#bob fluff

A glass of water stood on the far side of the room, among a few small puddles that had spilt as Bob had tried (and failed) to successfully raise it in the air telekinetically. A month earlier you had offered to help train Bob; with abilities the most similar to his out of anyone in the group, it felt like a natural step.

But as days turned to weeks, you needed a win just as much as him.

"Try to feel the energy running through you." You said, laying your hand against his shoulder. "I can feel it radiating off of you. You have to remind yourself that you're the one in control, Bob."

Bob's skin rose underneath his sweater- tiny goosebumps scattered across the expanse of his body. A shiver ran down his spine at the spark of your touch. As your hand trailed from his shoulder down his arm, his heart raced.

"It's all you." You whispered. "Now concentrate. Focus on the energy coursing through you. From your fingertips, up your arms," your fingers tracing up his arm as you spoke until they reached for his chest. "...to your heart..."

When Bob could feel your fingertips ghosting over his chest, pressing through the sweater that hung loosely on his frame, his breath hitched. His brain- a jumble of emotions that had far less to do with whatever god-like power was flowing through his veins and more to do with the brain of a man fogged by the woman he loved- lost focus on the task at hand.

His eyes screwed shut as the glass shattered in midair.

"Nice going, Bobby." Walker called, learning against the door frame.

Suddenly aware of how close you had become, you swiftly pulled away from Bob.

You scoffed.

"Don't be an ass, John."

The tension in the room was palpable as the three of you stood in silence. Only the mechanic whir of the fan click, click, clicking as it rattled on the ceiling kept you from hearing each other's breaths.

Glancing between John and Bob, you rolled your eyes and scooped your things up off the floor.

"Good work today, Bob." You said turning back with one last smile as you headed for the door. "See you at dinner."

Bob raised his hand to say something back, but before he could, you had scurried out of the room leaving him with Walker. Wonderful.

As if the room had been vacuum sealed and released, it was as though the liveliness of the room had been sucked out with your departure.

John gestured to the door.

"So you two are getting close, huh?" He asked, striding into the room with a beer bottle in his hand.

Bob felt the heat rise to his cheeks- was it that obvious?

"Oh. Uh... I guess." Bob smiled politely, shoving his hands in his pockets.

John's feet dragged against the floor as he walked, the sound of rubber against concrete like nails on a chalkboard in Bob's ears. Walker's gaze travelled across the room as if he was seeing it for the first time and hadn't trained in it himself daily, until his focus landed on the water spill from moments earlier. He kicked a stray piece of glass with his foot.

The super soldier cleared his throat.

"You know, man-to-man, Bobby: I'd be careful with her if I was you." Walker chuckled dryly. "Y'know, after what happened with Bucky."

Just as quickly as it had raced by your touch, his heart now stopped.

Everything that had been bothering him previously- the mechanic clicking of the fan, the bright white lights that reminded him a bit too much of a ward, the crisp tag that scratched the back of his neck, the way John spoke with drops of beer still hanging on his lips- it was endless, really- had faded into the background.

What did Bucky have to do with you?

He fidgeted with his hands, digging into the nail beds that were still dried with blood.

"What uh.." A nervous laugh escaped his throat. "What happened with Bucky?"

"Hooked up." Walker said, bringing the bottle to his lips. "Yeah.. it was like, a while ago back in my Captain America days." He raised his eyebrows. A pause. "She didn't tell you?"

As much as Bob had a difficult time lifting a glass, his heart had no problem dropping into his stomach.

One thing that Bob had always been cursed with from a young age was a hyper-active imagination that rarely ever served his own benefit. Now, it plagued him with the idea of you and Bucky together. Blurry images of you falling into bed together- your laugh in his ear. His lips on yours. His hands running up and down the length of your body...

He could be sick.

Stupid, stupid, stupid.

They all had their flaws but Bucky had been forced into a life of heinous acts and had still managed to come out on top. Captain America's best friend. A hero against Thanos. Fuck, he was even a congressman... meanwhile you had been there to witness the vivid memory of Bob high out of his mind working as a sign flipper first hand. He didn't even work for his abilities, he received them on the hunt for another high.

What was he thinking?

Bob's eyes fell to his hands as they fiddled in his lap and he shook his head.

"No uh, no..." He coughed, attempting to mask the tremble in his voice. "She never um.. mentioned it."

"Huh."

"What?"

John took another swig from his bottle.

"Nothing, nothing..." Walker said with a shrug. "I just figured you guys were close. Always hanging out n' all."

And by all means you were.

There was no coffee run complete without Bob's vanilla milkshake, or a night where you fell asleep on the couch without him by your side. He tasted everything you made before it managed to find its way into the oven. He came with you to every bookstore and supermarket run under the guise of 'wanting to feel useful', while really just wanting to observe you in mundanity outside the tower and carry the bags for you effortlessly home.

Him and Yelena were close, but you and him were partners.

Bob had understood that his more-than-friendly feelings for you would likely have been in vain, but he had never considered that yours were already taken by another.

Stupid, stupid, stupid.

Bob tugged at his hair and scratched the scruff that had begun to grow on his jaw.

"Yeah..." He shrugged. "I mean.."

John sized Bob up, trying to estimate how he was feeling. He was a difficult one to read- chronically calm in the face of adversity as if it was the life he was assigned to live. Staring at the polite smile that Walker could've sworn was glued to Bob's face, he accepted that he wouldn't know.

"Well, anyway," John said. "Time for dinner, right?"

☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆

"Can I ask you a question?"

It was a simple question. One that you didn't think would have much bearing. Afterall, the two of you were finally organizing your bookshelf- the final step in making Avengers Tower your home. You figured that it would be about where to place a book or how you liked it.

You would have never anticipated where the conversation was heading.

You absentmindedly flipped through the pages of one of your paperbacks before slipping it onto the shelf.

"You can ask me anything, Bob." You replied. "I'm an open book."

Bob watched where you were knelt on the floor below. The sun peeking in through the window behind him had cast a golden glow on your face, highlighting the crinkles that formed as you focused on the task at hand.

Did he want to know if you were Bucky's? Now, with the two of you alone in your room, doing a mundane task like organizing your bookshelf he could convince himself that this was his life. That you were his.

The truth could shatter that illusion.

What was he thinking? Of course he wanted to know.

The sound of his sock feet shuffling on the floor pulled your focus from the shelf to his flushed face.

"Is everything okay, Bob?"

You pulled your hand from the pile and laid it gently against Bob's clothed leg.

Bob cleared his throat.

"Are you and Bucky.. are you... did you-" Bob tugged at his hair. "Fuck, uh.. this is awkward. Were you two ever...?"

Your eyebrows furrowed as you listened and you swear you felt your blood pressure spike.

How did he know?

Bob was the last person on Earth you wanted knowing about your sex history- especially with someone so close to the two of you. His spluttering only dragged the moment on and you needed a mercy kill.

"Are you asking if Buck and I were a thing?"

Buck. Bob's mind raced. She's the only one in the tower he lets call him that. How did I not notice?

You watched him physically deflate once you posed the question for him- whether that was out of defeat or relief at the awkwardness being stripped from his own hands and shoved into your own, you weren't sure.

Your eyes trailed to the books in front of you.

"I guess, once." You replied trying to even the thumping in your chest. You were never sure of the extent of Bob's powers and if super-hearing had slipped its way into his skillset. "It was a one time thing. I think we just got lost in the heat of it all and when we were done with our mission, we got busy with our own things and it just... fizzled, you know? We're just friends now, Bob."

Without realizing it, your hands had clasped together, circling around one another nervously as you spoke. Noting your demeanor, you picked up another book from the pile.

"Walker just made it seem like-" Bob started.

Of fucking course it was Walker.

You shoved a hardcover into a free space on the shelf with a thud.

"Well Walker's an asshole." You stated flatly, loosing the composure that had been held together by the wringing of your hands. "There's nothing there, Bob. I mean, Buck is a good friend, but he's not the type of guy who'll grab coffee with you, or read your book recommendations, or-" You stopped yourself short, realizing the relationship you were describing was your own. "He's just.. he's not the guy for me."

A silence hung in the air for a brief moment until you could no longer take it.

"I'll be right back."

Before Bob had the chance to argue, you were on your feet, slipping through the door, and rushing down the hallway.

You welcomed yourself inside Yelena's room and shut the door behind you.

"I could kill John!"

Yelena, who had been sat on her bed reading, threw her book to the side.

"Uh, hello?" Yelena said pulling out an earbud. "Have you heard of knocking?"

Waving away her argument, you paced the length of her room.

"Walker told Bob that I had sex with Bucky."

Yelena had become well acquainted with John Walker's slights in the time since meeting him- he enjoyed getting under someone's skin like no other- a natural instigator- though, the team had become immune to it. But watching you now, burning a whole in the carpet with your pacing, Yelena realized she had never seen you so frantic.

"Well?" She asked. "Did you?"

You gave her a pointed look and sighed. That's all she needed to know.

Her jaw dropped.

"When was this!" She shouted, waving her arm in the air.

"Three years ago!" You yelled back. "But that's not the point- the point is that Walker told Bob!"

Yelena, quickly digesting the grenade of a revelation you just threw at her, shrugged.

"Well you just told me," she said. "Who cares if Bob knows?"

"I care!" You said flopping onto the bed. "It's different."

The blonde furrowed her brows.

"Why is it different?"

Staring up at her ceiling, you let out an exasperated sigh.

"Because you're a girl."

Yelena tapped her finger against her chin: "Well Walker knew and you did not care until he told Bob."

"That's because he was there, Yel." You argued. "I wouldn't want Alexei to know either."

A dry laugh escaped her lips.

"That is different." Yelena said. "Alexei would tell the whole world that you had sex with Barnes and the news would call you the Avengers' whore."

You reached for one of her pillows and threw it at her.

"Oh my god, Yelena!"

You hid your face in your palms.

"Not that I am calling you a whore!" She defended herself. "I am just saying-"

"Yelena." You said, face still hidden behind your hands. "Focus."

"I just do not understand why you care if Bob knows!" Yelena said with an exasperated sigh, running her hand in circles on your back. "You two are very close. He won't judge you. I mean, he is very awkward, but I am sure he's had sex before. It won't affect your-"

As if a cartoon lightbulb had appeared above her head, the thought finally came to her. Yelena ceased the motion with her hands.

"Wait." She said, pulling herself away from your touch. "Do you like him?"

You rolled your eyes.

"What are we?" You said, deflecting. "Kindergarteners?"

"Aha!" Yelena said, hopping off the bed. "I knew it!"

Somehow telling another person only made your feelings more real, tangible. Before you could deny that they had ever existed, but now that it was out in the open, you were vulnerable not only to your feelings but Bob's too. You could feel your face burning from the confession and groaned.

"You like Bob!" She said with a pout, as if it were the most wholesome idea in the world. "That is so cute. Why do you not you tell him?"

She asked it as if it were simple. As if the only thing that stood between you and what you wanted was a sentence. And that if things didn't go the way you hoped, that your desires would blow away like dust in the wind.

If anything, the revived information that you had a history with Bucky only further pushed down your inclination to confess your feelings to Bob. If three years had passed since a mutual one night stand and that was still haunting you, how would an unrequited love with your roommate be?

You weren't sure you could take it.

"You're joking, right?" You wrapped your arms around your legs and tucked your knee under your chin. "He's literally 'the golden god'. I mean Bob's just... he's so attractive and fit and nice... there's just no way he would feel the same and then it would make everything so awkward."

Yelena quirked her eyebrow at you.

"I am confused." She said. "Are we talking about the same Bob?"

You gave her a sad smile and swat at her arm.

"Yelena. I'm serious." Your argued. "Just think about it."

Her tongue clicked against the roof of her mouth, tut, tut, tuting you as she brushed her hand against your forehead.

"Y/n, before you started training with Bob, he could throw us all across the room without even thinking about it." Yelena said, stroking your hair. "Now, he can't even pick up a glass of water. Do you know why that is?"

You hadn't considered it.

"Do I make him uncomfortable?" You asked.

"No! I mean, yes, but it's not like that." She said, pulling away. "You make him so nervous that he cannot think straight. We all know that he's in love with you, we just did not think you felt the same."

You pulled yourself up onto your elbow to get a better look at Yelena, the sheets crinkling under your touch. In your chest, you swore you could feel your heart thumping against its cage.

Bob liked you? You?

As if you were a kid again you felt an adrenaline rush through your veins, begging you to hop off the bed, skip around the room and run into the arms of the man you loved.

But you were an adult who lived with both a man from your past and one who would, hopefully, be your future. Care and precision was needed.

"Really?" You asked, pressing your hand to your chest to steady your breathing. "Don't mess with me, Yelena."

Yelena laughed.

"Oh yes. He is very obvious." Yelena shook her head. "Always making the googly eyes at you when you talk and asking where you are... it's gross."

Without thinking, you closed the space between you and Yelena by gripping her hand.

