#×reader

"I'm going to kill him." You say, roughly yanking an axe off of a nearby stand. If you weren't so angry, it might have made you lose balance by the sheer size. Your inexperience with weapons made you less intimidating, but every man on Berk knew not to mess with an enraged woman.

Adrenaline drove you.

Astrid followed you close, trying to calm you down from your previous conversation.

"I just don't get it, he always says that I am the only one for him. That he loves me. But there he is, running his mouth with some other girl. I don't think he realizes that no other girl would put up with his crap." Just venting to Astrid made your blood boil.

"Have you talked to him about how you feel?" She reasoned, knowing that deep down you did love him, and wanted peace.

"Why should I! Isn't it obvious that you shouldn't flirt with other girls while you're engaged!" You were increasingly frustrated, popping your knuckles to ease some kind of tension.

She sighed and threw herself back onto her bed. Neither of you planned that your sleepover would turn into a therapy sesh. "Men are stupid. We even have to tell them when they are being stupid. That's how stupid they are."

You contemplated her words, "And if Hiccup was flirting with another girl?" You queried.

"I'd gouge his eyes out so he couldn't even look at another." She said, calm as ever. Though, it was true that Hiccup would rather die than make Astrid feel that way.

Defeated, you puffed out a frustrated gust of air. "Maybe I should just talk to him..." Astrid laughed at the contrast. Your emotions ran wild, regretfully doubting him. You beat yourself up on the fact you thought him disloyal.

"I think that's a great idea." She said, getting comfortable in her pillow, hoping the conversation would end. That way the two of you could do something more fun or relaxing.

As much as you wanted to move on, your gaze didn't leave the ground. Astrid shot you an understanding look. "You can go now..." You looked up.

"Astrid we've been planning this night for weeks! I'm not going to leave you over some petty feelings." Astrid would love to argue how your feelings were valid, and not petty. But she was too busy ushering you out the door.

"Look, after- you can come right back over. We will have more fun when your conscience is clean." She desperately wanted this to be over with, for her best friend to be at ease.

You knew she was right. Still, she made her way with you to the mead hall, where most of the men were bound to be eating.

Just as you walked in, you located Snotlout. With a freshly dropped face and cold eyes, you watched him. He was sat next to a girl you'd seen around. She was the complete opposite of you. She was visibly strong, taller than Snotlout, and loud.

He had his head thrown back in laughter, the very laugh you loved to hear. The laugh that was only reserved for you. His real laugh that only came out when talking about your future, dragon riding, or joking about Hiccup's leg.

That laugh was for you. No one else. Definitely not this random girl.

"I'm going to kill him."

The next thing you know, you are running across the hall to him. Axe raised above your head. You weren't aware if you were screaming or not, but the looks people gave you implied you were.

"SNOTLOUT!" The girl quickly jumped out of the way, but Snotlout was caught off guard by your voice.

He let out a yelp, quickly throwing himself to the ground. "ARE YOU CRAZY?" He screams back at you.

"Only because you've made me so!" You swing again, narrowly missing his ear. A shred of his hair was caught in the crossfire.

His voice raised a few octaves at your shrew rage. "What is your problem!" He was too worried about you to care about his voice cracking.

"YOU are my problem!" Onlookers knew better than to interfere with your relationship.

"Woah, woah, what did I do?" He tried to grab the axe from you, but risked losing a finger.

You thought about not responding, but stopped swinging to catch your breath. "What haven't you done? Or better yet, WHO haven't you done?"

His demeanor changed immediately, swiftly wrestling the axe from your grasp. "We need to take this outside."

You glanced back at Astrid, who held an all-too-proud look. She nodded with crossed arms.

"Gladly." He went to put his hand on your back, like he typically would when guiding you somewhere. You stopped him, slapping his hand away before walking ahead of him.

As the two of you briskly walked out, you pulled off your engagement ring. "Does this mean nothing to you?" You whisper-yelled at him, shoving the item you held dear, in his face.

He grabbed onto your hand that held out the ring. “What’s gotten into you! If it meant nothing I wouldn't have given it to you.”

You were no longer concerned with where you were going, focusing on your reasoning. “If you’d prefer to stay ‘available’, then you should call off the wedding. It would save me the heartbreak.”

“You are so dramatic!” He threw his hands up, frustrated. “Its just being nice! They mean nothing to me!”

Stopping in your tracks you slowly turn to look at him. "I see how it is." You fake a smile, an idea striking you. His face grows regretful and disturbed.

"Have a great night Snotlout." You leave him confused and alone in the darkness.

The next morning Snotlout was praying that you would have slept off whatever was making you cranky. He had no idea what he was going to walk into...

He, like every morning, confidently strutted into the mead hall. Though, what stopped him straight in his tracks was you.

Typically, you'd wait for him. Always taking your seat by his side, everyone knew of the engagement. Everyone knew for you acted and proclaimed it out proudly. Though, today was different.

You laughed at someone. No, with someone. Now, that usually wouldn't be a problem. But you weren't just laughing.

You were sat next to some dragon trainee. Snotlout had seen him around the training grounds, he had helped care for the dragons while their riders were gone.

The man played no real physical threat to Snotlout. He knew that, but seeing you gently rest your hand on his shoulder. One hand covering your growing laughter. Leaning over him when reaching for the pitcher of water. It was all too much.

Sure, he was smaller than Snotlout. Weaker. Naive. Inexperienced...... More handsome? Funnier? Smarter?

He stormed over, slamming his fist down onto the table. The small man jumped at the sound, intimidated. But you paid no mind.

"Good morning Snotlout, when did you get here?" You mindlessly fiddled with your engagement ring. His eyes were locked on it.

"Not important. We need to talk." His tone suggested he was not asking.

You smiled at him, "Can you give me a moment, it would be rude to leave my friend so quick." Truthfully, the conversation was dull, he was nothing like your beloved fiancé. You were just desperate to prove your point.

"Now." He said, fist hitting the table once more. The poor dragon aid was paralyzed with fear.

Your head snapped in his direction, eyes piercing. "Excuse me?"

He stared back for a moment, but then backed down with a sigh. "Please?"

You smirked at that. "Of course."

He doesn't try to guide you with his hand this time, it saddened you more then you thought it would.

With a newfound cocky attitude, you ask "So, where are you taking us?"

"Just stop, okay." He halts on the pathway.

"I've no clue what you're talking about." You reply.

He steps forward, gently grabbing your hands in his. He looks you in the eyes, his filled with sorrow. "You've proved your point. You can quit the act, okay?" His tone is pleading.

You nod, his plea touching your heart faster than it should have. "...Can we take a walk to the shore?"

"Anything you want." He was dead serious, he might have given anything up- just to have the normal you.

The walk was silent, shoulders bumping together, fingers brushing. It was nervous, like a first date.

Once you reached the water, you sat down onto the sand. Fidgeting with it at your side. Snotlout joined you.

"It didn't take long..." You started light heartedly.

"Is that how you feel?" His gaze looked out onto the water.

"Hm?"

"When I saw you with him... I mean, I know you'd never betray me like that but I..." He licked his lips. "It feels awful." His face scrunched up, a hand hitting his chest.

You took a deep inhale of courage. "Every time... Every time I see you even look at another woman, my heart jumps. I- Snotlout, I don't think you'd actually... Y'know... but it still hurts." You shifted, turning to look at him.

"I just don't understand, why you would need to flirt. I mean, am I not enough?" You were finally able to breathe out your deepest fear.

Snotlout lowered his head into his hands, disappointed and upset. But not at you, never at you.

"I'm so sorry. This is my fault, I've been so amazingly stupid." You let out a chuckle at his words, remembering what Astrid had said.

"I swear it, I swear I won't even talk to another woman if it's your will." He pulled you closer to him, conveying how serious he was.

