Your head snapped so fast your neck hurt.

Behind the durasteel bars sat Han, looking very much like a man who just lost an argument with authority, and Chewie, who was slumped beside him with a long-suffering patience of someone who had definitely been through this before.

Han froze mid-sentence, blinking once, twice.

You spoke before he could. “Han?”

He pushed up against the bars, disbelief, relief and a grin competing for space on his face. “You’re alive.”

You opened your mouth again, words at the tip of your tongue before the trooper rushed you forth. You looked back, straining your neck to catch a last glimpse of them as you were pushed in front of a small desk crammed at the end of the hallway. For a heartbeat, you couldn’t breathe, because Han and Chewie were here, on the same planet, the same detention centre, the same floor. It was as if the Force had wanted this, how else could you make sense of it? A million planets in the galaxy, yet we were all on the same one…

The officer dwarfing the desk cleared his throat, stylus poised over his datapad. “Name?”

You snapped out of the disbelief at the sudden voice, and blinked.

He let out a sharp exhale, and repeated the question as if it pained him.

You didn’t even think about it.

“Jabba the Hutt,” you exclaimed absentmindedly.

You bit down on your tongue hard, your mind still not comprehending the fact that Han and Chewie were here. Barely five feet away from you.

The officer stared, unamused, then sighed and actually wrote it down. It wasn’t until he read it aloud that the absurdity seemed to dawn on him. He blinked, exhaustion written all over his face. “Are you kriffing serious?”

You didn’t answer.

“Just take her away. Any kriffing cell will do,” he muttered, his fingers massaging his temples.

You had lost track of much time you had spent staring at the mouldy wall, your mind constantly replaying the moment your eyes had met those of Han. The absurdity of the situation hadn’t dawned on you until you were left rotting behind the bars of the cell that had no right being this cramped, and as if that wasn’t enough to dampen your spirits, your roomie was the epitome of a giant slug and snail hybrid that constantly flooded the cell with slime.

Your fingers twitched, restless. The Force hummed faintly at the edge of your awareness, and the tension pressing down on your chest wouldn’t ease, but you weren’t scared, not like how you were when you ran away from the Sith. A quiet realisation settled over you like dust. You’ve been in this situation before, too many times. And you were fine, or maybe not fine— maybe you had just run out of fight in the panic part of your brain.

If they took you to processing, you’d think about escape then.

If they moved you to interrogation, you’d act then.

If they called someone worse, you’d decide how to face it.

But right now, in this moment, you just sat, hands folded, shoulders loose, and eyes stinging with exhaustion. You shifted slowly, so that your head was cushioned on the scratchy blanket, and you closed your eyes, letting your breath slow down as the tightness in your chest dissipated at the promise of sleep.

You woke up to the sound of shouting. Not the sharp, ordered commands of a ward keeper, this one was messy. Clattering boots, raised voices, alarms that someone hadn’t turned off properly. The kind of chaos that meant something had gone wrong fast.

You laid still on the cot, blinking blearily at the ceiling, your mind too slow to catch up.

A trooper stumbled across the door of the cell, cursing under his breath. That had you getting on your feet before you consciously decided to move.

He fumbled with a ring of keys at his belt, muttering something in his comms. The chaos behind him built into a crashing crescendo of panicked shouting, roars of someone slamming into a wall, and Chewie roaring somewhere far off.

Your heartbeat kicked back into motion.

Your hands shot between the bars, lightning-fast, snatching the keyring off his belt with a clean, practiced twist. By the time the trooper jerked back, you were already stepping away from the door, keys tucked behind your back.

The trooper muttered another curse, patting his now-empty belt, spinning in confusion.

But the alarms blared louder, someone screamed two cells down, and the trooper bolted the opposite direction without looking back.

You didn’t wait.

You jammed the right key into the lock and the door clicked open. You slipped out into the corridor, boots silent on the floor, the shouts echoing around the prison block.

Han and Chewie. They were here somewhere, you reminded yourself, the thought hitting you harder than expected. A strange warmth flickered in your chest— fear for them, relief they were alive, and the stupidest hope you had felt in months.

You moved quickly, following the unmistakable rumble of a Wookie’s frustration.

Two turns. Metal stairs. The same long hallway with reinforced doors you had walked by earlier.