"Are you serious?"

"Yes." She assured you, squeezing your fingers, "And you should tell him. Now that he knows about Bucky it is going to mess with his head. It is better to tell him soon."

Suddenly, you thought of Bob's feelings. The way he must have felt learning about Bucky.. if you were in his shoes and he had been with a member of your group, you think you would be sick.

As much as you wanted him- to hold him, to tell him you love him and hear it back, to be able to call him yours- it wasn't your feelings that drove you, but Bob's.

Yelena could be wrong, but she could also be right. You couldn't risk the latter by fear of the former.

You'd tell him tonight.

☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆

After your conversation with Yelena, you had headed back to your room only to find it abandoned by Bob. The afternoon had dragged on in agony, avoiding Bob like the plague until dinner. Even once the dishes had been served, wine was poured, and you had relaxed into your seat beside him, it had taken you all dinner to get up the nerve to speak to him again.

Afterall, what if Yelena's intuition was wrong?

"Can we talk after dinner?" You asked.

You turned your head towards Bob and whispered, careful that the other members of the table wouldn't hear. Bob, who had been half-heartedly been picking fries off of his plate the entire dinner, bit his tongue at the sound of your voice.

"Ow- what? Y-yeah," He said with a polite smile. "We can talk."

You smiled.

"Perfect." You said. "It's a date."

☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆

Your footsteps were the first thing he heard.

They were soft, hesitant. As if you had to convince yourself to take another step. You had wrapped your sweater tight around yourself to brace the chill that came with being so high above the ground and all Bob could think was he would warm you up if you let him.

But he'd never say that.

Instead, he braced himself against the railing and greeted you with a wordless smile.

"Hey."

"Hi."

You glanced down at your shoes then back to his face.

Just do it.

"I'm sorry that you had to find out about Bucky and I from Walker." You glanced between Bob and the traffic lights on the street below. His stare, so filled with kindness and care, made your breath catch in your throat. "But it's only because it's one hundred percent in the past. And I... was afraid that you'd look at me differently because of it if you knew."

Bob, usually the victim of low self-confidence, hated the look on you. Not because it made you look weak or worthless, no- but that he wished he could take whatever weight it carried in your body and absorb it into his own. Valentina may have called him the golden god, but you were the shining light that kept him him.

"Why?" He asked. "I could never judge you."

Your eyes locked with his and for a brief moment it was like the rest of the world fell away. You studied the blue in his eyes and the way gold specs floated around in them- as if the power within him was always just beneath the surface, waiting to be unleashed. You took it in. If this all went south, at least you could remember him like that.

"Fuck." You laughed, taking a sudden interest in your shoes. "This sounds so childish, but I really don't know how else to say it..." Wrapping your arms tighter around you to brace the wind, you looked up at him and smiled. "I like you, Bob. Like more than... more than I probably should."

A shiver visibly rattled your body as another gust of wind hit. Rather than suggest that you go inside, Bob laid his hands against your arms, warming them.

"What do you... what do you mean by that?" He asked.

"C'mon, Bob." You sighed, shielding your face in your palms and burying your face into his chest. "You know what I mean. I just look at you and don't even know what to do with myself anymore; and I know I'm supposed to be your friend, but I can't keep pretending that I'm not having a heart attack every time you look at me like that."

A deep sigh shook your frame.

"Anyway just tell me you don't feel the same and I'll forget it." You said, "and we can pretend this never happened."

He could feel his heart shatter in his chest.

He knew the tremble in your voice well. The tone. The complete lack of confidence. It was unfamiliar coming from your lips but he had heard it come from his own every time he opened his mouth. To hear it come from you was not just unfathomable, but heart breaking.

How you could think that way about yourself in comparison to him... he couldn't believe it.

"Don't... don't say that." He said no more than above a whisper. "You're like, just perfect to me."

Bob stepped back, leaving space to get a better look at you. Running his hands up your arms, he reached your cheeks. He cupped your face in his hands, gently as if one wrong move would make his earth shatter, and guided your face up to meet his gaze.

"Look, I'm uh.. I'm not good at this whole... relationship thing..." Bob said, eyes darting from your face to your hair, to the space behind you as the glimmer in your eyes made him nervous. "But I- I feel the same... About you."

He laughed. The same sweet, nervous laugh that followed you into your dreams and gave you a reason to come home; and you felt your heart swell at the familiar smile painted on his face- this time for you.

"Really?"

Your fingers clung to the fabric of his sweater as if you feared that if you let go, it would turn out to just a figment of your imagination.

"Yeah."

Tendrils hung in his eyes as he leaned further, close enough that you could feel the heat radiating off of his skin and and breath fanning your face. When your noses touched, ever so slightly brushing at the tips, you placed your finger against his lips.

Confusion and hurt painted his features until you gestured behind him.

"We have company." You whispered.

Framed by the warm light of the tower behind them, five all-too-familiar figures watched from the doorway.

"Should we be worried about the two most powerful people on the planet being in love?" Ava asked, taking a sip from her glass of wine.

"I'm more worried about the mental stability of their future kids." John deadpanned.

"No!" Alexei argued, slapping his hands against Ava and Walker's backs. "What are you saying? They will make strong babies!" He raised his fist in the air: "And they will be the pride of the New Avengerz!"

"Alexei!" Yelena groaned. "Stop making it weird."

As if Yelena had physically stung him with her words, Alexei's hands flew to his own chest.

"I do not make it weird." He argued. "I am being supportive. How is that weird?"

"They have not even kissed and you are talking about super babies!" Yelena shouted. "You are lucky they cannot hear you."

You called back.

"Oh no, we can hear you!"

Bob pointed to his ears and mouthed: "Super hearing."

Still cradled in Bob's arms, your eyes met Bucky's from across the landing pad. He smiled softly.

"C'mon." Bucky said waving the onlookers inside. "Let's go. Leave them alone."

Waiting until they left your sight, you looked back at Bob and breathed him in. His cheeks had begun to burn a bright pink that was visible even in the dim light of dusk, but he looked at you with eyes that could only be described as love drunk.

You don’t even open your eyes when he passes your door.

“Morning,” he says anyway. Always does. Even when you’re half-asleep. Even when you don’t answer.

“Mornin’,” you mumble back, voice rough, face buried in your pillow.

He smiles. You know he does. You can hear it.

By the time you drag yourself out of bed, hair a mess and wearing one of his old Navy hoodies (which is not a big deal, because it’s basically communal at this point), the kitchen smells like coffee and something warm and toasted.

Bob stands at the counter, glasses on, sleeves rolled up, methodically buttering toast like it’s a sacred ritual.

“You’re up early,” he says without turning around.

“You woke me up.”

“I was quiet.”

“You exist loudly.”

That gets a huff of a laugh. He glances over his shoulder at you, eyes soft behind the lenses. “Coffee’s ready.”

You grab a mug from the cabinet you both pretend you don’t have memorized. He already put in the creamer the way you like it. You don’t comment on it. He doesn’t either.

This is how it always is.

You lean against the counter, sipping, watching him move around the kitchen with practiced ease. He’s wearing his squadron tee and gym shorts, hair still damp from the shower. There’s a faint scar along his forearm you’ve traced absentmindedly more than once while sitting on opposite ends of the couch.

You shouldn’t think about that.

“Rooster texted,” Bob says casually. “He’s dragging the squad to the Hard Deck tonight.”

You groan. “On a Tuesday?”

“He says morale is low.”

“Morale is low because Hangman exists.”

Bob snorts, unable to help it. “Fair.”

You tilt your head, watching him. “You going?”

He hesitates. Just a fraction of a second too long.

“I mean,” he says carefully, “only if you want to.”

There it is. That thing he does. Like your opinion weighs more than his own.

You shrug. “I’m in if you are.”

Relief flickers across his face so quickly it almost hurts to notice.

“Cool,” he says. “Yeah. Cool.”

You both sip your coffee in silence, the comfortable kind. The kind that feels earned. The kind that would look suspicious to anyone watching too closely.

-

The thing about being roommates with Bob Floyd is that you fall into patterns.

Domestic ones.

Unavoidable ones.

Like movie nights that start with “we can just watch one episode” and end with you asleep halfway across his chest, his arm automatically adjusting around you without waking either of you up.

Like grocery runs that are supposed to be quick and somehow take forty-five minutes because Bob insists on reading labels.

“This one has more protein,” he says, holding up a box.

“It tastes like drywall.”

He frowns. “It’s… lightly sweetened.”

“You are lying with confidence.”

He sighs, puts it back, and grabs your usual without comment. You notice. You always do.

Like laundry nights where your clothes end up mixed together because separating them feels pointless—and because he once folded one of your shirts without realizing it and apologized like he’d committed a crime.

“You don’t have to ask permission to touch my clothes, Bob.”

“I know,” he said. “Still feels like I should.”

Like the way he always knocks before entering your room, even though you’ve told him a hundred times he doesn’t need to—and the way you still appreciate it every time.

It’s not romantic.

That’s what you tell yourself.

It’s just… Bob.

-

The Squad does not believe this for a second.

You find that out later that afternoon, sprawled on the couches in the ready room while Fanboy scrolls through his phone and Payback argues with Coyote about something deeply stupid.

Bob is next to you, shoulder brushing yours, focused on a Rubik’s cube he’s been trying to solve for twenty minutes.

“You know,” Phoenix says, eyes flicking between you and Bob, “you two have weird energy.”

You blink. “Excuse you?”

“Weird,” she repeats. “Not bad. Just… very married.”

Bob drops the cube.

“What?” you both say at the same time.

Hangman swivels in his chair, immediately interested. “Oh my god, thank you. I’ve been saying this.”

Bob’s ears go red. “We’re not—”

“We’re roommates,” you add quickly.

“Yeah,” Fanboy says, not looking up. “So were my parents for six years before they figured it out.”

You sit up. “Figured what out?”

“That they were in love,” Payback says, smirking. “Duh.”

Bob clears his throat, visibly uncomfortable. “We’re just… friends.”

Hangman grins like a shark that’s smelled blood. “Friends don’t share hoodies, Robert.”

You glance down at the hoodie you’re wearing.

Bob’s hoodie.

“I have my own clothes,” you protest weakly.

“Name one,” Coyote challenges.

You open your mouth.

Pause.

Bob watches you, expression unreadable.

“…Rude,” you mutter.

Phoenix laughs. “Look, we’re just saying. If it walks like a duck and argues about groceries like a married couple—”

“We do not argue about groceries,” Bob says.

“You bought crunchy peanut butter,” you shoot back instantly. “You know I hate that.”

“That was one time.”

“And it was a betrayal.”

The room goes quiet.

Hangman points between the two of you. “See? That. That right there.”

Bob rubs the back of his neck. “We’re fine.”

You nod, too quickly. “We’re fine.”

No one believes you.

-

That night at the Hard Deck is loud and crowded and smells like spilled beer and bad decisions.

Bob sticks close to you, not in a possessive way—just in a Bob way. Like he’s your anchor in the chaos. You lean toward each other to talk, knees brushing under the table.

Hangman watches with an infuriatingly smug expression.

“So,” he says, leaning back. “You seeing anyone?”

You choke on your drink. “What?”

Bob stiffens beside you.

“No,” you say quickly. “Why?”

Hangman shrugs. “Just curious.”

“Since when are you curious about my love life?”

“Since it started affecting squad morale.”

You glare. “It doesn’t.”

Bob clears his throat. “I don’t think—”

Phoenix kicks Hangman under the table. “Drop it.”

But the question lingers.

You feel it like a weight.

Later, when the music’s too loud and Bob goes to grab another round, Hangman leans in again.

“You ever think,” he says quietly, “that you two are playing chicken?”

“With what?” you ask.

“With your feelings.”

You scoff. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

He studies you for a moment, unusually serious. “Yeah. I do.”

Bob comes back then, setting a glass in front of you automatically.

You don’t meet his eyes.

-

At home, the apartment is quiet and dim, the familiar comfort settling around you like a blanket.

Bob kicks off his shoes and pauses. “You okay?”

You nod. “Yeah. Just tired.”

He hesitates, then says softly, “If Hangman said something—”

“It’s fine,” you cut in. Too fast. Too sharp.

He flinches, just a little.

“Okay,” he says after a beat. “Night.”

“Night, Bob.”

You both retreat to your rooms, doors clicking shut.

And for the first time since you moved in together, the silence feels… loud.

You lie awake, staring at the ceiling, heart doing something annoying in your chest.

In the next room, Bob stares at his own ceiling, glasses set carefully on the nightstand, replaying every word, every look, every almost.

Neither of you sleeps well.

And neither of you admits why.

-

The problem with pretending nothing’s wrong is that your body doesn’t get the memo.

You notice it the next morning when Bob is already awake—again—and you walk into the kitchen half-asleep, hair a mess, wearing one of his T-shirts this time. You don’t even clock it until he freezes mid-pour, coffee splashing dangerously close to the rim.