"Snotlout-"

"No, please just listen." He lifts up your right hand, pressing your palms together. "I should have never let you feel a shred of doubt for my love. I know I am the last person to deserve you, and if it will truly make you happier- I would break the engagement off. But there is no part of me that doesn't want to marry you, and have you for the rest of my life. Just as you already have me."

"Are you done?" You lightly laughed out. His eyes looked glossy, a slow nod erupting.

You said nothing, just pressing forward to feel his lips on yours. It was a familiar action, but just as intimate as the first time they touched.

"You're so stubborn."

"Says the woman who ran at me with an axe.

"That was well deserved."

Snotlout Jorgenson

"Okay so this is really happening... wow she's so gorgeous... she tastes good... I could do this forever... don't panic. Don't panic, you're brave and tough you've faced dragons scarrier than this... am I doing okay? Does she like it? Should I pull away? Is where my hands are okay? Maybe I'll move them up... here. Good good good. She asked before kissing me… felt nice… to have a choice… I don’t really care if that makes me seem weak… Ohh I'm getting lightheaded I need air... oh wow okay okay she looks even better when she pulls away oh Thor help me..."

Tuffnut Thorston

"YESSSS THIS IS AWESOME HAHAHAHAHA I KNEW SHE LIKED ME! …not like I’ve been her boyfriend for a month but… Ha… Bet Hiccup would be jealous. I can actually kiss my girl. He can not afford. Great success. Oh she's laughing into the kiss this is even better! Her laugh is so pretty... would she be mad if I tickled her right now...? No! Focus. Lock in. She's holding on so soft it's like she's scared of hurting me she's adorable I love her so much... I'm hungry... I wonder where Chicken is I haven't- FOCUS TUFFNUT!! THE WOMAN OF YOUR DREAMS IS KISSING YOU!!! Oh she pulled away... oh yeah oxygen. I'm gonna need more so she can learn to survive without oxygen-"

Hiccup Haddock

"And this is really happening okay okay don't... panic? I'm not panicking I'm just worried because I've never done this before and wow she's pretty should my eyes be closed? Where do I put my hands? Where is she comfortable with me touch- oh it's like she read my mind she's just leading my hands that's nice... I like her hand in my hair. Feels really nice. She should do that more often. I'll make it a decree. As future chief your hand should be in my hair 12 out of 24 hours in a day. I hope no one- oh gods I need air... oxygen is yummy. And necessary. I hope she's not mad- oh she's not. I love her."

PercyJackson

"Huzzah!! I have won yes yes yes! This is great, I love this. And we're in a bubble under the lake no one can get us of find us and embarrass us... that would be really crazy honestly... ooh what kind of fish was that? I wonder if the fish ever get confused when I'm down here... oh she has cherry gloss on... yummy... cherry... cherry pie... blueberry pie is better. Just because it's blue. If every food was blue, life would be so much better- FOCUS FOCUS FOCUS- oh we're done. ... I want more."

Octavian

"...this is new... I don't know how to feel... my heart is racing and my face feels hot and... gods she's gorgeous... I wasn't prepared for this I didn't see this in my premonitions...I've never kissed anyone before... I wonder if I'm doing this right... she seems to enjoy it I guess. I'm also enjoying it... I did not understand why campers always wanted to kiss their partners until now... however I still think it is inappropriate and unnecessary to be making out in public. Shameless. At least my girl knows better... waited till we were in private and asked. I love her... she makes me happy... oh yeah oxygen."

Dick Grayson

"Okay Grayson, not the first time you've kissed someone... kissed a few people. Guys girls... but this is... different... it's like... fireworks are going off and my heart is beating out of my chest... she's amazing. She asked before she kissed me... I think that's the first time anyone has ever done that... her hands feel nice on my face... her nails on my scalp... just feels nice. And she's so warm. Makes me forget about everything... about how I'm late for patrols...about the freezing weather Bats is making me go out in... Bruce would never- oh right she needs to breathe. Not all of us were trained by Batman."

Jason Todd

"How do I tell her this is the first time I've kissed anyone?! Without sounding lame... she's so soft... I love squeezing her... she's so plush and sweet.. oh shit... I just knocked my head on hers... oh she just smiling... she's not mad. Okay... she keeps checking in... she's so sweet... no one's ever cared this much... how do I tell her anyway? Hey so remember that I died at 15, got brought back and trained with the LOA for a while until now which I'm 19, meaning I missed out on my core childhood experiences- oh shit... she's... oh she just blushing... and panting..? Oh right she can't hold her breath that long..."

Damian Wayne

"Well... while unexpected... it's not unpleasant nor is it unwelcome. I hope Grayson doesn't walk in, I'll never hear to end of it... unless the fact I have a girlfriend I can kiss would tick him off, in which case, yes. He may. I'm not one for physical contact but this is really nice... It’s soft. Not all consuming… which makes me happy… she’s soft… always asks… I haven’t a clue why… but it’s nice to feel like I have a choice for once. I wish I could stay here all night… would father even let me skip patrols to spend time with her? I wish- oh. Right. Air.”

Tim Drake

“Science says kissing burns calories and if this is how good kisses feel then I’m going to be soooo skinny by the time we’re married. Mhm mhm… okay… what am I supposed to be thinking about during a kiss anyway? Is it like… blank? Or can I think of other things… like how Damian slipped on ice and fell this morning- oh great I laughed into the kiss… oh she’s not mad. I love… I love…”

Luke Castellan

“I can handle this.”

…

“I can not handle this oh gods… what if I suck at kissing what if I mess up- oh damnit I just bit her… oh she’s laughing… okay let’s try this again… and if I put my hand on her face… ahh she’s so warm… so cute. I just want to squeeze her forever and ever my sweet girl…”

Grover Underwood

“Well this is how I die… not a bad way to go… probably the best way to go if I’m being honest. I love this…”

*literally after this, head empty no thoughts.*

Steven Meeks

“Maybe I should’ve read books on how to kiss girls I’m- ahhhh- this is not proper. Not at all. What am I talking about we’ve been going out for months… well maybe the fact I snuck her in and we are kissing on my bed in the dorm when Pitts could walk in at any time… but still… she tatted good… smells good too… probably cuz of the ice cream we had… I’m glad i get to have her… I’m glad she chose me…”

Neil Perry

‎At first, you thought it was your brain. The leftover echo of insomnia. But then-- no. It had rhythm. A… lecture?

‎You cracked one eye open.

‎There was a silhouette at the foot of your bed.

‎A tall, broad-shouldered man. In the dark.

‎Murmuring.

‎Gesturing.

‎Your soul immediately left your body.

‎“Oh, no. Oh, fuck no. Not tonight. Not today, Satan,” you whispered, reaching for the bedside lamp like it was a weapon.

‎The lamp clicked on.

‎And there he was.

‎A man you had never seen in your life sitting on the edge of your bed, in full uniform pants and a T-shirt that said “Ask me about lift dynamics.”

‎His eyes were half-lidded.

‎He looked like a malfunctioning robot.

‎And he was muttering-- loudly--

‎“No, no, listen to me. Hear me out first--”

‎You screamed. “WHO THE FUCK ARE YOU?”

‎He didn’t flinch. Didn’t even blink.

‎“If you think about it, technically, penguins are just flightless pilots.”

‎You froze. “...what?”

‎“Because! They have the instinct. The form. They just-- listen-- wait, no--”

‎He squinted at you, deadly serious.

‎“--they just don’t have the thrust-to-weight ratio.”

‎You sat up, clutching your blanket like a shield.

‎“I am going to cry. I am actually going to cry. Who sent you?!”

‎“No, no, listen! Hear me out first--” He held up a finger like a professor mid-thesis.

‎“If you put a penguin in an F/A-18--”

‎“STOP.”

‎“--technically--”

‎“STOP IT.”

‎“--it could fly.”

‎You stared at him.

‎He stared back, eyes unfocused, looking through her soul like she was a PowerPoint audience.