You stopped before the first cell, listening carefully and then you heard it.

“ — I told you grabbing the power conduit was a bad idea.”

Chewie roared, and your shoulders sagged in relief.

You approached their cell door and paused just long enough to be sure no troopers were close. Then you stepped into view and whispered as you lifted the stolen keys, “I’m getting you out.”

The lock turned. The door swung open.

All three of you just stared at each other, as still as concrete pillars. Something thick flowed in the air, not relief or joy, but disbelief and a faint coldness that scratched you wrong.

The lower corridors shook with something close to an explosion and you snapped out of it.

“Move,” you said softly. “Before someone actually competent shows up.”

Chewie surged forward with a relieved bark, but Han didn’t move. He stayed exactly where he was, sitting on the edge of the metal bunk, elbows on his knees, eyes fixed on you with a look that made your pulse stumble.

Not confused or surprised. Just hurt. And angry.

Chewie turned, puzzled, but Han lifted a finger to stop him without looking away from you.

Your stomach knotted.

“Han?” you tried, voice small. “We gotta go.”

His jaw flexed. “Yeah. I figured that part out.” He stood slowly like he was holding himself back from saying something worse. “Funny thing, though.” He stepped closer, expression tightening. “You drag us halfway across the galaxy into trouble we didn’t even know we were in. You disappear. You lie. Repeatedly. Then you save us with whatever nonsense this is.” He waved sharply at you.

You flinched.

He noticed.

“You think we didn’t deserve to know?” His voice dropped, lower and rougher. “Not once? Not ever?”

You swallowed hard. “I was protecting you. If they knew you were with me—”

Han cut her off with a bitter laugh. “Protecting us? Kid, you think we haven’t been getting shot at before we met you?”

Chewie rumbled, unhappy, glancing between you.

He kept going, words tight with betrayal. “All the time I have spent in this cell made me realise something. We trusted you. We kept looking for you. Worried about you. Chewie lost sleep over you. Hell, I lost sleep over you.” He jabbed a finger at the corridor. “And you’re still hiding the one thing that would explain everything.”

Your throat clenched so hard it hurt. You had imagined him angry, but this? Him sounding like you had broken something? It was worse.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered, voice cracking.

“Yeah,” Han muttered, stepping past you into the hallway, “well, sorry doesn’t undo weeks of thinking you were dead.”

Chewie brushed your arm gently as he followed, his low hum forgiving but weighed down.

You stood frozen a moment before forcing yourself to move, running after them. You jogged a few steps to catch up, heart hammering harder from Han’s words than from the alarms blaring overhead.

“Han, wait.” Your voice cracked, pleading.

Han didn’t stop, but he hesitated.

“Please, I will explain everything. All of it. Just…” You forced out the words, breath shaking. “After, I promise. I just need you to trust me long enough to get us clear.”

Chewie grumbled something low— encouraging, nudging Han with a pointed look.

Han exhaled sharply through his nose, like he didn’t like the position you were putting him in. Like he didn’t want to trust you, but he couldn’t quite stop himself.

Finally, he muttered, “Fine. After.” He turned down the hall. “But you better make that explanation one hell of a good one.”

Luke leaned back in his chair, letting the subtle hum of the command centre wash over him. Reports lay strewn across the desk, each one a breadcrumb in the tangled trail of intelligence he had been following for weeks. He scanned the latest updates he had received from the last systems the intelligence unit had combed for data. Nothing significant except for a heist at Karl Drixx’s palace. It wasn’t unusual at first glance. It was an opulent palace, high security, a motley crew of would-be thieves probably, but then his eyes caught the critical detail: the only thing stolen was a crystal. 

Not just any trinket. A kyber crystal. The one a Jedi would treasure. The crimelord had only acquired it weeks before it was stolen. The timing was impeccable, suspiciously so, especially when the Seventh Sister had explicitly noted down how she had split the Jedi’s lightsaber in half during their last encounter.

He stopped scrolling through the data pad, finger frozen as the side of his lip tugged upwards.

Sentimental, are we?

He had officers comb through every record he could get his hands on, because no fugitive was as perfect at hiding as they thought they were. Petty crimes, serious ones, everything. Every minor scuffle, every theft, every unexplained disappearance on Old Varnis were investigated. It all mattered. Every detail fed the calculation.