“Sorry,” you say automatically. “Didn’t mean to scare you.”

“You didn’t,” he lies, setting the mug down too carefully. His ears are red. Again.

You lean against the counter, arms crossed, watching him from under your lashes. There’s something different in the air. Thicker. Like you’re both aware of the same fragile thing and refusing to name it.

“Sleep okay?” he asks.

You shrug. “You?”

A pause.

“Not really.”

That makes your chest tighten. “Oh.”

Silence stretches. The kettle clicks off with a sharp snap that makes you both flinch.

Bob clears his throat. “I’ve got an early brief. I’ll be late tonight.”

“Oh. Okay.”

You hate how disappointed that sounds.

He hesitates by the door, hand on the knob. For a second, you think he’s going to say something—anything—but then he just nods and leaves.

The door shuts softly.

You stare at it longer than you should.

-

Unfortunately your friends seem to have all the time in the world today

By lunch, you’re cornered in the ready room with Phoenix and Rooster while Bob’s stuck in debrief hell.

“So,” Rooster says, popping open a bag of chips, “how’s domestic bliss?”

You glare. “We’re not married.”

“Yet,” Phoenix adds brightly.

You groan. “You guys are impossible.”

Phoenix leans in, elbows on her knees. “Okay, serious question. When was the last time either of you went on a date that wasn’t accidentally with each other?”

You open your mouth.

Close it.

Rooster grins. “That long, huh?”

“We’re busy,” you say defensively. “Work. Life.”

“Bob Floyd schedules his relaxation,” Phoenix says. “You’re telling me he hasn’t penciled in a girlfriend because—what—he forgot?”

Your heart stutters. “It’s not like that.”

“Then what is it like?” she asks gently.

You don’t have an answer.

-

That night, Bob comes home later than usual. You’re on the couch, pretending to watch something while actually replaying every stupid interaction you’ve had for the past six months.

He stops short when he sees you.

“Oh. Hey,” he says. “Didn’t know you’d be up.”

You shrug. “Couldn’t sleep.”

He sits on the opposite end of the couch, careful. Too careful.

The TV drones on. Neither of you is watching.

After a minute, he exhales. “Listen… about last night.”

Your stomach flips. “Yeah?”

“I don’t want things to be weird,” he says quietly. “If they are.”

“They’re not,” you say immediately.

He looks at you then. Really looks. His gaze is steady, searching, like he’s trying to read something written between the lines.

“…Okay,” he says, but it doesn’t sound convinced.

Another pause. This one heavier.

“Bob,” you start, then stop. Your heart’s pounding too loud.

“Yes?”

You swallow. “Nothing. Sorry.”

He nods, disappointment flickering across his face before he masks it. “Right. Goodnight.”

“Night.”

He disappears down the hall, leaving the couch cold beside you.

You don’t move for a long time.

-

Things get worse before they get better.

There’s a charity event on base the following weekend—volunteer sign-ups, mandatory attendance for optics, the usual. You and Bob end up assigned together because of course you do.

It’s harmless. Easy. Until it isn’t.

You’re sorting supplies when Bob brushes past you in the cramped storage room, his hand landing briefly on your waist to steady himself.

The touch is nothing.

It feels like everything.

You both freeze.

“Sorry,” he murmurs, but his hand doesn’t move right away.

Your breath catches. You can feel the warmth of him, solid and familiar and suddenly too much.

“It’s—fine,” you manage.

His hand drops like he’s been burned.

The rest of the afternoon is tense, quiet, careful. Phoenix watches from across the room with narrowed eyes.

That night, she corners Bob.

“You’re in love with her,” she says bluntly.

Bob blinks. “What?”

“Don’t play dumb. You’re bad at it.”

He rubs his face, exhausted. “It’s complicated.”

“No,” she says. “It’s scary. There’s a difference.”

Across the room, Rooster is saying the same thing to you.

“You like him,” he says gently.

You scoff. “We’re friends.”

“Yeah,” he replies. “And I like my jet. Doesn’t mean I don’t know when I’d crash it for something that matters more.”

You stare at the floor.

-

The breaking point comes quietly.

It’s a Tuesday. Nothing special. You’re both home late, passing each other in the hallway like strangers.

Bob stops. “Hey.”

You turn. “Hey.”

Another pause. You’re sick of pauses.

“Do you ever think,” you ask softly, “that we’re… avoiding something?”

His breath hitches.

“Yes,” he says, just as quietly.

Your heart slams against your ribs. “Why?”

He steps closer. Not touching. Just close enough that you can feel him.

“Because if we’re wrong,” he says, voice steady but eyes anything but, “we lose what we already have.”

“And if we’re right?” you whisper.

His gaze drops to your mouth.

“Then I don’t know how I’ve been living like this,” he admits.

The air between you hums.

You don’t kiss him.

You don’t need to.

Not yet.

But when you go to bed that night, you both know—this isn’t something you can keep pretending away.

-

The night it finally breaks isn’t dramatic.

There’s no argument. No raised voices. No grand, cinematic moment where everything explodes at once.

It’s quiet. Ordinary. Almost cruel in how normal it starts.

You’re both in the kitchen, late again, moving around each other with the kind of familiarity that’s been earned over years—muscle memory and shared space and unspoken rules. Bob is rinsing a mug at the sink. You’re leaning against the counter, arms crossed, watching him like you’ve been doing too often lately.

The air feels… heavy.

Not awkward. Not tense.

Weighted.

Like something is pulling at both of you, insistent and patient, waiting for one of you to stop resisting.

Bob dries his hands slowly. Doesn’t turn around.

“You ever feel like the universe is laughing at us?” he asks.

Your chest tightens. “Define ‘us.’”

He huffs out a soft breath. “That’s fair.”

You straighten. “Bob—”

He turns then, finally, and whatever you were about to say dies in your throat.

He looks tired. Not exhausted—just worn in that quiet way he gets when he’s been carrying something alone for too long. His shoulders are tense, jaw tight, eyes searching your face like he’s bracing for impact.

“I can’t keep doing this,” he says.

Your heart stutters. “Doing what?”

“Pretending I don’t feel it every time you walk into a room,” he answers, voice calm but threaded with something dangerously close to breaking. “Pretending I don’t wake up every morning hoping you’ll already be in the kitchen. Pretending I’m not constantly calculating how close is too close and whether I’m allowed to miss you when you’re literally down the hall.”

You swallow hard. “Bob…”

“I know the risks,” he continues quickly, like if he slows down he’ll lose his nerve. “I know we’re roommates. I know this could screw everything up. I know we could lose what we have.”

He takes a step closer.

“But I also know I’m already losing it,” he says quietly. “Because I’m in love with you, and pretending otherwise is killing me.”

The words land softly.

They devastate you anyway.

You don’t speak right away. You can’t. Your throat is tight, eyes burning, heart pounding so hard it’s almost embarrassing.

Bob notices. Of course he does.

“Hey,” he says gently, instantly worried. “You don’t have to—”

You close the distance between you before he can finish the sentence.

You don’t kiss him yet. You just press your forehead to his chest, breathing him in, hands fisting in the fabric of his T-shirt like you need the anchor.

“I was wondering how long it would take you,” you murmur.

He freezes. “What?”

You laugh softly, the sound shaky but real. “To say it out loud.”

He pulls back just enough to look at you. “You… knew?”

“I’ve been in love with you since somewhere between you fixing my sink at two in the morning and you memorizing how I take my coffee,” you admit. “I just thought… if you wanted it, you’d say something.”

“I thought the same thing,” he says helplessly.

You shake your head. “We’re idiots.”

A breath leaves him—half laugh, half relief.

“Yes,” he agrees. “We really are.”

The silence that follows is different this time. Softer. Safer. Like the ground has finally stopped shifting beneath your feet.

Bob lifts a hand, hesitates—then cups your cheek, thumb brushing gently along your jaw like he’s checking if this is real.

“Can I?” he asks, voice barely above a whisper.

You nod.

That’s all the permission he needs.

The kiss is nothing like you imagined—and somehow exactly right.

It’s not rushed. Not desperate. It’s careful and reverent and deeply emotional, like he’s been holding this moment in his chest for years and doesn’t want to break it. His lips are warm, steady, moving against yours with a tenderness that makes your knees go weak.

You melt into him.

When you pull back, you’re both smiling like fools.

“Hi,” he says softly.

“Hi,” you echo.

He rests his forehead against yours again, breathing you in. “So… what does this mean for us?”

You smile, heart full. “It means we’re still roommates.”

He groans. “Tragic.”

“And,” you add, “we’re still best friends.”

He relaxes. “Good.”

“And,” you finish, fingers curling into his shirt, “we’re figuring this out together.”

His smile is slow and sure. “I’d like that.”

-

The Squad finds out within twenty-four hours.

You don’t even tell them. Phoenix does.

She takes one look at the way Bob’s hand rests at your lower back in the ready room and makes a sound of deep, vindicated satisfaction.

“Oh my god,” she says. “Finally.”

Rooster blinks between the two of you. “Wait. You’re—like—official?”

Bob clears his throat. “We’re… yes.”

Hangman squints. “So all that tension was for free?”

You glare at him. “Die mad.”

Coyote grins. “I give it three weeks before they start arguing about thermostat settings.”

Bob doesn’t miss a beat. “We already do.”

Bob doesn’t let go of your hand once.

Later that night, back home, you sit together on the couch—closer than before, but not rushed. Comfortable. Easy. Earned.

Bob kisses your temple.

“You know,” he murmurs, “I don’t regret waiting.”

You tilt your head to look at him. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” he says, smiling softly. “It made this… right.”

You lean into him, heart steady for the first time in a long while.

And for once, the future doesn’t feel scary.

It feels like home.

-

Six months later, the apartment still looks the same.

Same couch with the crooked cushion. Same coffee table with the wobble you keep forgetting to fix. Same kitchen light that flickers if you don’t smack the switch just right.

The difference is Bob.

And you.

You’re barefoot in the kitchen, standing on a chair because you’re stubborn and refuse to admit the top shelf is too high. Bob is behind you, hands hovering at your waist like he’s waiting for gravity to betray you.

“I can grab it,” he says patiently.

“I’m fine,” you insist, stretching higher.

“You said that last time and I caught you with one arm and a bag of flour with the other.”

“That was one time.”

“That was three days ago.”

You finally snag the box you were reaching for and pump your fist in victory. “See? Independent.”

Bob sighs, but he’s smiling when you climb down and immediately lean back into his chest like you didn’t just prove his point.

“Admit it,” you say. “You like catching me.”

He wraps his arms around you without hesitation. “I like not letting you get hurt.”

You tilt your head back to look at him. “That’s basically the same thing.”

He presses a kiss to your forehead. “Not even close.”

The domesticity of it still hits you sometimes—hard and out of nowhere. How easy this feels. How natural. Like your life quietly rearranged itself while you weren’t looking.

You make dinner together. You argue about seasoning. You steal bites off his plate. He lets you, even though he pretends not to.

Later, you’re curled up on the couch, legs tangled, his arm heavy and warm around your shoulders. The TV is on, but neither of you is paying attention.

Bob’s thumb traces slow, absentminded circles against your arm.

“Can I ask you something?” he says.

You hum. “You always do.”

He hesitates. Just a beat. “Do you ever think about… what would’ve happened if we’d said something sooner?”

You think about it honestly.

“All the time,” you admit. “But I don’t wish we had.”

He looks down at you. “Yeah?”

You nod. “We needed to be us first. The dumb jokes. The shared groceries. The unspoken trust. If we’d rushed it, I think we would’ve been scared.”

Bob exhales, relief softening his shoulders. “I’m really glad it was you.”

‎The dimly lit room cast shadows that danced across your bare skin as Bob Floyd knelt between your thighs, his face buried in your pussy. Your fingers were tangled in his sandy blond hair, gripping tightly as you arched your back, pushing yourself further onto his eager tongue.

“So pretty... Say it back, tell me you're pretty.”

Your back arched, moans spilling out as Bob found that sweet, perfect spot. Fingers tangled in his hair, you pulled him right where you wanted him, every inch of his face coated in your slick. His muffled groans pressed into you, vibrating through your sensitive core until your knees threatened to buckle.

Fights with Bob Floyd were dangerous, mostly because his apology involved snacks, cuddles, and the occasional four-hour tongue session.

“Atta girl...”

LORD TAKE M--

Your hips rolled against his face, shameless and deliberate. He tasted you everywhere-- your slick coated his cheeks, chin, and even fogged his glasses-- and you held his head in your hands like reins, guiding him exactly where you wanted. He ate you out with an intensity that made your knees shake.

‎The room was filled with the symphony of wet sounds and muffled praises. Bob's tongue swirling around your clit while he hummed contentedly like a man who had found heaven between his wife's legs. "So sweet..."