‎“...Sir,” you croaked. “I don’t know if you’re a ghost or a government experiment, but I’m calling base security.”

‎He tilted his head like an owl.

‎“Security’s fine. The real threat is drag coefficient.”

‎“Oh my God. You’re fuckin' sleepwalking, aren’t you?” you realized.

‎No response. Just:

‎“If we just give them little helmets…”

‎You pressed your palms to your face. “This is karma. This is because I laughed at the third insidious.”

‎He suddenly gasped like he’d just had a eureka moment.

‎“Oh my GOD-- you’re awake.”

‎You froze. “YES I’M AWAKE???”

‎“Perfect. Okay. So picture this-- penguins in jets--”

‎“GET OUT!”

‎“No, listen, hear me out first!”

‎“NO!!”

‎He blinked slowly. Then nodded.

‎“Okay, we’ll circle back.”

‎Then-- like it was the most normal thing in the world-- he stood, adjusted his shirt, and walked out.

‎Didn’t look back. Didn’t explain.

‎You sat there, clutching your blanket, jaw slack.

‎Somewhere down the hallway you heard his fading voice go--

‎“They’d need tiny ejection seats though…”

‎And you whispered to the ceiling, broken:

‎“...there are no words for this level of hell.”

---

The next morning, the Hard Deck’s loud tonight-- boots against wood, clinking bottles, music humming over the sound of laughter and bragging.

‎Dagger Squad’s holding court near the bar, a golden halo of ego and aviator shades.

‎You stroll in with your squad-- the “other” one. The unglamorous, still-capable, slightly scrappy team that flies the less shiny jets but still somehow gets the job done. You’re already tired, hair pulled up in a lazy bun, hoodie tied around your waist, and the universal expression of God, I need a fuckin' drink before I have a meltdown right here.

‎You make it halfway to the counter before you freeze.

‎Because there he is.

‎The man from your haunted night.

‎Bob. Freaking. Floyd.

Yeah you did your research.

‎Sitting calmly with a Coke, all buttoned-up and polite, laughing at something Phoenix said like he doesn’t have a secret double life as a penguin conspiracist.

‎You blink. “No way.”

‎Your squadmate glances at you. “What?”

‎You stare at Bob for a solid three seconds before saying, in a completely serious voice:

‎“Don’t panic. But I think that man might be either a sleeper agent or a creep.”

‎That earns you a choked laugh. “What?”

‎“He broke into my room last night,” you whisper, deadpan. “Sat at the end of my bed. Talked about penguins plotting a coup or something.”

‎“...Are you joking?”

‎“I wish I was.” You take a long sip of your drink like a war veteran recounting trauma. “He said something about their ‘cold war strategy.’ I thought I was next.”

‎And that’s exactly when Phoenix overhears you.

‎She whips around. “Wait-- what did Bob do?”

‎All eyes turn to poor Bob, who looks horrified and confused, clutching his drink like it’s a flotation device. “...Ma’am?”

‎You raise your brows innocently. “Oh, don’t ‘ma’am’ me, Agent Floyd. You and I shared a very tense night together.”

‎Hangman, predictably, perks up. “Now hold on, tense?”

‎You shoot him a flat look. “He broke into my dorm, Lieutenant.”

‎Rooster leans forward, grinning. “...And talked about ...penguins?”

‎“Specifically,” you nod, “how they might need tiny hats to fly.”

‎There’s a beat of silence.

‎Then Coyote snorts. Hangman loses it. Phoenix is cackling so hard she’s bent over the bar.

‎Bob, meanwhile, looks like he wants to be vaporized by God himself.

‎“I-- I sleepwalk,” he stammers out. “It happens when I’m in a new place and I-- I don’t-- I don’t remember any of that.”

‎You tilt your head, lips twitching. “So you’re saying the penguins aren’t mobilizing?”

‎He opens his mouth, then closes it again. “I… don’t think so? Surely hope not.”

‎You grin, leaning forward just enough for him to see the spark in your eyes. “Good. I was about to cancel my Antarctica vacation.”

‎The table erupts. Phoenix is wheezing. Hangman’s pounding the bar.

‎Bob’s face goes redder than a sunburn, but even he starts laughing-- quiet and shy, trying to hide it behind his glass.

‎And just like that, something soft settles between the two of you.

‎You didn’t expect him to look that sweet up close. The shy smile, the way he pushes up his glasses when he’s nervous-- it’s not creepy anymore. It’s… endearing.

‎He catches your eye again across the table. You lift your drink in a mock toast. “To the penguin army.”

‎He laughs, ducking his head. “You’re never letting me live this down, are you?”

‎You grin. “Absolutely not, Bobby. That’s national security information now.”

‎Phoenix smirks between you two, muttering, “Oh, this is gonna be fun.”

‎And she’s right-- because from that night on, every time you pass Bob Floyd on base, he turns pink, and you smile like you definitely know a secret he doesn’t want the world to remember.

‎---

Second night

‎It was happening again.

‎You felt it before you heard it. The subtle, creeping dread of a noise you don’t want to identify.

‎Murmuring.

‎Not close, not far-- but right outside your door.

‎You froze mid-scroll, staring at the locked handle like it might start rattling.

‎Oh, not again. Not again.

‎“Please,” you whispered to the ceiling. “Please let that be a raccoon. A rat. A cryptid. Anyone but that man.”

‎And then--

‎A thud.

‎A gentle shuffle.

‎Followed by a low, oddly polite voice right on the other side:

‎“Okay, now, hear me out… theoretically… pigeons are government drones.”

‎Your eyes went wide.

‎Goddamit.

‎You tiptoed to the door, pressing your ear against it. Sure enough-- Bob Floyd. Sleepwalking. Again.

‎Except this time… he wasn’t moving.

‎He was sitting there.

‎You crouched to peek under the door gap-- yep. Two socked feet, crossed politely, like a man attending an invisible TED Talk.

‎Then came the kicker--

‎A soft thunk.

‎He’d lowered his forehead against the door.

‎“No, no, listen--” he murmured. “You're not listening...”

‎“...if pigeons are surveillance tech, that means the real ones are hiding in plain sight--”

‎You pressed both hands over your face.

‎“Oh my God. He’s monologuing to the door.”

‎And then, whispering to yourself: “This is it. This is how I die-- killed by kindness and sleep science.”

‎For a solid five minutes you debated ignoring him. But then the thought hit you--

‎He was a grown man, unconscious, sitting on the women’s side of the barracks, and if anyone else saw this--

‎You groaned, dragging yourself out of bed and fumbling with the lock.

‎The door creaked open.

‎And there he was.

‎Bob Floyd, sitting cross-legged on the cold floor, head tilted, hair messy, whispering,

‎“The pigeons know too much.”

‎“Jesus Christ, Bob,” you hissed. “How are you even here? This is the women’s side! Did you sleepwalk through security?”

‎He didn’t respond. Just blinked. Then, softly--

‎“You have to listen. They refuel under the parks.”

‎You crouched down, waving your hand in front of his face. “Okay, Professor NSA, time to wake up.”

‎Nothing.

‎“Bob.”

‎You poked his shoulder. “Bob, wake-- up--”

‎He reached forward suddenly, grabbing your hand--

‎“Wait-- no, no, hear me out first.”

‎You froze, one knee on the tile, heart doing acrobatics.

‎“…Bob.”

‎“They use breadcrumbs as cover stories.”

‎“BOB.”

‎No luck. You tugged at his arm. He tugged back, gently but insistently, and now you were half-kneeling, half-crouched, caught in this weird polite hostage situation.

‎“Okay, this is fine,” you muttered to yourself. “I’ll just-- physically lift a six-foot-something pilot with the power of caffeine and rage.”

‎Spoiler: you could not.

‎Thirty minutes later, you’d tried every method known to man-- nudging, clapping, bribing him with imaginary snacks, even whisper-yelling like a tired mom. Nothing worked.

‎He just kept going.