Then he slowed, staring right at the report of a petty theft. Nothing serious. Just an injured bird, but the description of the thief was what stopped him in his tracks. It was brief, height, eye colour, hair colour and nothing more, but every detail matched what he already knew about you. Patterns began to snap into place.

The citizens knew better than to touch the governor’s property, but an outsider wouldn’t. Or maybe you just didn’t care. All you saw was an injured bird, and what was the Jedi if it wasn’t for their rotten compassion? The compassion that always led them into danger.

Always. 

By the time he touched the toxic ground of Old Varnis, Voss informed him that the detention centre was in chaos. Guards scattered, alarms blaring, prisoners unaccounted for. A fleeting exhale escaped him, a suppressed, almost exasperated sigh. You were gone. Of course, you would be. 

But he didn’t linger on frustration. There was no panic, only calculation. He just needed to catch a thread of your presence and you would be his.

He moved through the narrow alleys, every sense alert, every step measured. Then he felt something tugging at him, faint and insistent. A presence, your presence, like a whisper brushing the edge of his awareness. He concentrated, letting the Force guide him. Each step carried him closer, the resonance growing stronger, sharper, unmistakable. He was almost certain, you were here, nearby, and he could almost taste the success on his tongue.

The trail led him through narrow alleys, up winding stairways, and finally to the edge of a rooftop overlooking Karl Drixx’s colourful palace.

Crouched in the shadows, was a figure.

A small one, blanket wrapped around his shoulders, hand clutching something bright.

A crystal.

Your crystal.

His chest tightened for a fraction. The Force hummed through him, confirming your connection. So, that’s what he felt.

He approached cautiously, controlling his presence, softening his steps, keeping the subtle weight of authority tempered. The boy flinched at his arrival, eyes wide with suspicion as he shivered against the morning chill. Luke stopped a few steps away, voice calm, deliberately soft. “I’m looking for someone. You hold her crystal.”

The boy didn’t relax immediately. Luke felt his doubt, his wariness, his fear, the instinctive barrier a child puts up against someone unfamiliar yet commanding. He let a hint of patience thread through his presence.

“Easy, I’m not here to hurt you.”

“Who are you?” The child said, hands tightening at the edge of his mouldy blanket as fear poked inevitable holes through his composure.

“A friend. There’s people looking for her. Ones who want to hurt her. I have to find her before they do.” Luke’s eyes softened slightly, eyes flicking on the trinket in the boy’s hands.

His suspicion didn’t vanish. If anything, it sharpened. “Then… What's her name?” he asked cautiously, small fingers still curled around the crystal.

Luke’s mouth went dry for a heartbeat. He had only ever known you as Crystal, a trace in the Force, the object in the boy’s hand. But he stayed still, listening, unwilling to come undone by a child. He let the connection flow, quiet, intimate and for the first time since he began searching, he heard it, clear and unmistakable, reverberating through the boy’s mind.

It wasn’t just a sound. It was a presence, a pulse that evaded him for months, threading through the Force like a whisper he had been chasing blindly. Every failure, every dead end, every misstep of the hunt seemed to crystallize in that single word. Relief washed over him, but it was layered, tangled with something else, an unfamiliar warmth that made his chest tighten.

He said it aloud without thinking, letting the sound roll from his tongue. A name as sweet as your face. The name felt right in his mouth, like a key sliding home. It anchored him in a way he hadn’t expected. It made all the planning, all the tracking, all the failures, all the patience worth it.

Yet, beneath the brief warmth, the old certainty returned, He reminded himself of why he was here, why he had tracked you this far, not to comfort but to confront. The human impulse lingered, but it did not rule him.

The child’s posture relaxed fractionally, though caution lingered. “I… I don’t know where she went. But, I think she might still be here. I’m not sure,” he whispered, almost to himself.

Luke nodded, authoritative yet patient, a subtle warmth slipping through his voice. “That helps. I’ll find her.”

After a long pause, the child extended his hand hesitantly, as if not knowing if he should trust him or not, but his worry for you overtook his suspicion . “I shouldn’t have taken this. But if you find her, give it back. She might need it. Please.”

Luke accepted it, feeling the quiet weight of your presence through the object, the pull that guided him. For a fleeting moment, he allowed himself something human— a recognition of the boy’s bravery, the bond he had with you, the care that lingered between you and the boy.