No one would’ve expected Bob Floyd to be like this. Not this needy, this shameless, this… talkative. His eyes were glued to you, lips and tongue busy, and yet he found words-- muffled, wet, and utterly devoted.

“Can I eat this pretty pussy forever?” he asked, voice husky and muffled against you.

You gasped at the audacity of it, but he wasn’t done. “Do you like how I worship this sweet cunt?” His moan vibrated against your folds, and it made your knees weak.

“Should I keep going until you squirt all over my face?”

And there it was-- Bob Floyd, the quiet, sweet, somehow deadly patient man you’d married, suddenly talkative in the best, filthiest way possible, leaving you shocked, moaning, and completely undone.

A loud, sharp squeal escaped you as your body jolted with a sudden orgasm. Bob’s face was drenched, glasses sliding down, and he looked up like he’d just completed the most satisfying task in the universe. “You okay, honey?” he hummed, completely smug.

‎His tongue traced every drop, hungrily licking you clean while your knees threatened to give out. He looked up, eyes sparkling, voice low and teasing: “I could get used to this, you know… you’re ridiculously easy to please.”

You yanked him away gently, resting his face on your thigh to give your overstimulated cunt a reprieve. Panting and shaking from your release, you grinned wickedly. “That was… cute, Bob, really,” you breathed, voice low and teasing. “But it’s barely even a warm-up. Next time, I expect effort.”

Bullshit.

He hummed softly, playful trouble in his eyes. “That so, m’love?” he murmured, crawling over you, lips exploring every inch. Your neck alone demanded ten kisses, and he happily obliged, making you arch and bite your lip with every one.

You tugged his face up, pressing a soft kiss to his lips before pulling back and scoffing. “I’ve had spicier from you in my dreams.”

That sweet Bob smile twisted into something wicked. Towering above you, his shadow swallowed your body, voice husky and firm. “I will shift your womb, woman,” he murmured, like a king claiming his throne.

Lip between teeth, smirk in check. Who knew Bob Floyd could be this commanding? You did. Every night actually. You mentally sighed, rolled your eyes, and spread your legs anyway. Invitation clear, and very much appreciated.

Hips already rolling, you whispered between moans,“You keep talking like that and don't even think about pulling out.”

“That's exactly what I was aiming for, darlin'.”

‎“Oh~ you wanna breed me, Bob Floyd?”

‎“I do. If my gorgeous wife tells me I can.”

‎“Mm, needy husband now?”

‎“Only for you. I'm so lucky.”

‎“You gonna fill me up, Bob?”

‎“Every last drop if you let me.”

‎“I’ll let you fuck the life out of me, husband.”

‎“Yes ma'am.”

He didn’t even hesitate, sliding inside you with slow, deliberate precision. Every inch of him stretched and filled you, and your hips bucked instinctively, chasing the friction that already had your nerves alight. You gasped, nails digging into his back as the burn spread deliciously, unrelenting.

“Fuck…” you whispered through gritted teeth, eyes squeezing shut.

He smirked, pressing closer, letting you feel every inch of him. You whimpered, breath catching, and tried to adjust, but it only made it sharper.

Finally, all you could manage with a strained voice rough with both pain and pleasure, the words slipping out between sharp breaths, “Fuck you, Bob Floyd...”

---

“FUCK YOU, BOB FLOY-- AHHH! LET GO, WOMAN!” Hangman’s knuckles were white, teeth clenched as he hissed through gritted teeth.

Your hand was wrapped around his wrist like a vice, eyes blazing, veins screaming, and you pushed. Hard. Hangman had promised to “fill in for Bob” and now he understood exactly how naïve that statement was.

“Breathe! Just-- breathe!” he gasped, face turning red, eyes watering, and somehow still trying to keep his hand from being crushed into pulp.

You did not breathe. You cursed. The world, Bob, your parents, the human race, the concept of pain itself-- all of it.

“I WILL FUCKING KILL EVERYONE WHO THINKS THIS IS FAIR-- AHHH!” Your voice cracked, and Hangman’s wrist gave a sickening pop. He screamed like a man summoning every regret in his lineage. “FUCK YOU, ROBERT FLOYD! I HOPE YOUR SOUL GETS STUCK IN A TRAFFIC JAM FOREVER!”

“Oh god oh god oh god,” Hangman squealed as your grip tightened further.

"SHUT UP JAK--"

"MY HAND--"

"SHUT THE FUCK UP, YOU SAY THAT AGAIN IMMA RIP YOUR TONGUE OUTTA YOUR HEAD--"

"MY HANDDDD--"

His fingers were bending in ways nature never intended. He tried to push your hand off, failed, and felt an immediate, punishing crunch against his bones. Somewhere in there, he realized you had actually broken his hand.

You didn’t pause. You cursed the pain, you cursed the room, you cursed your own fucking uterus. “I HATE YOU, ROBERT FLOYD! I HATE YOU! I HATE-- AHHH-- EVERYONE!”

The midwives were trying not to die laughing while also coaching you, the alarms were blaring, the monitors were going wild, and Hangman was gripping the gurney for dear life, muttering under his breath, “Why-- why did I think this would be fun… why am I alive…”

You whimpered to Hangman, face pale and eyes red. "I'm gonna die, Jake..."

Hangman hissed back. "You try dying and watch me pull you back by your hair 'cause ain't no way you broke my hand for nothin'."

Then, with one final, monumental heave that could have powered a small city, a tiny, wailing human erupted into the world. You collapsed back, heaving, drenched in sweat, lungs burning, every fiber of your body screaming in betrayal-- and finally, just for a second, your eyes landed on the baby. Tiny, perfect, screaming… and completely oblivious to the chaos that had just birthed it.

And that’s when the doors flew open. Bob barreled in like a storm, chest heaving, sweat plastering his hair to his forehead, eyes darting wildly. He skidded to your side, but his gaze didn’t land on the baby. No, it landed entirely, completely, utterly on you.

Your exhausted eyes met his, and all you could muster, rasping through the exhaustion and the pain and the fire of childbirth, was:

“Fuck… you… Robert Floyd.”

And then, blissful, merciful, chaotic sleep took you, leaving Hangman blinking at his mangled hand and the midwives snickering behind their masks, while Bob just hovered, chest heaving, looking like he might cry, faint, or start cursing himself for being late-- all at once.

---

Babies were supposed to be tiny miracles, little bundles of joy that made life sweeter, softer, and somehow brighter. Everyone said that, and everyone lied-- or maybe they just forgot the part about the in-between.

The in-between was where the magic tangled itself with chaos. Where the tiny heartbeat inside her made Bob grin like an idiot one minute and panic the next. Where his normally sweet, gentle wife turned into a storm god with a flair for dramatic sighs, random tears, and very specific midnight cravings.

It was supposed to be cute and tender, and sometimes it was. But mostly? It was weird. It was messy. It was adorable, infuriating, and completely impossible to ignore. And Bob? He was learning fast that loving a pregnant wife meant preparing for anything: sudden laughter, sudden rage, and the occasional, inexplicable need for three pickles stacked on top of a donut.

Pregnancy was a joy, yes. But the in-between… the in-between was pure, chaotic life.

‎First indication was… something that shouldn’t have happened.

‎I married the sweetest person alive, which is why it’s absolutely terrifying to see you sitting on the bathroom floor with a faucet in pieces.

-Bob Floyd

‎Bob had always considered himself a lucky man. Lucky enough to fly, lucky enough to live, lucky enough to somehow marry a woman as sweet as honey. Sweet enough to rival his own gentle, soft-spoken manners.

‎Which is why the scene in front of him felt like walking in on a felony he had not, in any universe, prepared for.

‎You sat on the bathroom floor like a guilty dog and an exhausted tenant at the same time. Knees up. Hands clasped. Eyes somewhere between “I’m fine” and “bury me.” And behind you… the sink. The brutally defeated sink. Its faucet lay on its side like it had tapped out of this mortal plane. A bucket caught the remaining drips, each drop loud enough to sound like judgment.

‎Bob leaned on the doorframe and blinked like he was rebooting his brain.

‎“…My love.”

‎You groaned into your palms. “It wasn’t my fault.”

‎Bob nodded very slowly. “Uh-huh.”

‎“It kept dripping,” you said, eyes flashing with the kind of rage poets wish they could bottle. “Every three seconds. Drip. Drip. Drip. Like it was mocking me. Like it was taunting me, Bob.”

‎He tried very hard not to smile. “So you… destroyed it?”

‎“I didn’t destroy it.” You pointed at the faucet with wounded dignity. “I liberated it. There's a big difference.”

‎“Right.” He stepped in and crouched beside you. “And how exactly did liberation happen?”

‎You sighed through your soul. “I tried to tighten it. Nicely. With kindness.”

‎“And?”

‎“It kept dripping.”

‎Bob inhaled like he already knew he didn’t want the next answer. “And then?”

‎“…I ripped it off.”

‎“With tools?”

‎You shook your head.

‎“With your hands?”

‎You whispered, “…maybe.”

‎A laugh escaped him before he could stop it. You stared at him like daring him to continue was an act of mutiny.

‎“I’m not laughing at you,” he tried.

‎“You’re literally smiling, Robert.”

‎“Smiling isn’t laughing.”

‎“It’s betrayal.”

‎He sat next to you, shoulder bumping yours. “Baby, you can bench-press half the squad if you’re irritated enough. I’m honestly surprised the sink lasted this long.”

‎Your bottom lip betrayed you with a wobble. “I didn’t mean to break it. I was just… tired. And annoyed. And it wouldn’t stop. And I just--” Your voice cracked. “I snapped.”

‎Bob’s entire heart folded up like origami.

‎“Oh, sweetheart,” he murmured, pulling you into his chest. “It’s okay. People lose fights with plumbing all the time.”

‎“No one does that.”

‎“Sure they do,” he lied, rubbing your back. “How do you think plumbers make money?”

‎You sniffed. “I’m hazardous.”

‎“You’re adorable.”

‎“I’m a loser.”

‎“You’re my wife.”

‎“I broke a sink.”

‎“My wife broke a sink with her bare hands,” he corrected softly. “Honestly? That’s kind of impressive.”

‎You pulled back, red-eyed and dramatic. “You’re not mad?”

‎“Mad?” Bob smiled, warm enough to soften concrete. “Honey, I married a woman who terrifies Marines twice her size. A sink didn’t stand a chance.”

‎A tired laugh escaped you. You wiped your cheeks. “I didn’t mean to go full Hulk.”

‎“I know.” He kissed your forehead. “We’ll fix it.”

‎“We?”

‎“I’m never letting you near a wrench unsupervised again.”

‎You narrowed your eyes. “Fair.”

‎He helped you up, brushing off your knees. “Next time something drips, you call me.”

‎“And if you’re not home?”

‎“Then you sit there and stare at it until I get back.”

‎You groaned dramatically. “That’s torture.”

‎“Better than replacing the entire plumbing system.”

‎You bumped his shoulder as you walked out. “One time. I break one sink and suddenly I’m on a watchlist.”

‎Bob smiled and wrapped his arm around your waist.

‎“One time. And you did it adorably.”

‎---

‎Second was… another thing that made him pause.

‎Bob liked to tell people his wife loved him in a way that made him feel embarrassingly lucky. You hugged him like he mattered, listened like he was interesting, and smiled at him like you’d been waiting all day just to see his face.

‎Which is why the look you were giving him now made his stomach drop straight through the floor.

‎He’d barely stepped through the door when you stiffened, nose scrunching like something had slapped you in the face.

‎You had jerked back so fast he thought he’d startled you.

‎“Bob,” you whispered, eyes wide, “you smell… sharp.”

‎“…Sharp?” he repeated, half-baffled, half-worried.

‎You nodded, bracing a hand on the counter like you needed grounding. “Like… bright. Too bright. It’s cutting the back of my nose.”

‎“It’s just residual jet fuel,” he murmured, trying to keep things light. “You’ve hugged me after flights before.” then mumbled with a small pout,  “...even said it smelled hot.”

‎“Not like this,” you breathed, shaking your head as if the very scent stung. “It’s everywhere. It feels like it’s… crawling.”

‎Bob felt something cold pinch the inside of his chest. You looked pale, off-balance, like your senses had turned against you.

‎“Hey,” he said softly, touching your arm with careful distance. “I’ll shower. Sit down, okay?”

‎You nodded, grateful and exhausted.

‎He cleaned up faster than he ever had in his life, scrubbing until he smelled like absolutely nothing. When he stepped out, wrapped in clean clothes and hope, he felt prepared.

‎Until he walked back into the living room and found you crouched by the door.

‎Sniffing his shoes.

‎“Sweetheart?” he asked, voice gentle as a hand on glass. “What’re you doing?”

‎You startled, cheeks heating up. “I just… wanted to see if it was the smell. Or me.”

‎“…By smelling my shoes?”

‎You nodded, looking embarrassingly earnest.

‎His confusion didn’t last. You looked tired. And overwhelmed. And a little scared of yourself.