‎Soft voice. Slow hand gestures. Total conviction.

‎“And that’s why-- hypothetically-- the pigeons report to the squirrels.”

‎Finally, defeated, you plopped down across from him-- legs crossed, chin in hands, face deadpan.

‎“Fine,” you sighed. “Go on, Professor.”

‎He did.

‎For another forty-five minutes.

‎Ranting about a “feathered intelligence network” with all the sincerity of a man delivering his PhD defense.

‎Somewhere along the way, your fear dissolved. Then your irritation. Then your dignity.

‎Now it was just you and this sleep-talking man on the floor of the barracks hallway, one passionately theorizing, the other quietly losing her mind.

‎When he started describing “covert ops involving bread,” you actually caught yourself nodding along.

‎“Right,” you whispered. “Obviously. Bread’s the currency.”

‎He pointed vaguely toward the ceiling.

“You get it.”

‎You blinked at him, the absurdity settling in.

‎“I get something,” you muttered.

‎Outside, the hallway was dead silent except for his soft, rhythmic rambling.

‎Eventually, you leaned back against the doorframe, watching his hands trace invisible diagrams midair.

‎In the soft yellow hall light, he looked… weirdly peaceful.

‎You whispered to no one, “God help the woman who falls for you.”

‎He mumbled, “...the pigeons already have.”

‎You dropped your face into your hands.

‎“Oh my God.”

‎---

‎The morning sun on base was already too bright for how little sleep you’d gotten. The memory of last night still lingered-- sitting cross-legged on the cold floor across from Lieutenant Robert Floyd as he whispered, in complete sincerity, about how pigeons were government informants.

‎Now you were nursing a coffee outside the hangar, eyes half-open, when a familiar voice caught your ear.

‎“Morning, ma’am.”

‎You blinked up to see him.

Freshly showered, uniform neat, hair just the right amount of soft and ruffled-- like the world’s most harmless golden retriever disguised as a naval aviator.

‎And because you were still a little sleep-deprived, you smiled too easily.

‎“Oh hey, secret agent Floyd.”

‎He blinked. “...Ma’am?”

‎You sipped your coffee, fighting a grin. “Do the pigeons know you’re here, or do we have time before they report back?”

‎Bob’s expression went from polite confusion to horrified realization in slow motion. His mouth opened, then closed, his ears turning red. “Oh-- oh no. I did it again, didn’t I?”

‎“Yup,” you chirped, leaning casually against the railing. “Sat right outside my door, telling the floor about how pigeons were spies. I think you even accused one of them of hacking the Wi-Fi.”

‎“I-- uh-- oh man,” he rubbed the back of his neck, face burning. “I swear, I don’t even remember-- sometimes if I’m in a new place, I, um, sleepwalk, I swear to god. I didn’t-- uh-- I wasn’t-- ”

‎You waved him off mid-stammer. “Relax, Bob. I figured. You didn’t even have shoes on. Kinda hard to seem threatening when you’re sitting criss-cross applesauce ranting about bird surveillance.”

‎That earned a strangled laugh out of him. He looked both mortified and relieved, a mix that was way too endearing.

‎“Well,” you continued, teasing, “I will say this though. You have a very soothing sleepwalking voice. I almost fell asleep listening to you explain avian espionage.”

‎He blinked again, utterly flustered. “You… what?”

‎“Mhmm,” you hummed. “Kinda like a bedtime podcast. Ten out of ten. Would listen again.”

‎That did it-- he ducked his head with a shy smile, the corners of his mouth twitching upward. “I’ll, uh, try to keep future broadcasts off base, ma’am.”

‎“Mm, don’t,” you said with a lazy grin, sipping your coffee again. “I think I’m starting to look forward to them.”

‎He looked up at you then, eyes soft and surprised-- like someone had just told him he was allowed to be adorable.

‎You look at him for a moment too long before covering with, “And, If you ever decide to start a sleepwalking support group, you’ve got at least one loyal attendee.”

‎He blinks, then laughs quietly. “You’d really come?”

‎You shrug. “If there’s coffee.”

‎He looks down, then back at you-- and for the first time, instead of shy or flustered, he looks boldly fond.

‎“Then I’ll make sure there’s coffee,” he says softly, nodding.

‎And you’re suddenly so glad he keeps wandering into your life-- even if it’s half-asleep.

---

‎third night

‎It’s 1:57 A.M.

‎The world is quiet.

‎Your room glows blue from your laptop screen; an empty snack bag flutters on the nightstand. You're watching reality TV reruns, half-asleep, when you hear it--

‎that little clink of your broken door handle.

‎You paused mid-bite of instant noodles.

‎“...god.”

‎The door creaks open a few inches. A head pokes through.

‎Bob Floyd.

‎Eyes half-closed. Hair a floppy mess. T-shirt with a cartoon rocket on it.

‎He looks around like a raccoon caught in the fridge light.

“...You moved the hallway,” he whispers, betrayed.

‎“Yeah, Bob. I did that. Rearranged the base for fun.”

‎He blinks. “Oh. Okay.”

‎You sighed, sliding off the bed, and grabing your hoodie. “C’mon, moonboy. Let’s get you home before the MPs think I’m running a daycare.”

‎---

‎The hallway is dim and echoey, the kind of lighting that makes everything look slightly cursed.

‎Bob’s walking like a sleep-drunk giraffe, rambling under his breath.

‎“You know clouds are just… sky soup?”

‎“Totally,” you deadpans, guiding him by the elbow.

‎“And the moon’s too smug.”

“Right, hate that guy.”

‎They reach his dorm. You knock once, twice--

‎Door opens.

‎Hangman stands there.

‎Completely shirtless.

‎Dog tags, bed hair, and a face that screams I’m too tired for this.

‎They both freeze.

‎“…Ma’am,” he says politely, voice gravelly from sleep.

‎“Sir,” you replied, like you've accidentally walked into a cologne commercial.

‎Then Bob pipes up, blinking at Hangman.

‎“You’re jealous of me.”

‎Hangman’s brow furrows. “I-- what?”

‎“Because I’m pure of heart and you use too much conditioner.”

‎Hangman blinks once.

‎“…You’re gonna wanna take him now.”

You bit back a laugh that turned into a very obvious cough.

‎“Night, Hangman.”

‎“Night, Cloud Girl.”

‎You escort Bob to his bed, tuck him in, and whisper, “Stay.”

‎He nods solemnly, already asleep.

‎---

‎Thirty minutes later.

‎Thud.

‎You open your eyes.

‎There he is again.

‎Bob Floyd.

‎Blanket dragging behind him like a superhero cape, hair in full chaos mode.

‎“You don’t like me,” he murmurs.

‎“Oh my god, not this arc again.”

‎“You don’t.”

‎“Bob, I like you. I do. If you just stop invading my room like a polite poltergeist.”

“You… like me?”

“Yes, Bobby. I like you. Now please go to sleep before someone thinks you’re smuggling affection across the hall.”

‎He blinks, content, and just… stands there.

‎Cue backup.

‎Five minutes later, Hangman and Coyote arrive-- barefoot, bleary-eyed, wrapped in mismatched blankets like suburban moms in crisis.

‎“Alright,” You say, hands on hips. “Containment protocol.”

‎Hangman groans. “Again?”

‎Coyote yawns. “He’s escalating.”

‎They grab a spare blanket.

‎Together, the three of them burrito-wrap Bob like a very patient cat.

‎Hangman mutters, “This is the dumbest thing I’ve ever done in the Navy.”

‎Coyote: “You say that every week.”

‎Bob: sleep-muffled “The moon’s watching us.”

‎All three: “GO TO BED, BOB.”

‎They carry him down the hallway like a sacred offering, one limb slipping out every few steps. Hangman accidentally kicks a mop bucket; Coyote hisses, “We’re gonna get court-martialed for this.”

‎They finally dump him onto his mattress, salute the burrito, and leave.