“Stay here,” he said softly, cloak settling around him like shadowed authority. “Don’t move until it’s safe. I’ll handle the rest.”

Before he left, he turned, glancing back at the boy. “Thank you, Tillian.”

Tillian watched him disappear down the stairs, eyebrows switching in confusion. Then, came the horror. “How—?” he muttered, swallowing hard.

He hadn’t even told the stranger his name.

The detention centre was surprisingly easy to break out of as it was already in chaos. They slipped through the turmoil like shadows, slipping past disoriented stormtroopers and ducking through empty corridors. Doors swung open and slammed shut behind them. By the time they reached the hangar where Han and Chewie had been when they were first taken into custody, the hangar gate was the only thing standing between them and freedom.

Then, heavy footsteps echoing through the corridor like the sound of your heart pounding through your chest.

No, not now. Not when you were so close. 

The Falcon’s ramp barely touched the ground when blaster fire cut through the hangar. Smoke and sparks lit the air as you moved behind Chewie. You were almost at the Falcon when a sharp sting hit Chewie’s side. He let out a strangled roar, stumbling as Mandalorian toxin coursed through him. You caught him, half dragging him toward the ship using the Force, while Han barked orders to keep moving. Blaster bolts cracked around you as stormtroopers closed in, but the Falcon’s ramp yawned ahead like a lifeline.

Han barked, “Get in! Now!” His face was tight with urgency, the blaster he had stolen sweeping to keep the troopers at bay.

Your heart hammered as you maneuvered Chewie across the Falcon’s ramp. The Wookie’s movements became sluggish, his growls weaker, every breath heavier. You cursed under your breath, pushing him forward, urging him to the ship.

“Come on, Chewie! You’re almost there!”

You felt him before anything else.

Just as your foot hit the Falcon’s ramp, Chewie slumping harder against your shoulder, Han covering your flank, you felt it.

Not the Force itself, something colder and sharper.

A presence that knew exactly where you were before you even looked up.

Your stomach dropped, hard and instinctive.

He’s here. 

Then the blasterfire stopped.

You turned.

He was there, standing a few steps away from the ramp. Calm, like he had been waiting there the whole time.

For a second you couldn’t breathe. Not because of the smoke, or the blaster residue still drifting in the air. But because he held your crystal.

Your crystal… which had been with Tillian.

You felt cold. Hollow.

If the Sith Lord had the crystal, then he’d reached Tillian. And if he’s reached Tillian, then Tillian was either captured, or gone.

And now, Chewie was half-collapsed beside you, poisoned and barely holding consciousness. Han was pinned between stormtroopers. You had nothing. No leverage. No path. No power.

Just him standing steps away, calm as ever, the man who killed your master, holding the last piece of your old life between his fingers like it was his right.

“Come with me,” he said, “and no one gets hurt.”

Your voice cracked out sharper than you meant. “How can I trust you?”

He didn’t even blink. “You don’t.”

The blunt honesty only made it worse, because it meant he knew he didn’t need your trust. Only your surrender.

You swallowed hard, eyes flicking to Han. He met your gaze— confused, furious, worried. And underneath all of that… there was something like understanding. Like part of him had suspected there was a shadow behind you all along, and now he was watching it come into the light.

The Sith lord said your name, your real name as a warning and you froze.

You hated it. You hated how he said your name.

“Fine,” you breathed shakily. “But they go first. Off-planet.”

At that, Han jerked forward against the stormtroopers, trying to pull free, one last desperate lunge towards you, as if he could still change this, still drag you into the Falcon and slam the ramp shut behind you.

Two stormtroopers flanking the Sith Lord came forward, ripping you away from Chewie as easily as Han ripping a bacta patch off his skin. You didn’t resist, but Chewie held on weakly, groaning in pain as the stormtroopers pulled. Your heart clenched, but you refused to cry, refused to give the Sith more satisfaction by seeing you broken.

Han resisted, thrashing as the troopers dragged him to the ramp of the Falcon. There were a thousand questions in his eyes as he twisted back to look at you.

Why didn’t you run?

Who the hell are you really?

How long have you been living with all of this alone?

You saw it coming. And you shook your head once. “Go!” you snapped, louder than the blasterfire that had filled the hangar minutes earlier. “Han, GO!”