‎He walked over slowly. “Does everything smell like that right now?”

‎“Not everything,” you muttered, pressing a hand to your forehead. “Just… you. And food. And soap. And coffee this morning? I almost gagged. I thought I was losing it.”

‎Bob’s heart twisted. He brushed his thumb across your cheek. “Let’s skip cooking. What sounds okay to you?”

‎You hesitated, guilt flickering in your eyes. “Nothing… normal.”

‎“Normal’s overrated,” he said. Quiet, certain.

‎You came back with tortillas, yogurt, and pickles.

‎He said nothing. Just watched the way your shoulders relaxed the second you tasted it, like your body finally eased up on its own war.

‎Bob sat beside you, steady and patient, his hand resting warm on your thigh.

‎“You’re not in trouble,” he said when he saw embarrassment flicker across your face. “You’re allowed to feel however you feel.”

‎You let out a weak laugh. “Even when I act like you’re a walking chemical spill?”

‎He shook his head, smiling softly. “Especially then.”

‎You leaned your head against his shoulder, your breathing slow and cautious but finally not strained.

‎Bob kissed the crown of your head.

‎Whatever was happening to you, he’d walk through it with you. Every odd craving. Every strange reaction. Every exhausted moment.

‎Even if you sniffed his shoes again tomorrow.

‎---

‎Third was… well, by then he knew something was up.

‎Never in his life had Bob done anything to deserve a tissue box thrown at him.

‎Yet here he was, ducking with a grace he didn’t know he possessed, as the plush rectangle sailed past his ear and smacked against the wall with a muffled thunk.

‎He barely had time to recover before the follow-up came: a sharp, precise kick aimed at his hip.

‎“Out!” the voice rang, soft but impossibly firm.

‎Bob stumbled back, rubbing his neck, eyes wide, mouth slightly open. “…Out?” he echoed, as if the concept itself was alien.

‎His wife-- gentle, sweet, usually the softest presence in the room-- was standing in the doorway, arms crossed, expression stormy but somehow still somehow luminous, like a thundercloud made of honey.

‎He blinked. “…For…?”

‎“You said I was fat,” you accused, voice trembling somewhere between mock outrage and actual indignation.

‎Bob’s jaw slackened. “…I-- no. I didn’t--”

‎“Liar!” you exclaimed, waving a finger like a conductor orchestrating a symphony of chaos. “You totally implied it! Your words are weapons, you know that?!”

‎He held up his hands slowly. “I… Bob Floyd, married to you, lover of chaos, appreciator of all things gentle… swear on everything I hold dear, I did not mean that.”

‎“Yeah? Well, intentions don’t matter!” you snapped, pointing at him like he was a trespasser in his own bedroom.

‎Bob froze, his mouth opening and closing like a fish. “No. That… that’s not what-- what I meant at all! I meant… light! Light, brightness, warmth! You fill a room like sunlight! Light of my life--”

‎“Light? Fill??” you echoed, voice trembling with a mix of laughter and faux outrage. “Oh, sure, Bob. You love me so much you just happen to describe me as… expanding? Overflowing?”

‎“I-- no! Not overflowing! Not full in that way! I’m trying to say… you make everything better. You’re amazing! I--”

“Out!”

‎Bob backed away slowly, rubbing the back of his neck, confusion thick in his chest. “Okay. Out…” He shuffled toward the hall, shoulders hunched, dog tilting its head like it was witnessing some strange new ritual.

‎This week… this week had been weird. Unusually weird. Not just the kicked-out-of-your-bedroom weird, but the kind of weird that prickled at his gut.

‎And he knew it.

‎---

‎Bob stands in the hallway with the same expression he uses when the coffee machine breaks: calm, resigned, and fully aware this is how he dies.

‎Phoenix is planted in front of him like a stone statue someone accidentally gave sentience to. Completely blank face. Not a flicker. In her hand, held out like a cursed artifact, is a pregnancy test. It’s one of those aggressively pink ones with a giant cartoon smiley face on the screen, like the plastic is more excited about this than either of them.

‎They stare. They stare longer. Bob feels his soul leave his body, come back, and then leave again.

‎He drags in a breath. “Do you want me to die?”

‎Her deadpan somehow gets even flatter, which he didn’t think was medically possible. She thrusts the test closer, as if he hadn’t already burned the sight of it into his retinas.

‎“So that’s a yes,” he mutters.

‎Her brows finally twitch, the slightest offended micro-flinch. “Why would you die?”

‎He winces.

‎“Because no matter how I open my mouth right now, it’s gonna sound like I implied she gained weight, I don’t want to get folded like laundry in my own home.”

‎"Why are you panicking?"

‎“Because my wife is gorgeous and powerful and capable of lifting me like a foldable chair, and I don’t want to provoke that power.”

‎Phoenix just keeps staring. Still offering the smiley-faced doom stick.

‎"Nat, I am serious. she’ll say ‘what did you mean by that,’ and I’ll die before I figure out an answer.”

‎“This is a normal conversation. You’re the only one having a meltdown.” she smirks, clearly enjoying.

‎Bob tries to look calm. Truly. He does his best impression of a functional adult as he takes the pregnancy test from Phoenix, nodding like this is a grocery receipt and not a potential life-altering prophecy.

‎He holds it delicately, like it’s a bird egg or a live grenade.

‎“Cool,” he says, voice cracking in a way he hopes she didn’t hear. “So… uh… we just wait, right? No big deal.”

‎Phoenix stares at him. The human embodiment of a flatline.

‎Bob inhales. Slow. Dramatic. “Because if it’s positive then… that’s… that’s a whole human. A human that’s half me.” His eyes go wide. “Phoenix, that’s a crime.”

‎She blinks once. “Calm down.”

‎“I am calm,” he says, absolutely not calm. His hands are shaking like he’s holding a squirrel that might bite. “I’m so calm I might throw up.”

‎Phoenix watches him come undone with the emotional support of a brick wall. “You’re sweating.”

‎“Because this is terrifying!” He gestures wildly with the test, immediately realizing he might disturb its cosmic forces and freezing in place. “Sorry. Sorry. Don’t move the magic stick. Got it.”

‎He sucks in a breath like he’s trying to inflate his own courage.

‎“If this is positive, then-- then there’s a baby. A baby, Phoenix. A baby with my genes. Do you know how irresponsible that sounds?”

‎Phoenix’s expression doesn’t change at all. “You’ll be fine.”

‎“No, no, those are the words people say right before someone passes out.” He presses a hand to his chest. “My heart is doing parkour.”

‎“Breathe,” she says.

‎“I am breathing! That’s the problem, I can hear it.”

‎Phoenix finally, mercifully, reaches out and steadies his wrist so he doesn’t fling the test across the room. “Bob. It’s just a test. Two minutes.”

‎He nods, then shakes his head, then nods again, looking like he’s rebooting.

‎“Two minutes. Okay. Yeah. I can do two minutes. I can be a parent for two minutes.”

‎She corrects him. “That’s not what I said.”

‎“I know,” he says, already pacing in a tight anxious circle, clutching the test like it’s the only thing keeping him tethered to Earth. “I’m spiraling. Just let me spiral with dignity.”

‎“You don’t have dignity.”

‎He stops. Squints at her. “That’s fair.”

‎---

‎Bob sits on the couch like someone propped him upright with broomsticks. Perfect posture. Eyes forward. Breathing shallow, like inhaling too hard might set you off.

‎In front of you both, the coffee table looks like a crime scene built out of snack food. Ice cream tubs sweating. Half-melted sundaes. Donuts. Chips. Something from Wendy’s that definitely wasn’t on the menu. It looks like Bob raided five stores, a gas station, and possibly a truck.

‎And right in the middle of it all, like Moses parting the edible Red Sea, sits that tiny pink pregnancy test.

‎Just existing. Haunting him. Mocking him.

‎The silence is suffocating. Well-- suffocating for him. You’re just staring at him with the expression of a woman prepared to commit violence with her bare hands.

‎Bob swallows. The sound is so loud it could be legally classified as a cry for help.

‎He coughs once, weakly, like he’s testing whether you’ll let him live. “So… uh… you okay?”

‎No reaction. Just those razor-sharp eyes, slicing through him like you're auditioning to be a guillotine.

‎He nods to himself. Stares forward again. “Cool. Cool-cool-cool.”

‎But his gaze keeps flicking toward the pink stick. Like it’s whispering to him. Like it’s telling him his life is over and diapers are expensive.

‎He finally caves. Slowly-- slowly-- he reaches for it, trying to slide it out of sight, out of mind, out of the universe. “Let’s… just put this away before it gives us both anxiety, yeah?” he whispers.

‎His fingers are an inch away when your hand shoots out.

‎You snatch the test with so much force he flinches like you just fired a weapon next to his ear. His soul leaves his body, returns, leaves again.

‎He recoils, rubbing the back of his neck, mortified. “Right. Yep. That’s yours. Sorry. My bad. I’ll just, uh… sit here and… stop touching things.”

‎He looks at you. Really looks.

‎You look furious. You look dangerous. You look like you might peel your husband like an apple.

‎And Bob, poor Bob, sitting among the ruins of a thousand calories, has the realization hit him again like a train:

‎All the mood swings. All the nausea. All the aggression.

‎He thought it might be a baby.

‎He thought you might be pregnant.

‎And judging by the way you’re staring at him, he absolutely should not have thought that.

‎He gives a tiny, strangled laugh. “I just-- I don’t know. You were… different. And I thought-- I thought maybe…” Another micro-flinch. “I wasn’t trying to say you were… y’know. Bigger. I love your body. All of it. Always. Forever. Please don’t kill me.”

‎You continue glaring.

‎He sinks two centimeters into the couch cushions.

‎“Cool,” he whispers hoarsely. “Loving this vibe. Totally calm.”

‎The test sits in your grip, pink, smug, and definitely about to ruin his life one way or another.

‎You stand up suddenly, pointing a finger right at Bob’s face like you’re about to assassinate his soul, your eyes blazing a little-- but there’s a tiny twitch at the corner of your mouth that betrays how ridiculous this all is.

‎Bob doesn’t flinch. He leans in just enough to meet your finger with a faint, adoring smile, letting it rest against his cheek. “Yes, ma’am,” he says softly, like a knight pledging allegiance. “Your majesty, I accept full responsibility for… literally everything.”

‎You hiss something incomprehensible, but he nods like he’s taking notes for future reference. “Uh-huh. Got it. Noted. I will never, ever, under any circumstance… forget this moment,” he murmurs, voice practically vibrating with affection and a dash of terror.

‎Then, as you turn to storm toward the bathroom, he carefully slides off the couch, following at a cautious, respectful distance.

‎He’d planted himself outside the bathroom like some loyal, malfunctioning security system. Arms crossed. Then uncrossed. Then crossed again because apparently that felt less stupid. His knee bounced so hard the hallway mirror vibrated, so he slapped a hand on it like “shh, don’t snitch.”

‎He tried to act casual. Casual, like a man who was not currently sweating through his shirt. He leaned on the wall. Immediately slipped a little because he forgot he’d just mopped yesterday. Straightened up like nothing happened. Cleared his throat for absolutely no reason. Then pretended to scroll his phone even though the screen was black because he hadn’t unlocked it.

‎At one point he crouched down to tie his shoe. He wasn’t wearing shoes.

‎He whispered to the door, “Take your time,” in the softest voice, and then added way too fast, “Not… too much time, but like, whatever time you need. No pressure. Zero pressure. Negative pressure. Vacuum.”

‎Silence.

‎He nodded to himself, pacing two steps left, two steps right, like a guard dog who read one too many self-help books about giving his partner space. And when he heard the faintest rustle inside the bathroom, he immediately froze in a pose that absolutely screamed I wasn’t listening through the door please ignore everything about me.

‎His heartbeat was doing drumline choreography. His face was lit up with that terrified-hoping-praying look he only ever got around her.

‎And still, he hovered. Trying so hard not to be in the way. Failing in the cutest way imaginable.

‎Bob had been “sweeping” the hallway for an hour-- or rather, standing there holding a broom like it was a piece of equipment he’d never been trained on. Every few seconds, he’d glance at the closed bedroom door, chest tight, mind running every possible scenario he didn’t want to think about.

‎When the door finally opened, you stepped out.

‎Your eyes were puffy, clearly from crying, but there was something calmer in your expression now-- like you’d finally stopped fighting some internal storm. That soft glow wasn’t dramatic or magical, just… you looking like someone who’d been through something heavy and decided to breathe again.

‎His whole body went still.

‎“Hey,” Bob said quietly. Not loud, not awkwardly high-- just that gentle, slightly nervous tone he always used when he wasn’t sure if everything was okay.

‎You gave him a small smile. The kind of smile that had made him fall for you the first time and every day since. Even now, with your face blotchy from tears, it hit him like a tidal wave.

‎Then, with a sniff and a shaky attempt at humor, you asked, “Do you… know how to deal with diapers?”