‎---

‎3:40 A.M.

You wake up again.

‎Feels it. The vibe. The presence.

‎Open your eyes--

‎Bob.

‎Still wrapped in his blanket, probably somehow rolled all the way back to your room like a human cinnamon roll.

‎He’s holding a stapler.

‎“Bob,” you sighed.

‎“Like me. Please.”

‎You stare at the ceiling for five full seconds. “You brought a stapler to emotionally bribe me.”

‎He sits beside your bed, forehead pressed to the mattress edge, mumbling softly-- half secrets, half dreams.

‎“Sometimes I don’t talk ‘cause people think it’s weird… but I like hearing them.”

‎“Hangman’s scared of frogs.”

‎“The moon’s still smug.”

‎Your tone softens without meaning to.

‎“Yeah, Bobby. The moon’s a jerk. But you’re alright.”

‎He hums, drifting off, still holding the stapler like it’s a peace offering.

‎You just shake your head, tug his blanket higher, and whisper, “Stay this time, okay?”

‎By morning, he’s still there-- slumped against your bed, mouth open, stapler on the floor.

‎You scroll your phone, sipping instant coffee, deadpan to the wall.

‎“Third night. We’re dating now, I guess.”

‎---

You froze mid-laugh.

‎The noise around you dimmed like someone turned down the world’s volume, because there he was-- Bob Floyd-- standing in the hangar doorway, shoulders hunched, face pink, clutching a bouquet of white roses like he’d just been dared to rob a florist.

‎Your brain short-circuited.

‎Your squad went silent, heads turning toward the scene like synchronized vultures sensing drama.

‎Bob blinked at you, clearly debating running away right then and there-- but then he shuffled forward, each step painfully awkward, as if trying not to scare a wild animal.

‎“H-Hi,” he started, voice doing that nervous dip thing that made it sound like a question. “Um… these are for you.”

‎You blinked down at the flowers, then back at him. “Roses?”

‎“Y-Yeah,” he stammered. “I, uh, wanted to say sorry. You know. For the, um… sleepwalking. And-- uh-- showing up in your room. Twice. Or… three times.”

‎“Three times,” you corrected automatically, still blinking.

‎He winced. “Right. Three times.” He swallowed hard, words tumbling faster now. “I swear I don’t do that on purpose-- it just happens when I’m getting used to a new base, and Hangman said I should apologize properly, and Coyote said flowers make people forgive you faster, so--”

‎He stopped, clearly realizing he was spiraling.

‎Then, with the softest little shrug, added, “--so… yeah. Sorry. Again.”

‎Your squad was dead quiet. Someone actually whispered, “What the fuck,” in awe.

‎You just stared at him. He looked like a kicked puppy holding a bouquet. His hair was slightly mussed from his helmet, his uniform half undone, and his ears-- god, his ears were pink.

‎“Bob,” you said softly.

‎He looked up at you, hopeful. “Yeah?”

‎“These are…” you smiled before you could help it. “Really sweet. I wasn’t expecting this.”

‎His mouth opened, closed. “Oh. Uh. Good sweet or bad sweet?”

‎“The good kind.”

‎He visibly relaxed, exhaling like you’d just told him he wasn’t going to court-martial.

‎And then, because the universe wanted you gone, your squad started whispering loudly.

‎“Oh my god, it’s the sleepwalker.”

‎“He brought her roses.”

‎“Bro’s in love!”

‎You elbowed the nearest one, but couldn’t stop the laugh bubbling up. “Ignore them,” you told him.

‎“I’m trying,” he said honestly, eyes darting nervously toward the snickering crowd.

‎You tilted your head, watching him fidget. “You really didn’t have to, you know. The roses.”

‎“I did,” he said, tone soft but certain now. “I felt bad. You must’ve been really freaked out. I don’t like that.”

‎And somehow that-- his genuine sincerity-- hit you harder than any grand gesture could.

Your lips curved, and you reached out, taking the bouquet from his hands. “You’re forgiven, Lieutenant Floyd.”

‎That earned you a tiny, bashful smile that looked like sunlight might’ve invented it just for him.

‎He nodded once, awkwardly. “Good. Uh. Cool. Okay. Great.”

You bit your lip to keep from laughing, eyes twinkling. “You can go before my squad starts clapping.”

‎He blinked. “Oh-- they’d do that?”

‎“Absolutely.”

‎“Okay, I’m leaving,” he said quickly, almost tripping on his way out, muttering a quiet “have a good day, ma’am” like it was an emergency.

‎The hangar door shut behind him, and for two full seconds, there was peace.

‎Then--

‎“HE BROUGHT HER ROSES!”

‎“BOB. FLOYD.”

‎“YOU’RE NEVER WINNING THIS WAR!”

You buried your face in the bouquet, laughing helplessly as the petals brushed your nose.

‎“Shut up,” you mumbled into the roses, but the smile wouldn’t fade, because you couldn't figure out if you were saying that to your friends, or your heart.

---

Fourth night

‎It’s past 2 a.m. again.

‎The dorm hallway hums faintly with the air vents, lights dimmed to a sleepy amber.

You're propped up in bed with your laptop still open, the same episode looping because you haven’t been paying attention for the last twenty minutes.

‎There’s the now-familiar sound: soft shuffling, a quiet bump, the creak of the door handle.

You don’t even flinch anymore. Just sigh fondly.

‎“C’mon in, Bob.”

‎Sure enough, the door opens halfway and in steps Bob Floyd, still technically asleep-- hair wild, eyes half-closed, wearing grey sweats that seem too big on him, and carrying a random item (tonight it’s… a spoon).

‎He blinks at you, vaguely aware. “You’re awake again.”

You smile, already scooting over as he makes his slow, drowsy trek to his usual spot-- the patch of floor beside your bed. He sits cross-legged, then halfway sprawls until his back hits the mattress, shoulders slumping like he’s finally found gravity again.

‎“You okay down there?” you murmur, lowering the laptop screen’s brightness.

‎“Mhm.” His voice is soft, words sleepy-slow. “There’s… there’s a guy in the squad who says the moon landing was faked. But if it was, then who put the mirrors there for the lasers? Huh?”

You chuckle into your pillow. “Good question, Detective Floyd.”

‎He keeps going, gentle and meandering. “Also… if the government can fake the moon, then why haven’t they fixed potholes yet? What’re their priorities?”

Your laugh fades into a grin you can’t hide, your chin resting on your folded arms as you look down at him. “You’re gonna solve the world’s problems at this rate.”

‎“M’working on it,” he mumbles, eyes fluttering shut.

You catch the faint wiggle of his toes poking out from his sweats, uncovered and slightly pink from the cold floor.

‎“Your poor toes,” you murmur. “Not cold, Bobby?”

‎He doesn’t answer, just hums softly-- a warm, low sound that fills the small room. You reach down and flick the corner of your blanket over his feet without thinking.

‎“There. You’re ridiculous,” you whisper, smiling.

‎He lets out a soft sigh, head tilted, cheek pressed lazily to the side of your bed. “You’re nice,” he murmurs, barely audible. “Too nice.”

‎“Don’t tell anyone,” you tease, voice sleepy.

‎“Secret’s safe,” he mumbles, eyes finally closing. “With… the moon people.”

‎That earns a quiet giggle from you-- one hand tangled in your blanket, the other resting near the edge of the mattress, close enough that your fingers almost brush his hair.

‎The laptop hums quietly. He’s still muttering in half-sentences, words fading softer with each breath, until they’re just background noise-- a low, calm rhythm.

‎And for the first time in weeks, you don’t have to force yourself to fall asleep.

‎His voice lulls you there-- like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

‎---

When you woke up, it wasn’t to the usual alarm or the obnoxious morning drills.

‎It was to the faint sound of snoring.

‎Soft. Gentle. A little squeaky, even.

You blinked, pushing yourself up on your elbows-- and there he was.

‎Bob Floyd.