He froze at the force of your voice, eyes wide, chest heaving, before the troopers pushed him into the mouth of the Falcon. 

You caught one last glimpse. Chewie slumped against the corridor wall. Han still shouting something you couldn’t hear over the engines. Both of them staring at you like they were watching you drown.

Your chest twisted. Your throat burned. You felt everything and nothing at once.

Then troopers slammed the ramp shut.

You stared after the ship as its engines flared, climbing unsteadily, a wobble in the ascent telling you Chewie was barely conscious and Han was flying half-blind with adrenaline. You should’ve been relieved.

Instead there was a ringing in your ears.

Because you felt him behind you, closer now. And because the stormtroopers were still holding your arms behind your back in an iron vice. And because the last thing you saw before the ramp was Han turning, eyes locking on you, something knowing in them.

Like your real name had confirmed something he had suspected since the moment he met you.

His hesitation flashed in your mind again. That one second where he almost, almost, did something reckless.

Something stupid.

Something brave.

You had screamed at him, voice breaking. And he had listened.

Now the Falcon was gone.

It was just you.

You swallowed, forcing yourself to breathe as the troopers stepped back enough for you to catch the balance, Chewie’s warmth was gone from your side, Han’s voice gone with the ship, Tillian— maker, he had gotten to him first. The truth hit harder than the blasterfire.

Slowly, you lifted your head.

He stood in front of you. Not gloating. Not smiling. Just watching you with that quiet, unreadable calm, like he could see every fracture inside you.

And in his ungloved hand, the same scarred one you saw in the mirror, was your crystal.

Alive with a pulse you felt even metres away.

Of course he had it.

Of course he had found the boy.

Of course nothing you cared about ever stayed safe.

You exhaled shakily.

Anger simmered low in your chest, hot, bitter, born from months of running and loss. And beneath it, fear. Real, animal fear because the man standing in front of you had killed your master, had hunted you across systems, and now—

Now he had everything.

You felt yourself dissociating as soon as the troopers began to drag you forward. Your eyes were burning into the back of the Sith lord's head, yet your mind was blank.

You stumbled forward, right foot catching a stray bolt on the ground and instinct took over before thought. Before Tillian. Before consequences. Your body moved on its own, slipping from the stormtrooper's iron grasp as if the forest itself had claimed you. You didn’t even realise when you had left the hangar, but now that branches tore at your sleeves, and roots snagged your boots, every sense sharpened, every nerve screaming in pure survival.

And behind you, without fault, was him.

Moving through the trees with impossible precision, silent and unstoppable. He wasn't chasing recklessly, every step was measured and inevitable, everything yours weren’t. Every instinct in your body screamed that you could not outrun him or outsmart him, but you had to try, one last time, even if it’s the last thing you do.

Time froze. You and him caught in that moment. A prey and a predator locked in a deadly inevitability. You stopped just as he did, eyes locked in a fiery battle as you breathed heavily. He was standing metres away, calm and breathing with the ease of someone who hadn’t just ran after you with the speed of a sand cougar.

The forest narrowed, and in that hush of leaf and wind, everything but the two of you disappeared.

And then you heard the distant sound of a stream. Its gentle, running water whispering in your mind of freedom, of a brief sanctuary, a moment where you might escape the impossible weight of him, the galaxy, the loss that had followed you. Your heart leapt. Your instincts screamed yes.

He saw it too, read your intent before you even formed it. “Don’t,” he said, his voice calm, but not threatening. Certain, like shadow that knew the terrain better than you could. His eyes flicked to the hidden stream, to your escape route, to the path you had already calculated tin a split second, and you knew he could read it.

But instinct doesn't wait for reason. You bolted. Every muscle burning, lungs screaming, legs pumping as if they could outrun your fate.

And then, sudden movement, straight at you. Sharp, brutal, raw. A flash of grey, a creature came, teeth bared, claws flashing.

He reacted before your mind could even register panic. Strong arms yanked you sideways, pulling you off your path, swallowing most of the shock as you both slammed to the earth. His chest pressed against your back, warm, firm and grounding. His arms wrapped around your waist, unyielding, holding you against him with a strength that was terrifying in its precision.

For a heartbeat, you felt him. Not just his strength, but the pulse beneath it. You were pressed to him, trapped by its certainty, and yet you didn’t hesitate.