‎Bob blinked. Once. Twice.

‎He absolutely did not know how to deal with diapers. Or babies. Or… this. But he did what he always did when confronted with something terrifying-- he tried to give you a soft, steady presence, even if his insides were a mess.

‎“I-- uh… probably not,” he admitted with a little half-laugh, voice tight. He stepped closer, drawn in by instinct more than thought.

‎His mouth opened, but no words came out. You watched him closely, and he could see it-- that small flicker of worry in your eyes. Like you were bracing for disappointment. Like you thought maybe he didn’t want this. That he didn’t want you to go through this, or didn’t want the life it implied.

‎His face was frozen. His eyes full. His throat locked up.

‎And that silence-- that frozen moment-- made your expression fall.

‎But then you looked closer. Squinted a little. “Bob… are you crying?”

‎He swallowed hard. “No,” he whispered. But his voice cracked on the word, giving him away completely.

‎Before you could say anything else, he stepped forward and wrapped his arms around you, burying his face in your neck. Not a dramatic collapse-- just Bob holding on to you like you were the only stable thing in the world. His shoulders shook once, then again. Soft, quiet tears. Pure relief. Overwhelm. Hope.

‎You held him, your hand sliding into his hair, grounding him as he tried-- unsuccessfully-- to pull himself together.

“There, there Bob, I know diapers are expensive.”

‎After a long moment, he sniffed and pulled back, wiping at his eyes with the back of his wrist. They were a little red, a little puffy, but he didn’t try to hide it anymore.

‎“I’m happy,” he finally managed, breath trembling. “I’m really… really happy. I just--” He laughed weakly, embarrassment creeping in. “I genuinely have no idea what to do with diapers.”

‎It came out so honest, so Bob, that you couldn’t help it-- a soft laugh bubbled out of you, and he gave a shy, crooked smile at the sound.

‎You cupped his cheek, thumb brushing the dampness away. “We’ll figure it out,” you said gently.

‎Bob nodded, breathing out a shaky exhale, eyes still shining but finally calm. “Yeah,” he said, voice soft, warm, certain because you were certain. “Yeah… we will.”

‎---

‎The plan was adorable. The execution, in theory, foolproof.

Unfortunately, they forgot who their friends were.

‎Hangman’s living room looks suspiciously like someone let a hurricane loose in a cowboy boot store, but whatever, you and Bob step over the boots, the magazines, and the cat toys like you didn’t come here to drop life-altering news on six fully grown children.

‎You slide the little gift box across the coffee table with the kind of hopeful flourish that deserves a soundtrack. It’s cute, pastel, tied with a bow. The perfect “let them figure it out and cry” moment.

‎Hangman opens it, peers in, and you can actually see the exact second this goes off the rails.

‎“Oh my god,” he breathes, starry-eyed. “You two bought a romper… for my daughter.”

‎Your brows twitch. Bob’s soul visibly leaves his body.

‎His “daughter” leaps onto the couch, hissing like a demon in polyester. Hangman’s already scooping him up. “Look how cute she’s gonna be!” he announces, tugging the romper over one struggling paw. The cat yowls like she’s being drafted into the ninth circle of hell.

‎“My little angel hates clothes,” Hangman says proudly as the cat tries to bite his thumb off. “She gets that from me.”

‎Phoenix is in the corner, arms crossed, grinning like she already saw the ultrasound photos and helped name the baby. She catches your eye, gives you a tiny nod that says I told Bob first, fight me.

‎The rest of the squad?

‎Fanboy: scrolling on his phone.

‎Payback: trying to untangle something from his shoelace.

‎Rooster: filming Hangman losing a battle with his own pet.

Coyote slipped into the bathroom yawning.

‎None of them have the faintest clue.

‎Bob clears his throat, the picture of exhausted fatherhood before it’s even started. “So… we’re actually… expecting.”

‎Fanboy doesn’t look up. “Expecting what?”

‎You blink. Bob blinks. Phoenix chokes on her drink.

‎Rooster tosses a fry in his mouth. “Food delivery? Because I could eat.”

‎Hangman is still getting mauled. “Guys, focus. My cat is adorable.”

‎There’s a long beat where you and Bob just stare at them, this collection of aviators who could disarm a missile at Mach 2 but cannot, apparently, understand basic human communication.

‎Phoenix finally claps her hands. “Pregnant, you idiots. They’re pregnant.”

‎The room freezes.

‎".....Bob Floyd you did the do?!"

‎Coyote’s face, popping out from the bathroom, lit up like someone had shoved a firework in his chest. “Wait… we’re uncles now? Like, real uncles?!”

‎Fanboy practically vibrated with glee, bouncing in place. “Bob Floyd… you did it first! First to get married, first to bring a baby into the squad… I-- this is so amazing! I can’t even!”

‎Rooster’s eyes were sparkling. “We get to hold the baby? We get to spoil it? We get to be the fun ones before they ruin it with rules?!”

‎Hangman, still nursing his mangled hand from earlier chaos, shook his head, trying to stay composed, but there was a grin tugging at his mouth. “Congrats, man. And yeah… you’re officially the benchmark. The baby’s going to be ridiculously spoiled, thanks to us.”

‎Coyote hopped from one foot to the other. “Tiny little humans running around! And we’re the uncles! We get to teach them chaos and bad jokes!”

‎Fanboy leaned close to Bob, voice soft with awe, practically bouncing on his toes. “This baby is about to be loved into oblivion. Honestly, it should feel honored.”

‎Bob and you just exchanged a glance, deadpan smiles barely holding back laughter. The squad was already completely smitten. Every squeal, every flail, every wide-eyed squeaky declaration of uncle-dom was pure love, and somehow-- somehow-- it made your hearts feel bigger just watching them.

‎You and Bob share the same deadpan expression, the one that hides both homicidal urges and fierce affection for these morons you somehow consider friends.

‎It’s always a blast telling life-shattering news to people whose combined IQ flickers like a cheap bulb.

‎---

‎Bob was the kind of husband who, when you sent him out to buy pickles at 3 a.m., came back with two jars of pickles, a pack of Oreos, a bottle of sparkling water, and three different types of cheese-- just in case you “needed a snack.” He was a little extra, but in the best way.

‎And you? You were a hormonal disaster wrapped in a pregnant glow that, one minute, made you feel like a goddess and the next, like a potato in a tank top. The “glow” was… debatable.

‎“Bob, I feel so fat,” you said one morning, glaring at yourself in the bathroom mirror. Your bump had popped out like a volleyball, and it was a shock every time you looked down and realized it wasn’t going away.

‎Bob was sitting on the edge of the bed, his mouth full of cereal. He paused, looking over at you with an expression that said, I know better than to say anything dumb right now. He put his spoon down slowly, his eyes softening with affection.

‎“No, babe. You’re beautiful,” he said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

‎You glared at him, narrowing your eyes. “Don’t say that.”

‎Bob blinked. “What?”

‎“You just said I’m beautiful. Which means you’re admitting I’m fat.” You crossed your arms over your chest, frowning at him. You knew you were being irrational, but at that moment, it felt like the logical conclusion.

‎Bob’s eyes widened. “No, no, no! That’s not what I--” He scrambled up from the bed and started to wave his hands frantically in front of him. “You’re not fat, babe. You’re carrying our baby, you’re glowing, and--”

‎“Stop, Bob,” you groaned. “I know you’re trying to make me feel better, but now I just feel like a balloon with legs. I’m not glowing, I’m miserable.”

‎Bob sat beside you on the bed, his hand resting on your back. “Okay, okay. Let’s compromise. You’re beautiful in every way, and this baby bump? Totally worth it. You’re literally growing a person.”

And then cupping your face, pecking you lips once, “And I know I don't understand you sometimes, but I will spend eternity trying to figure you out.”

‎You turned to him, raising an eyebrow. “Are you trying to win points for being a good husband? Because you are. You’re doing it.”

‎Bob smiled, obviously relieved. “I just love you.”

‎---

‎It starts innocent. Sweet, even. You and Bob are curled up on the couch, his hand on your stomach like he’s trying to decode Morse code from a blueberry-sized human.

‎Then Bob says, “What about… Mabel?”

‎You blink at him like he’s suggested naming the kid after a defunct tractor brand.

‎“Mabel? Bob, that’s the name of a woman who knits angry scarves.”

‎He looks mildly offended. “You like old names.”

‎“Vintage names, baby. Not… dust.”

‎And just like that, war begins.

‎Phoenix is the first casualty, because she walks in at the wrong time and immediately gets conscripted.

‎“What about something strong,” she suggests, stealing Bob’s coffee and ignoring his wounded gasp. “Something with presence. Like… Zara. Or Nova. Or Clementine. Something that sounds like she could steal my lunch money.”

‎Bob nods thoughtfully. You shake your head violently. “I’m not naming my child after a fruit OR a car.”

‎Cue Fanboy bursting in like he was summoned by the stupidity. “Name it after something cool. Something legendary.”

‎“Absolutely not,” Bob says.

‎“You didn’t even hear my suggestion.”

‎“Because you,” Bob says, “are about to name my child after a spaceship.”

‎Fanboy’s offended. “It was going to be Millennium, thank you.”

‎Rooster strolls in next, eating from a bag of chips like this is his Roman colosseum entertainment. “I say name the baby after me.”

‎“No.”

‎He shrugs. “Just putting greatness on the table.”

‎Hangman swans in with his cat under one arm, already exhausted by everyone else’s mediocrity. “If you want a powerful name, you should obviously go with Jake.”

‎You throw a pillow at his head. “I wouldn’t even name my toaster Jake.”

‎Hangman gasps like you’ve stabbed his patriotic spirit. “You wound me.”

‎The cat hisses. Probably in agreement.

‎Bob puts a hand on your thigh, calm and gentle, like he’s trying to restore order in a collapsing kingdom. “What about something meaningful? Something that feels like us.”

‎You soften for a second. “Like… June?”

‎His whole face lights up. And then Phoenix ruins it.

‎“She’s not being born in June.”

‎“It’s a name, Natasha.”

‎Fanboy pipes up, “If we’re breaking rules, can we name her after months in Klingon?”

‎“No.”

‎Hangman adjusts his cat, who is glaring at all of humanity. “Look, if you two insist on being boring, at least let the rest of us throw in middle names.”

‎Everyone starts shouting suggestions.

‎Rooster: “Blaze.”

‎Fanboy: “Starfire.”

‎Phoenix: “Please stop.”

‎Hangman: “Denim. Or Wrangler.”

‎You stare at them like you’re witnessing the end of civilization.

‎Bob leans in, murmuring just loud enough for you to hear. “We’re picking it ourselves, right?”

‎Your hand finds his. “Absolutely. They’re banned.”

‎Hangman lifts his cat’s paw like he’s making him wave. “She’s offended she wasn’t chosen as godmother.”

‎The cat swipes at him.

‎“See?” you deadpan. “Even your cat says no.”

‎The arguing continues for another ten minutes before everyone realizes the two of you are ignoring them and whispering quietly to each other, tossing soft names back and forth, testing how they sound, how they feel, how they fit.

‎And despite the noise, the chaos, the absolute incompetence of your beloved friends, the two of you land on a few that make you both smile.

‎Something yours. Something gentle. Something that feels like home.

‎Of course, the squad still thinks it was their idea.

‎They’re wrong. Obviously.

‎---

‎Midnight cravings were a whole other disaster.

‎Bob was not a fan of the 2 a.m. kitchen raids, but he did them anyway. You’d waddle into the kitchen in the dark, the refrigerator light flicking on, and Bob would stumble in behind you like a loyal puppy.

‎“My world, you’ve got to stop eating in the middle of the night. You’re gonna give yourself indigestion.”

‎You, on the other hand, were a woman on a mission. “Bob, I need chocolate-- and don’t say anything about the Oreos. I already ate those, too.”

‎Bob sighed dramatically. “You’re gonna be the first pregnant person to have a heart attack from eating sugar.”

‎“You’re not my mom,” you shot back, grabbing a jar of Nutella and a spoon. “Mind your business.”

‎“I’m just saying--”

‎“You’re just too cute,” you interrupted, with Nutella smeared on your cheek. “What would I do without you?”

‎Bob smiled softly, like he didn’t even mind that you’d eaten an entire pint of ice cream, some gummy bears, and had almost finished off the Nutella. “You’d probably make a mess without me,” he said, reaching out to wipe the Nutella off your cheek. “But I’ve got your back.”

‎---

‎“Wake up, husband. I need your back right now.”

‎It’s 3:07 a.m.

‎The world is quiet. Peaceful.

‎Then you shake Bob awake like you’re trying to resuscitate a startled walrus.

‎“Bobby,” you whisper. “I need something.”

‎His eyes open instantly. The man thinks you’re in labor forty weeks early. “What? What’s wrong? Are you hurting? Is it the baby? Say words.”