‎On the floor beside your bed.

‎Wrapped up in your throw blanket like an oversized, regulation-violating caterpillar, head tipped back against the side of your mattress, lips parted slightly.

You blinked at him. Then groaned into you pillow. “Oh, you’ve gotta be kidding me.”

‎But then-- you smiled. You couldn’t help it.

‎His hair was all messed up, his face squished against the edge of your bed like it was the most comfortable thing in the world. One hand was half-buried under the blanket, the other still holding onto… a single sock? Not his, definitely yours.

‎You pressed your lips together to keep from laughing, whispering to yourself, “You absolute menace.”

‎The floor creaked, and his brows furrowed faintly.

You froze.

‎He didn’t wake, though. He just mumbled something incoherent-- something that sounded like “…told you pigeons can’t be trusted…”-- and turned his head toward you, as if seeking warmth.

‎Your heart melted.

‎“Oh no,” You murmured softly. “You’re actually adorable.”

‎For a moment you just sat there, watching the rise and fall of his chest, the slow calm of someone who’d clearly found peace right there beside your bed.

‎Then, smiling helplessly, you reached down and gently tugged the blanket higher over his shoulders.

‎“Sleep tight, Lieutenant Floyd,” you whispered, voice fond. “And please, for the love of God, stop committing B&E.”

‎He hummed in his sleep-- the tiniest content noise-- and you actually had to cover your face to keep from giggling.

‎---

‎By the time you left for breakfast, you’d left a sticky note on the blanket:

‎“You’re lucky you’re cute, Floyd. --Room 14’s unintentional host.”

‎When you came back later, he was gone. The blanket was folded neatly on your bed.

‎And under the note-- he’d written, in his neatest, most nervous handwriting:

‎“Thank you. Sorry about the sock.”

You smiled so hard your cheeks hurt.

‎---

Fifth night

‎‎It was the fifth night, and you didn’t even pretend to be surprised anymore.

‎The quiet click of your door just meant your favorite midnight documentary was about to start-- starring one (1) sleepwalking Bob Floyd.

‎He settled in beside your bed, facing the opposite wall, legs folded under him, back straight like he was on watch duty. One hand rested on the edge of your blanket, palm up, open.

‎Half asleep, you smiled into your pillow.

‎“Presenting evidence, Lieutenant?” you murmured.

‎Bob didn’t answer-- of course he didn’t-- but his fingers twitched faintly, palm still upturned.

You yawned, slipped your hand out from under your blanket, and lined it up with his, hovering just above.

‎God, he had huge hands. Calloused, warm-looking even in the dim light. You traced the air between your palms with a fingertip, trying so hard not to touch him-- then the smallest graze happened.

‎Electric.

You immediately snorted into your pillow, face burning, feet kicking under the covers like some love-struck cadet.

‎Bob, oblivious, mumbled something about “fuel ratios” and “the moon being in on it.”

You bit your lip to keep from laughing, watching him tilt his head like his neck was giving up.

‎After a few failed attempts to get comfortable, he ended up resting his chin awkwardly on the edge of your mattress.

‎“You’re gonna snap your neck like that,” you whispered, pushing your pillow toward him.

‎He didn’t hesitate-- just lowered his head onto it, sighing like he’d been waiting his whole life for that exact comfort.

Your heart melted.

You reached over to the nightstand, grabbed the snack you’d been nibbling earlier-- a half-eaten granola bar-- and waved it vaguely in front of his face. “Here, fuel for your conspiracy, big guy.”

‎He took it. Still asleep. Ate it. Didn’t even flinch.

You had to bury your laughter in the blanket.

‎Then, when you draped your spare throw over his shoulders, he blinked once, adjusting it-- and promptly pushed it back onto you.

‎“’M not lettin’ a lady freeze,” he muttered, words slurred but determined. “Mama’ll beat my ass.”

Your hand froze mid-motion.

‎The grin that followed was painfully fond. “Yes, sir,” you whispered, tucking it tighter around yourself.

‎For a few minutes, there was only the sound of his breathing. You almost drifted off-- until you felt something brush against your arm.

‎A pen.

You cracked an eye open to find him, still sitting there half-asleep, holding your pen like it was the stylus of destiny. He was drawing on you-- little swoops and loops on your hand, up your forearm, onto your knee.

‎“What are you doing?” you whispered, half laughing.

‎“Mapping,” he said dreamily. “So I don’t… forget the route.”

‎“The route where?”

‎He frowned, like that was a deeply stupid question. “To the moon. Duh.”

You grinned into your blanket, watching him carefully sketch nonsense constellations onto your skin.

‎By the time sleep finally took you, your arm looked like a kindergartener’s notebook-- and you’d never felt so ridiculously soft for someone you barely knew.

‎---

‎When you woke up, the first thing you noticed was the quiet.

‎Not the kind that meant lonely-- the kind that meant he’d been there. The air still felt like Bob had laughed in it.

You sat up, blinking through your messy hair, and there on your nightstand sat his flight jacket. Folded. Neat. Like he’d left it behind on purpose.

‎And on top of it, one slightly squished chocolate muffin.

Your jaw dropped. “Did-- did he just-- leave me breakfast?”

You looked around, half expecting him to pop out from behind the curtain like surprise! but no. Only the faint smell of jet fuel and laundry detergent.

‎Then you noticed your blanket. It was tucked around your shoulders. Not how you’d gone to sleep.

Your heart actually tripped over itself.

‎“Oh my god.”

You clutched the blanket tighter, smiling like a total idiot.

‎On the pillow was a small scrap of paper, ripped from your notepad:

‎You snore when you’re tired. It’s cute. Don’t tell anyone I said that.

‎--B.

You squealed. Legit squealed into your blanket.

‎The muffin didn’t stand a chance. You took one bite, realized it was the exact kind you’d once mentioned liking yesterday, and almost melted on the spot.

You padded around your little room in fuzzy socks, humming nonsense, cheeks hurting from smiling too hard.

When you went to the sink, you found his cup still there-- the one he’d used for “emergency coffee” last night-- rinsed, but tilted upside down on a towel to dry.

‎“Responsible and cute?” you muttered. “Sir, pick a struggle.”

‎By the time you left for morning drills, you’d tied your hair up with the red string that had fallen from his jacket pocket.

‎No one else needed to know why you were grinning like a maniac all morning-- but when your squad member asked why you looked “weirdly radiant,” , you just shrugged and said,

‎“Just good dreams, I guess.”

‎Except you knew it wasn’t a dream.

‎He’d been here.

‎And somehow, he’d made your whole world feel brighter.

‎---

Sixth night

‎By the sixth night, you’d stopped pretending you didn’t check the clock around the same time every evening.

‎2:10 AM.

‎That was usually when he started his nightly expedition.

‎You’d even left the door cracked open this time-- just in case.

‎Sure enough, there was a soft thump… shuffle… mutter down the hall.

‎Then Bob’s sleepy voice, muffled and weirdly serious:

‎“Permission to approach the perimeter, Commander…”

You snorted before you could stop yourself. “Permission granted, Lieutenant intruder.”

‎He froze in the doorway, eyes half-lidded but smile tugging at his lips. Sleepwalking, yes, but grinning like his dreams were good ones.

‎This time, he had a mission. A clear one. He marched (sort of), holding a single paper plane in his hand like a sacred offering.

‎“For you,” he mumbled, voice soft and thick.

You took it, careful not to laugh. “Thank you, Captain.”

‎Inside the folded plane was a sticky note that read:

‎“You’re my favorite landing strip.”

‎(He’d drawn a doodle of a plane with a smiley face.)

You bit the inside of your cheek so hard not to squeal right there.

‎He slumped down beside your bed again, yawning wide enough to pop his jaw.

‎“Y’always waitin’ for me,” he mumbled sleepily.

Your heart gave a dangerous flutter. “Maybe I like your company.”