You elbowed him hard. Skin, bone, the sharp wet sting of blood. Pain exploded across his face. Shock flashed in his eyes for the briefest instant, and then nothing. Calm returned. His grip eased and you rolled free, shaking, sprinting into the forest, but the creature’s claw had slashed your calf. Fire lanced through your leg, bright and hot, and blood beaded against your boot.

You ran. Through the blur of pain and panic. The creature’s roar echoed somewhere through the forest but it was nothing compared to the knowledge he wouldn’t stop, that he would catch you sooner or later.

You didn’t get far.

You could hear him behind you, close and steady. Not breathless, not stumbling, not injured the way you needed him to be.

Your calf was on fire, every pulse of your heartbeat sending another burst of agony through the torn muscle. Your vision blurred. You tried to push forward anyways, but your leg ducked and your back hit the rough trunk of a tree.

You slid down, hitting the ground hard, palms now scraping over dirt and moss.

You tried to crawl. Tried to drag yourself. Tried to move.

But your body rebelled, pain radiating up your spine, the wound wet and hot against your skin.

You tasted tears before you even realized you were crying.

A branch snapped behind you. He wanted you to hear. He wanted you to know he was here.

You squeezed your eyes shut, chest heaving. Not from running anymore, but from certainty that this was it. That you were spent. You couldn’t outrun him, not bleeding like this. Deep down, something twisted. You would never have outran him anyway.

His footsteps stopped beside you.

He crouched.

The Sith Lord dropped down in front of you with a terrifying calm, as if you weren't sobbing and shaking and trying to decide if you could still drag yourself another metre. His face had a stream of blood running down his nose where your elbow had split his skin, but he hadn’t touched it, hadn’t even wiped it away instinctively. It streaked past his mouth like it was nothing.

He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and you watched, fully expecting him to wipe the blood off his face, but he didn’t, instead he inched closer.

You recoiled instantly, dragging yourself backwards flush against the tree. “Don’t touch me.”

He didn’t flinch. “I’m just trying to stop the bleeding.”

“You just threatened to kill my friends!” you spat, voice breaking, tears streaking dirt down your face.

He didn’t defend himself. “Your friends,” he said flatly. “Not you.”

Your heart stuttered. Your breathing hitched. He said it like it was supposed to reassure you.

“What did you do to Tillian?” you rasped, your voice cracking under fear and fury.

His expression didn’t change. No guilt, no hesitation, just the cold, unshakable steadiness. “I’m not the monster you think I am.”

You stared at him. Really looked at him.

At his bright blue eyes, his shiny blond hair and the blood still flowing down his face like a trophy he had earned.

At his stillness.

At the way he hadn’t even raised a hand to defend himself when you elbowed him— because he didn’t need to.

Your voice came out hollow, trembling but sharp as shattered glass. “Says the murderer.”

He didn’t respond.

Didn’t deny. Didn’t explain.

He just tightened the handkerchief like a tourniquet around your leg with clinical, precise movements, ignoring your flinches and attempts to pull away.

When he finished, he finally asked, “Can you walk?”

“Yes.” You forced it out instantly. Too fast. Too desperate. You pushed yourself upright despite the tearing pain that shot through your leg. You wavered but refused to fall.

He watched you carefully. Something unknown swimming underneath the assessment.

Your gaze flicked backwards, toward the stream, toward the faint hope of another escape. Maybe, if you timed it right, you could run, despite the pain.

He noticed. Of course he did.

“Save yourself the trouble,” he said, voice even, stripped of warmth, “Don’t.”

His face was cold. Controlled.

Before you could react, before you even shifted from the trunk you were leaning against, he was there. Two impossibly quick steps and he reached you.

He hauled you over his shoulder with ease, as if you weighed nothing at all, like a bag of feathers.

“Put me down!’’ you screamed, thrashing.

Your hand shot for his lightsaber.

With a smooth motion, he snatched it from his belt before your fingers even grazed it. “Careful with that, you might hurt yourself,” he said, amused.

You kicked, twisted, yanked, but nothing changed the fact that he was in control. The forest blurred past as he carried you effortlessly. Your every instinct screamed for escape, every ounce of pain and panic driving you to struggle harder.

Through it all, his presence, unrelenting.