‎“I need,” you say, with solemn importance, “a grilled cheese dipped in… mango pickle.”

‎Bob stares at you like the universe just asked him to solve quantum physics. “Mango. Pickle.”

‎“And grilled cheese. Together.” You nod. “Please Robert. I can feel it in my soul.”

‎He rubs his face with both hands, muttering something so husband-coded it might legally qualify as prayer. But he gets up. Because he loves you. And because he’s too tired to argue with a pregnant person radiating sacred cravings energy.

‎He shuffles to the kitchen, hair sticking up like a confused baby chick, and begins assembling culinary war crimes.

‎The moment the pan sizzles, someone knocks on the door.

‎Bob jumps like he wasn’t expecting visitors during his personal episode of Chopped: Pregnancy Edition.

‎He opens it to find Phoenix, holding a toolbox. “I smelled burning from next door. Thought you were dying.”

‎Behind her, Fanboy peeks in. “Is that… cheese? It’s 3 a.m.”

‎You appear in the hallway. “It’s not cheese. It’s destiny.”

‎Fanboy nods solemnly. “I get it.”

“You knocked-up too?”

‎Phoenix walks in, sees the mango pickle jar, and freezes. “Are you two… cooking a felony?”

‎Bob stands at the stove, flipping the sandwich with the precision of a man resigned to weirdness. “She wants it. I’m making it. Please don’t judge me.”

‎“You’re flipping it like it’s a bomb,” Phoenix says.

‎“Feels like one,” he mutters.

‎The squad trickles in because apparently none of them sleep like normal humans. Also, they live right next door. Rooster rubs his eyes. Payback yawns. Hangman arrives last, holding his grumpy cat like a hostage.

‎“What’s going on?” Hangman asks, already irritated. “I heard sizzling.”

‎Phoenix gestures at the pan. “Cravings.”

‎Hangman leans over Bob’s shoulder. “That smells awful.”

‎The cat hisses.

‎Rooster winces. “Dude, don’t give that to her. She’ll throw up on your shirt.”

‎You glare at him. “I won’t.”

‎Bob slides the monstrosity onto a plate. “Everyone stop talking. She’s happy and that’s what matters.”

‎Fanboy claps softly like Bob just performed a magic trick.

‎Bob walks it over to you with the devotion of a man delivering a royal offering. You take one bite.

‎The entire room watches.

‎Your eyes widen. “This is the greatest thing I’ve ever tasted.”

‎Bob sags against the counter, whispering, “Thank god.”

‎Hangman crosses his arms. “So are we all making you snacks at nightmare o’clock now?”

‎“No.” You smile smugly. “Just Bob.”

‎The squad collectively pats his shoulder like he’s been drafted.

‎Bob just smiles at you, tired and soft, his whole face saying he’d do it a thousand times if it meant you smiled like that again.

‎And for once, the squad doesn’t tease him.

‎Well… until Hangman mutters, “The baby's gonna have rotten tastebuds.”

‎The cat hisses at him.

‎Accurate.

‎---

‎Then there was the insomnia phase. It hit at around week 30. You couldn’t sleep to save your life, no matter what you tried. Not only did your body feel like it was carrying a small planet, but Bob also snored like a bear trapped in a cave.

‎You tried to ignore it at first, rolling over in bed to put your pillow over your ears. But that didn’t work. You tried nudging him to roll onto his side. That didn’t work either.

‎Finally, you gave up.

‎You shuffled out of bed, grabbing your pillow, and dragging yourself to the couch. It was going to be a long night.

‎But just as you settled in, hoping to catch at least a few hours of sleep, you heard it.

‎The sound of snoring-- louder, closer, and right in your ear.

‎You groaned and turned over, only to find Bob, with his eyes closed, his body curled around you. He had followed you out to the couch.

‎“Bob,” you muttered, half-amused, half-frustrated. “What are you doing here?”

‎He didn’t open his eyes, but his hand reached out to pull you closer. “I can’t sleep without you.”

‎You sighed, rolling your eyes, but honestly? It was kind of cute. Very cute. Your husband was the epitome of cute.

‎“Bob,” you grumbled again, but it was less of an argument and more of a why are you so perfect tone.

‎Bob let out a sleepy hum, nuzzling into your neck. “If you’re not sleeping, I’m not sleeping,” he mumbled.

‎And even though you were exhausted, even though he’d just invaded your personal space in the middle of your insomniac meltdown, you couldn’t help but smile. He was, in fact, the ultimate husband material.

---

Pregnancy hormones were like turning a dial labeled “mildly flirty” all the way up to feral chaos. One second you were normal, the next you were the apex predator of lust, eyes locking onto Bob like he owed her an apology and a blowjob.

Girls’ night out was supposed to be wholesome. It was not. You were a few weeks pregnant and acting like a Victorian heiress fainting on a sofa. Hand on your debatable "flat" stomach, you sighed loudly enough to be heard three tables over.

“The baby is craving a vacation in the south of France.”

Natalie tch'ed mid–lip gloss application. “You’ve been pregnant for five minutes. The only trip you’re taking is to the bathroom.”

“Oh?,” you said, sipping your drink like a queen with medical delusions. “I'll have you know, I don’t control the baby’s desires, Nat. If the fetus wants a beach villa and a man named Laurent bringing us pastries, who am I to interfere?”

Reuben’s girlfriend snorted so hard she almost inhaled her straw. “Girl, how are you pregnant already? It’s only been what? Half a year? You didn’t even try to run out your warranty.”

You sighed. “If my husband wasn’t so stupidly fuckable, I would not be in this biological hostage situation.”

All three girls exploded like feral parrots.

“Not Bob Floyd!” Natalie slapped the table. “He looks like he asks permission to breathe near you.”

The third girl, Esha chimed in, already a little tipsy. “No, he looks like he sets a timer during sex. Like, ‘uh oh sweetie, I’ve hit my thrust quota for the day.’”

The table roared. Actual shrieking. A waiter turned around like he was checking if someone needed emergency services.

You stared at them. Pleasantly. Smiling. Meanwhile, your soul was halfway to the moon.

Because the truth was sitting in your throat like a grenade:

Excuse me, my husband has a cute face, a killer fat cock, and eats me like he’s fulfilling a sacred oath. I am pregnant because he is dangerously good at what he does.

But instead you just said, with the politeness of a woman trying not to commit violence:

“Haha. Totally. Vanilla. Definitely not rearranging my spine. Sure.”

They kept giggling. You kept sipping. Your child, allegedly craving France, was probably already judging these women.

Finally, you rolled your eyes and muttered, “Sorry my husband is perfect. As if that’s my fault.”

Natalie waved a hand dramatically. “Whatever, you’re glowing. That’s how I know the sex is still good.”

“Trust me, if the glow ever fades, you’ll hear him crying first.” you smirked into your drink. “And good honestly, I’d hate for all his effort to go unappreciated.”

Natalie huffs. “See, this is why you’re the married one and I’m in situationships with men who fear soap.”

“My guy’s idea of effort is remembering which side of the bed is mine.” another chimed in.

You, shaking your head, picked up the menu and immediately frowned, like it had personally betrayed you. Your eyes darted across page after page, each dish a tiny assault on your already fragile pregnancy brain. “Why… why are there so many options?” you groaned, dragging a hand down your face.

Natalie peeked over your shoulder, trying not to grin. “Uh… it’s a menu? You know… food?”

“No, Natalie. It’s a test. A trap designed to see if I can survive adulthood and motherhood at the same time. Look at this! Pasta! Risotto! Tiny salads! Enchiladas! And what if the baby hates the wrong one?” You jabbed a finger at the menu as if stabbing it for being cruel.

Esha tried to intervene, giving a sympathetic shrug. “It’s literally just food, you know…”

Also, baby brain.

“Just food?!” you snapped, voice rising like you were addressing a jury. “Do you even see what’s happening here? Each choice is a commitment. Every wrong pick could result in permanent regret. Or-- worse-- the baby judging me silently while it’s still forming in my uterus!”

Rueben's girlfriend leaned in, wide-eyed. “Uh… maybe the baby will just… like food?”

“Oh no. It’s not that simple!” you gasped, grabbing the edge of the table for support. “If I choose the shrimp risotto, the baby could have preferred chicken! If I pick the chicken, the baby may secretly wish I’d ordered the pasta! There’s no winning, I tell you. None. Absolute chaos!”

Natalie snorted, covering her mouth to keep from laughing. “Okay… I have to say, I did not expect to witness this level of dramatic culinary panic.”

You threw your napkin down in defeat, exhaling a long, exaggerated sigh. “God, I’m so mad... I’m going home to touch my husband’s tits so I won’t be mad anymore.”

Cue eyes rolling back to their brains.

Your phone buzzed on the counter. You picked it up, saw the name, and a grin spread across your face.

“Ooooh, a pretty boy calling me,” you murmured, cheeks warming.

“Who’s thiiiis?” you say with a smirk, your voice teasing even over the phone.

“Hmm… could it be your devoted husband calling to remind you how much he misses you?” Bob’s voice is playful, but there’s a soft warmth underneath.

You giggle, tilting your head. “Oh really? Is that what you’re calling yourself now? Devoted, huh?”

“Absolutely,” he says, chuckling. “And very concerned about my gorgeous wife being out on her own. Are you being good?”

“Good?” you laugh, resting your belly against the couch. “Who do you think you’re talking to? I might be a little… mischievous.”

“Mischievous?” he repeats, mock horror in his tone. “I can’t have that. I might have to come collect my troublemaker myself.”

You hum, delighted. “Oh, I think you’d love that, wouldn’t you?”

“I’d love it more than anything,” he says, voice melting soft. “I miss you. I miss this-- hearing your voice, laughing with you, just… being you.”

“Hmm,” you sigh playfully, “you better hurry then, or I’ll have all the fun by myself.”

“Impossible,” he murmurs, a warm smile in his voice. “I’ll be there soon, and then all the fun will be ours. Count every second, m'love.”

You grin, feeling your heart swell. “I’m counting… and I’ll be waiting, hands and heart ready.”

Bob laughs softly, the kind that makes you feel safe and cherished. “That’s my girl. See you soon, my beautiful wife.”

“And you, my handsome, insufferably sweet husband,” you whisper before hanging up, already feeling him near.

You hang up, cheeks still warm from hearing Bob’s voice.

Your friends are frozen, deathpan, eyes barely twitching as they take you in.

“…So… we’re not enough for you anymore?” one murmurs, voice flat but just a touch heartbroken.

You giggle, leaning back and wiggling your fingers at them. “Oh, silly! You’ll always be enough. But… he’s just my perfect boy, okay?”

The twitch in their eyes grows just a little, betraying their amusement, and one of them huffs softly. “Absolutely disgusting.”

You laugh, pressing a hand to your belly, feeling all warm and fuzzy. “Disgusting? Girl, even talking to him isn't enough, I need to be inside his white blood cells and protect him.”

They groan in perfect unison, tiny smiles flickering, “Touch grass.”

You slam your hands on the table, making the cutlery rattle and your excitement practically vibrate through the room. “Touching grass isn't enough. I need to be fuckin' railed.”

The engine hums outside. You glance up-- Bob’s trusty navy blue truck.

You giggle, wave goodbye to your friends, and rise, swaying a little as you walk toward him.

He’s already out of the car, hurrying, eyes locked on you, a smile that melts you waiting at the curb.

You meet him halfway; he brushes a strand of hair from your face, you laugh softly, leaning into him.

From inside, your friends watch through the window, hands pressed to the glass, eyes wide, tiny twitches betraying their jealousy as they take in your perfectly lovey-dovey bubble.

“Absolutely unfair.”

“They’re literally showing off and it’s illegal.”

“Jealous doesn’t even start to cover it.”

---

You waddle inside, belly swaying slightly, the soft jingle of the front door announcing your arrival.

Bob follows behind, keys jingling in his hand, and the moment his eyes land on you… his grin brightens, then falters ever so slightly.

That look. The one that makes his heart skip and a warm, fluttery feeling spread through him. Playful. Mischievous. Softly dangerous in the most adorable way.

“Uh-oh,” he murmurs, his voice half-laugh, half-whisper. “What is my pretty wife plotting now?”

He can’t help it-- his grin grows, giddy and full of love, and he takes a small step closer, drawn to you like you’re the only thing in the room that matters.

Even just standing near you makes his chest feel too full, and he silently vows: no matter what she’s planning… he’s exactly where he wants to be.

Bob barely gets another breath out when your hand lifts, fingers hooking into the waistband of his pants with slow, intentional purpose.

He freezes. His smile flickers. His soul briefly leaves his body.

You look up at him with the most solemn, ceremonial expression known to man, like you’re about to pass down a royal verdict.

“Top me,” you declare, voice grave and steady. “I deserve it.”

It sounds less like a request and more like you’re announcing a sentence from the High Court of Horny Pregnant Wives.

Bob blinks once. Twice. His ears go pink.