‎He blinked up at you, half-asleep but somehow focused. “You’re real nice,” he said. “Mama says if you find someone who’s nice to you when you don’t make sense, that’s someone special.”

You didn’t even know what to do with that. Your cheeks burned so hot you could’ve powered the base.

‎When he finally drifted off, you sat there a long time, the paper plane still in your lap.

‎His head tilted until it rested gently against your mattress, breath even, calm.

‎So you did what any hopelessly lovesick idiot would do--

‎you put your hand in his hair and whispered,

‎“Guess I’m keeping you, huh?”

‎-

Sixth night

‎The first thing you noticed that morning was that your room was empty.

‎The second was that your chest kind of… wasn’t.

You’d woken up with your face half-buried in your pillow, expecting to see a certain sleepwalking idiot sitting cross-legged on the floor again, yapping about moon conspiracies or telling your why toast always lands butter-side down. But the floor was clean, the blanket neatly folded, and Bob Floyd was nowhere to be seen.

‎Weird.

‎Sweet.

‎Also, devastating.

‎---

‎By the time they were dismissed from debrief, you had decided you weren’t going to be weird about it.

You were going to be cool.

‎Playful. Breezy. Definitely not like the girl who realized somewhere between his sleepy ramblings and his doodles on her arm that she’d fallen headfirst into a crush.

‎So when you spotted him near the hangar, you walked up all confident, hands in your pockets, a grin on your face.

‎“Hey, Floyd,” you called out. “You sleepwalked your way home last night, huh? I missed my nightly TED Talk about pigeons and CIA satellites.”

‎He glanced at you, gave one of those polite, sweet smiles that didn’t quite reach his eyes--

‎--and said, “Yeah, uh. Slept fine. Thanks.”

‎Then he turned and walked away.

‎Just like that.

You blinked.

‎Then laughed under your breath, like it was funny.

‎“Okay… maybe he’s busy.”

‎But he did it again at lunch-- dodged you by “accidentally” walking the other way when you waved. Then again during drills, when he mumbled something about paperwork and took off before you could even respond.

‎By the third time, your heart was pounding for all the wrong reasons.

‎Oh god.

‎He knew.

‎He definitely knew.

‎He’d figured out you’d gone stupidly soft for him. The way you stayed up just to listen to his voice, the way you giggled when he doodled on your arm like a toddler with a marker-- he must’ve noticed.

‎And now he couldn’t even look at you.

You spent the rest of the day in full crisis mode, pacing your dorm with a granola bar in your mouth like it was a cigarette.

‎“Okay. You were normal. Totally normal. You just, you know, compared hand sizes and tucked him in and gave him snacks and-- OH MY GOD YOU FED HIM A CRACKER. He knows. He knows.”

You collapsed face-first onto your bed, groaning into your blanket.

‎“Congratulations, dumbass, you made Bob Floyd run for the hills.”

‎---

Seventh night

‎It was the first knock you’d ever heard from him.

‎A real one. Three soft taps. None of the usual thump-thump of his forehead, none of the quiet muttering through the door. Just… a knock.

‎For a moment, you thought you’d imagined it.

‎Then came his voice-- quiet, careful, awake.

‎“Uh… it’s me.”

Your heart did that thing again-- the painful squeeze, the dizzy flutter.

You were halfway through smudging concealer over your face, your desk lamp making you look like a raccoon in a war crime documentary.

‎Crap.

You looked at yourself in the mirror-- winged eyeliner, a bit too heavy blush, lip gloss that made your mouth look like she’d just eaten fried chicken.

You’d done all this because your brain had told you maybe he’d avoided you because you weren’t pretty enough, because he’d realized you were too much, because--

‎And now he was here.

‎Awake.

‎At your door.

‎“Coming,” you squeaked, nearly dropping your mascara wand.

You opened the door.

‎And there he was-- Bob Floyd in a worn NASA tee and sweatpants, hair still damp from a shower, clutching something behind his back like a middle schooler about to confess to his crush.

‎They both just… stared.

You blinked.

‎He blinked.

‎Somewhere, a cricket died of secondhand embarrassment.

‎“Hi,” you said finally, trying to sound normal.

‎Totally not like you’d just contoured for your sleepwalking situationship.

‎“Hey,” he said softly, eyes flicking to the sparkly eyeliner like it was the eighth wonder of the world. “You look-- uh. Different. In a good way. Like. Really good.”

Your heart just exploded.

‎“Thanks,” you managed, voice doing a weird octave jump. “You’re-- uh-- you’re conscious. That’s new.”

‎He laughed-- that quiet, breathy kind that always made your knees go weak. “Yeah, I figured it’s about time I… you know, stop breaking and entering in my sleep.”

You smiled. “Kinda miss it though. Your rambling kept me entertained.”

‎Bob’s ears went pink. “Yeah, about that--uh.”

‎He rubbed the back of his neck, then brought his hand forward-- holding out a small, folded piece of paper. “I, uh… made you something. When I was awake this time.”

You took it, eyebrows raised.

‎Unfolded it.

‎It was a doodle. Two stick figures-- one lying in bed, the other sitting beside it with big glasses. A speech bubble over his head said “pigeons know too much” and yours said “go to sleep, Bob.”

You giggled. “This is… perfect.”

‎He smiled, sheepish. “I, uh… didn’t mean to freak you out this week. Or make you think I didn’t wanna talk to you. I just… wanted to do this awake.”

You tilted your head. “Do what?”

‎Bob took a deep breath.

‎Then blurted out, “Ask you out.”

You blinked. “Wait-- what?”

‎“I mean, if we’re gonna keep meeting at night anyway, maybe next time we could do it with, like, coffee? Or a real conversation that I remember?” He was rambling now, words tumbling out in a nervous rush.

“You’re really-- really easy to talk to, and you laugh at my dumb stuff, and you keep snacks by your bed, which is honestly just-- uh-- amazing, and I really like you, and-- ”

You reached up and pressed your finger to his lips.

‎“Bobby,” you said softly, smiling like you’d finally caught your breath. “I’d love to.”

‎He blinked. “You would?”

‎“Yeah,” you said, grinning now. “You had me at ‘pigeons know too much.’”

‎He laughed-- really laughed, bright and boyish and sweet-- and you swore your heart physically melted into syrup.

‎Then, shyly, he added, “Okay, but… can I still sit on the floor by your bed sometimes?”

You rolled your eyes, but you were smiling too hard to mean it. “Only if you promise to bring your blanket this time.”

‎---

The circle back

‎It was almost ridiculous how easily she recognized the sound of him.

‎Even half-asleep, wrapped in her blanket, she knew the rhythm of his steps-- slow, deliberate, always pausing outside her door like he was thinking about turning back… and never actually doing it.

‎The door creaked open.

‎She didn’t even flinch.

‎“Bob,” she mumbled, not opening her eyes. “You’re supposed to be on base tonight.”

‎A beat of silence. Then a low, sleepy, “M’room’s too cold.”

‎Her lips twitched. “You have a thermostat, you menace.”

‎He stood there for a moment, hair messy, flight jacket hanging off one shoulder, eyes barely open-- the same way he had looked all those years ago when he wandered into her room talking about penguins. Except now, he was hers.

‎“Didn’t feel right,” he muttered, padding over to her bed. “Too quiet.”

‎“Oh, so you break into your fiancée’s room because it’s too quiet?” she teased, voice soft with laughter.

‎Bob gave the tiniest, sheepish smile-- the kind that made her heart do backflips. “Only place I sleep good.”

‎She rolled over, propping her chin on her hand. “You’re unbelievable.”

‎He just grinned sleepily, shrugging out of his jacket. “You love me.”

‎“Unfortunately,” she teased, eyes soft as she made space for him.

‎When he flopped onto the bed-- half on, half off-- she sighed, tugged his arm until he was lying properly. He hummed like a tired cat, eyes closed as soon as his head hit the pillow.

‎“Long day?” she whispered.

‎He nodded, still half-asleep. “Missed you the whole time.”

‎Her chest melted. He wasn’t even awake enough to be smooth, and that somehow made it worse. Her fingers brushed through his hair gently. “You literally saw me this morning, Mr. Loverman.”

‎“Mhm,” he hummed. “Still too long.”

‎She couldn’t help but laugh quietly. “You realize you sound like a lovesick puppy?”

‎“Good,” he murmured, smiling against her shoulder. “That’s what I’m going for.”

‎Her breath caught-- god, how was it still possible for him to make her blush after years?

‎He reached out lazily, fingertips finding hers under the blanket, their rings brushing. He twined his fingers with hers clumsily, like he always did when he was half asleep.

‎For a long, quiet minute, all she heard was his breathing. Then:

‎“Hey,” he muttered suddenly.

‎“Hmm?”

‎“‘Member the first time I came in here?”

‎She giggled. “When you tried to convince me penguins were government spies?”

‎He cracked a tiny grin, eyes still shut. “Yeah. That was my best work.”

‎“You drooled on my floor.”

‎“Romantic, huh?”

‎“Very.”

‎He chuckled softly, voice dipping into that low, sleepy register that made her heart flutter. “Guess I’ve always been breakin’ in for the same reason.”

‎She tilted her head. “What reason’s that?”

‎Bob’s lashes fluttered. He finally opened one eye, hazy blue, the smallest smile tugging his lips.

‎“You feel like home,” he said simply.

‎It was so earnest, so him, that she couldn’t even tease him back. She just bit her lip, cheeks warm, and whispered, “You always did talk sweet in your sleep.”

‎He hummed, already drifting again, words slurring as he pulled her close. “Then don’t wake me up.”

‎“Okay,” she breathed, tucking her head beneath his chin. “Not this time.”

‎He squeezed her hand once before sleep claimed him completely, mumbling something that sounded a lot like, “Love you, even if I’m too tired to prove it.”

‎She smiled into his chest, brushing her thumb along his knuckles.

‎“Good,” she whispered. “Because I’m too tired to hide it.”

✿

‎

...

How does his hair look so good? Like, it's messy, and definitely not front cover of a magazine worthy, but it's still cute. His eyes are nice too, especially I can see them looking right right at me-

...

Shit.

Pugsley's P.O.V

"And that class, is the slowest way to kill a person with the nightshade plant."

Huh, that's cool. I wanna test that on something or someone-

"It's definitely faster than your lectures." A quiet voice speaks out, barely audible above the slight chatter of the students among themselves whenever the teacher was far enough away. Immediately, my eyes are drawn to who made the remark. Another student, around my age. Without meaning to, I snicker slightly at their remark about the class, before covering my mouth and looking down, still quietly chuckling to myself as the teacher walks by.

I don't think they've said a word out loud in class at all, it's a shame. They really should talk more, they're super funny.

With my head rising, my eyesight lands on them again, this time, staring straight at me. They freeze for a second, their frozen body looking guilty as ever, before they quickly turn back around. I don't realize it at the time, but my face gets a bit hotter with embarassment and something else I can't quite name yet.

Reader's P.O.V.

The rest of class goes by, with times where I would quickly glance back at the boy whenever I believed he wasn't looking at me. Key word, believed. There were a few instances where I would turn my head and he would be staring directly at me, before we both rapidly turned our heads away to break eye contact.

Holy shit why is this so awkward...I internally cried to myself.

Finally, class eventually ended and I speedily packed my stuff up and left, not wanting to feel awkward anymore. As soon as I left, I started heading straight to my last period of the day, independent study in the library. Once there, I went to the back corner where I usually studied my ability and ones similar to it. It's also where I first met Eugene, who can control insects and such. We aren't super close or anything, but we're cool with eachother.

However, when I got there, Eugene wasn't there

Well that's weird. Why isn't he here? My mind ran with questions before I came to a sudden conclusion. Ooohhh he must be at the bee shack, that would make sense. I decided that I would knock out some of my work, go find Eugene, and then finish the rest of my work after dinner.

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I actually ended up getting almost all of my work done within the hour, everything except the apothecary homework.

Now I just need to go find Eugene, hopefully he is still with the bees. I wonder why he went to them early today.

With that, I packed up my stuff up, and I briskly left. As I was walking through the halls, I wondered why Eugene would of not come to the library.

Gods, I hope his bees are fine. It would be such a shame if something bad happened to them. I genuinely worried for his bees, not just for his sake in him being able to control insects, but with my ability in being able to control forest flora and fauna. I also was slightly worried about his mental well being, but I would never admit that out loud.

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Geez I forgot how much I hate the walk here in my uniform shoes. The shoes were definitely not made for hiking down a dirt path littered in sticks and rocks and leaves. However, I persisted with the growing ache in my feet. Before I knew it, I reached the bee shack, with Eugene nowhere in sight. He must be inside. I thought to myself. I walked up to the bee shack, and opened the door, surprised, shocked, and kinda terrified of what I saw.

Pugsley's P.O.V.

Wait what they doing here- wait shit they saw Slurp what are we gonna do what's going to happen to Slurp... My mind buzzed with questions and worries as I saw the person from class earlier standing right in front of me, their face contorting from confusion, to dear, to not knowing what to do within the span of 2 seconds.

"(Reader), what are you doing here?!?" Eugene cried. How does Eugene know them? (Reader), that's such a nice name... Stay focused. I shook my head a few times to get back in the situation at hand.

"Who are you and what are you doing here?" I tried to stay calm, but my voice sounded extremely urgent. I watched as their eyes came back into focus as I turn around and see that they were completely focused on Slurp. The zombie. Our zombie. The zombie that we definitely shouldn't have and could get kicked out of school if found out by the administration. Right.

"Better question, what the hell is that?!?" Their yell was quiet, yet kind of angry as they were backing away towards the wall. The fear evident in their eyes got Eugene to go over to them, using a hushed voice. It kind of reminded me of a parent trying to calm down a child.

"It's a person that got raised from the dead on accident, we have him completely understand control though." Slurp then rattled his chains and made a slight gurgling sound which got the two of them to jump and look back at him. He was reaching out, trying to grab one of them.

"No Slurp! They're both cool" I slightly yell, waxing my hands in front of him. "Oh great, you named him?!?" (Reader) hollered sarcastically. I turned back to them and their face was both terrified yet annoyed. It stirred something deep within me as I cleared my throat and spoke, my voice quieter than I intended. "Well, he has been here for a few days and he hasn't done anything yet so it seemed fitting to give him a name..." My words trailed off as their stare intensified, my face getting a bit hotter every. Why am I getting this nervous in front of somebody I just met?

"Why haven't you guys turned him in to the damn administration already? Are you actively trying to get expelled?" Their voice was less shrill by now, but they were still on guard. "We're trying to figure out what exactly to do with him" Eugene spoke up as I nodded along. "Plus, what if the administration get rid of him?" I added on. After a few moments, (Reader) sighed, pinching the bridge of their nose.

"Why did you come here?" Eugene asked, his voice steady. "Because I was wondering why you weren't at study period and I assumed you were gonna be here." (Reader) replied. Huh, that's why they know each other. Which means they have similar abilities. As I stood their wondering, (Reader) spoke up.

"I won't tell as long as you guys don't." Their voice was firm, almost commanding. I nodded along almost instantly, slightly shocking myself. Eugene and I both agreed, and when they left, I couldn't help asking Eugene who they were.

"Well, you already know their name from it being said. We met because I can control insects and such, and they can control forest flora and fauna. I'm not sure where from, but they transfered here this year." He replied.

Huh. Well then, I'll have to pay more attention to them then...I thought to myself, my face lightly heating up again as a small smile made it's way into my face as I left.

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HELLO HELLO HELLO HI THIS IS THE AUTHOR I REALLY HOPE YOU ENJOYED READING THIS!!!!