“Sweetheart… you can’t just--”

But you’re still holding his waistband like it’s evidence.

And you look terrifyingly committed.

“I… I can’t dare,” he says, voice soft but firm. “There’s a bun in the oven, my love. That’s… that’s strictly off-limits territory.”

You tilt your head, eyes wide and soft, shimmering with a little pout. “Doesn’t my dark circles make me look… irresistible?” then with a offended gasp, “You’re telling me my exhaustion isn't attractive?”

He cups her face, looking into her eyes with all the warmth he feels. “Exhaustion? I don’t see it. I see the woman I love… more stunning than ever. Always.”

You giggle teethily, leaning into his touch, your belly brushing against him slightly, eyes wide and sparkling as you look up at him with all the adorableness in the world.

“Then fuck m--”

“Nope.”

“Come on, Bob… just a little…” you whisper, voice soft and teasing, tilting your head.

He freezes, his grin faltering as he sees that mischievous glint. “Absolutely not,” he says, voice firm but gentle, hands lingering on your sides. “It’s too… I don’t know, darling. Feels weird. And… the baby might be watching.”

Your expression freezes into a calm, terrifying stillness-- like a storm gathering. Bob swallows hard, already regretting ever thinking “no” was an option.

“Whatever… whatever my goddess wants,” he whispers, voice soft and shaky, eyes wide and full of helpless adoration.

You tilt your head slightly, letting the tiniest smirk play on your lips. His hands hover uncertainly, unsure whether to pull you close or just stay frozen, completely undone by your gaze.

“You’ve got me, haven’t you?” he murmurs, voice barely audible, like saying it aloud makes him even more vulnerable.

Your giggle is quiet but triumphant, brushing your belly lightly against him. His arms move almost automatically, wrapping you close, like a magnet drawn to your pull. Bob is utterly, hopelessly in love-- and completely yours.

Time passed, as it always does, and soon the chaos of bringing a tiny human into the world would test even the strongest hearts…

Your eyes flutter open, heavy with sleep and the haze of labor, only to catch the sight of Bob curled up beside you, his cheeks streaked with tears, shoulders shaking with quiet sobs.

He grips your hand like he’s afraid you might vanish, burying his face against it. “I… I can’t… we’re never doing this again!” he mutters dramatically, voice thick with emotion. “Never! You could’ve died! I-- God, I can’t… I can’t risk it ever again!”

You blink, still half-asleep, trying not to giggle at the sheer theatricality of him, the way he’s completely undone, completely vulnerable, and completely in love with you all at once.

“Pissing me the fuck off all by yourself, handsome?,” you whisper, squeezing his hand back gently, your lips twitching at his ridiculous, heart-melting panic.

Bob lets out a shaky laugh, burying his face in your hand again, whispering, “Never… never again,” though you know that in a week, he’ll be smitten and hopeless all over again.

Your gaze drifts lazily across the room, still heavy with exhaustion. On the other side, your dad leans in, gently handing you a cup of water. You manage a small, grateful smile as Bob hovers nearby, carefully helping you sit up.

A wince escapes you as your feet brush against the bed railing, and your dad immediately moves to the edge of the hospital bed, softly massaging them, as if trying to soothe every ache and worry away.

Bob instinctively leans closer to take over, hands hovering nervously, but your dad shoots him a sharp, almost-faulting glare, as if to say “this is your doing, young man.”

Your mom sits beside you, damp cloth in hand, gliding it gently over your sweaty forehead. Her voice is soft and steady, brimming with pride. “You did so well… so, so well,” she murmurs, brushing a stray hair from your face.

You close your eyes briefly, letting the mixture of care and love wash over you-- the quiet strength of your parents, the shaky devotion of your husband, and the overwhelming sense of everything they’ve all endured together.

“Look at those little hands! Already plotting world domination… or just snack time? Either works.”

Your eyes flutter open, heavy and hazy, and you take a slow, groggy blink. Across the room, a figure blocks part of your view-- Hangman, a little hunched over the crib, his hand in a cast from the labor chaos, but still smiling like nothing could bother him. Somehow, even injured, he radiates this strange, chaotic warmth.

A soft smile spreads across your lips, and you turn your head to Bob. “So… what did you name the baby?” you ask quietly, voice still thick with sleep.

Bob grins, brushing a stray hair from your forehead. “I named her Lila,” he says softly, pride and love threading through every syllable.

Your lips part, eyes lighting up. “A girl…” you whisper, the realization warm and strange all at once.

Bob nods, a mischievous glint flashing in his eyes. “Yep… and I named her all by myself. So you...” he smiles, “...can have all the fun naming the baby boy.”

Your heart stops. “Wait… baby boy?” you croak, eyes widening in shock.

Your gaze drops, and there it is-- Hangman standing carefully, cradling two babies in his arms. One sleeps peacefully, tiny chest rising and falling, while the other stares dead-on at Hangman’s face, eyes wide and unwavering.

Twins.

You blink, dumbfounded, then glance at Bob, who just smirks, shrugging like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Hangman, oblivious to the chaos he’s caused, gives a small, proud hum, adjusting the sleeping baby with one hand, the other still in a cast, but handling them both like it’s second nature.

Your lips curl into a mixture of awe, exhaustion, and laughter. “Twins,” you breathe, shaking your head, utterly overwhelmed, and secretly thrilled.

“Bob… I think the diaper budget just filed for bankruptcy.”

‎

✿

Taglist: @callmeshifty @ghostgirlwrites @dingochef @thecatwhosavedbooks @rhettabbotts-peach @lovesflourmorethananything @iristheplanet16 @ae-aeitch @strawberryloveyyy @imonabitchparade @multiplefandomwritings @sin-tax-errotic @kehelsi @rielee @thwippinharry @bvckysbvrness @parchmentmischief @harrisonknott

‎

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‎

He hesitated halfway across the sand, hands useless at his sides, heart beating so hard he could feel it in his throat. You noticed him just as he got close, and your eyes lifted to meet his, a little surprised.

“Hey,” he said, voice embarrassingly soft. “Uh… you okay?”

You gave a half-laugh, almost bashful.

“Yeah. Just fighting with the sunscreen.” You turned to glance at the bottle on the towel. “It seems to be winning.”

Bob glanced down at the bottle, then at your back — then away again quickly.

“Do you, um—” he rubbed the back of his neck — “want help?”

You blinked at him.

He hurried to clarify. “Only if you're comfortable with that! I just— you looked like you were having a hard time. And it’s important. You know. Sun protection.”

Your lips tugged up into a smile — small, but real. 

Bob thought his heart might just stop.

“I’d actually really appreciate that.”

You turned slightly, pulling your hair to one side again, exposing the curve of your back to him. He sat down carefully beside you. When you handed him the bottle, your fingers brushed his — barely — and that tiny touch sent a jolt straight through him.

He squeezed some lotion into his palm, trying to breathe through it, trying not to let his hands shake. You weren’t even looking at him anymore, just staring out at the water like you weren’t about to ruin him completely.

And then he touched you.

Warm skin. Soft. Smooth. Somehow even more overwhelming than he’d imagined — and he’d imagined it a lot. He tried to keep his touch clinical, detached, respectful. Just a helpful friend. But your breath hitched slightly when his hand moved between your shoulder blades, and he swore he felt that sound in every cell of his body.

“You okay?” he asked, voice rougher than he meant it to be.

“Mhm,” you said quietly. “Feels nice. Thank you.”

Bob tried to ignore your words. He tried to ignore how the knowledge of you enjoying his touch made his heart speed up.

He pulled his eyes away from your back, gazing out at the ocean as he continued to spread the lotion — trying to anchor his attention on anything other than the warmth of your skin beneath his hands.

When he was done, he handed the bottle back and looked like he was about to sprint off into the sea. But you touched his arm gently before he could.

“Thanks, Bob. Seriously.”

He nodded, voice almost gone. “Anytime.”

You hesitated for a second, then added, “You know… if you ever wanna sit with me instead of pretending you’re busy not looking, I wouldn’t mind.”

He froze. “I—I wasn’t—”

You raised a brow, teasing. “Bob.”

He gave a sheepish smile. “Okay. Noted.”

And then, like it was nothing, you patted the towel beside you. “C’mon. Sit. I’ll even return the favor later. Sunscreen's a two-way street.”

Some time had passed since you’d offered to return the favor. He hadn’t said no, but he also hadn’t given you an enthusiastic yes. Which was expected, of course—Bob always seemed on the shyer side. Maybe you touching his skin was too much. An overstep. But something told you that wasn’t the only reason.

The sun had shifted slightly overhead, warming the sand beneath you and painting everything in a golden glow. You sat side by side with Bob now, both of you half-watching the ocean, half-pretending not to sneak glances at each other every so often.

It was quieter now. The rest of the squad was still playing around by the water—yelling, laughing, tossing the football like it was a life-or-death mission. But here, on your shared towel, things had slowed down. It felt… easy.

Except for the fact that Bob was still wearing his T-shirt.

You noticed it when you leaned back on your elbows and stretched your legs out in front of you. His shoulders were still tucked beneath soft cotton, even though he’d started sweating a little—damp patches forming near the collar, sticking to his skin in places. He kept tugging at the hem absently, fingers brushing over the fabric like he was trying not to be in it and not be out of it at the same time.

You glanced over at him, letting the silence stretch before saying gently, “You know, you don’t have to keep the shirt on.”

His head snapped toward you like you’d just caught him with his hand in the cookie jar. “Oh, uh—yeah. I know. I just—” he rubbed at the back of his neck again, shy habit fully on display— “I burn easy.”

You gave him a knowing smile. “That’s what the sunscreen’s for.”

He chuckled, soft. “Touché.”

There was a beat of quiet before you added, even more gently, “I could help. If you want. I still have to repay you for earlier.”

Bob hesitated.

You didn’t push. You just looked back at the waves, giving him the space to decide. A few long moments passed—long enough for you to think maybe he’d decline—but then, slowly, you saw him tug the shirt over his head.

He didn’t look at you. Just folded the fabric and set it down beside him, arms tight to his sides like he wasn’t quite sure what to do with them now. His shoulders were a little hunched, like he was bracing himself for something. Judgment, maybe.

But all you saw was soft skin, a faint farmer’s tan, lean muscle across his back and arms. The kind of body that didn’t shout for attention but held quiet strength. Like everything else about Bob.

You reached for the bottle, your voice calm, reassuring. “Turn around a little?”

He did, slowly. Still not quite meeting your eyes.

You poured a bit of sunscreen into your hands, then placed them carefully on his back—and he flinched, just slightly.

“Sorry,” he mumbled.

“Don’t be,” you said quietly. “You’re okay.”

Your touch was gentle, slow. Spreading the lotion across his shoulders, the slope of his neck, down the planes of his back. He was warm beneath your hands, every muscle subtly tense like he was trying hard not to think too much.

“I’ve got you,” you said, barely above a whisper.

He exhaled—a breath he’d been holding for far too long.

When you were done, you gave his shoulder a soft pat, and he turned to look at you, shy and pink-cheeked, eyes searching yours like he was waiting for some kind of verdict.

You held his gaze.

“You know,” you said softly, “you’re really handsome.”

Bob blinked.

Then blinked again.

And then, slowly—so slowly—a smile spread across his face. One of those rare ones that made it all the way to his eyes.

“Thanks,” he said, voice small. “That, uh… means a lot. Coming from you.”

You smiled back. “Good. It was supposed to.”

Something had shifted in the air since that moment. Something you couldn’t quite name, but noticed anyway. When the rest of the crew came back from playing, Bob was still shirtless—which came as a surprise to some. You could tell by the looks on their faces. Phoenix gave you a particularly meaningful one. How’d you manage that? — that’s what her gaze asked. You merely shrugged.

And when Hangman opened his mouth to say something cocky, you just glared at him until he shut up.

The sun had started dipping lower, casting everything in that honey-colored light that made the ocean shimmer like glass. Most of the group had already started packing up — towels being shaken out, coolers being closed, sand sticking to everything.

You stood and stretched with a sigh, brushing your hands off on your legs.

“Think I’m gonna take one last dip before we head out,” you said casually, already stepping toward the water.

Bob looked up from where he was still seated on the towel. “Now?”

You shot him a teasing look over your shoulder. “It’s the best time. Come on. The water’s warm.”

He hesitated, of course. That was Bob. But then he stood, brushing sand off his shorts and pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose — only to remember he wasn’t wearing them, and sheepishly dropped his hand.

You grinned and walked into the surf, the water climbing up your calves, then your thighs, until you were waist-deep. The air was cooler now, but the ocean felt perfect. Gentle waves rocked against you, and you turned to see Bob following behind, arms slightly stiff at his sides, like he wasn’t sure where to put them.

“You okay?” you asked.

“Yeah,” he said, a little breathless. “Just… haven’t done this in a while.”

You smiled and floated back a little, letting the water carry you.

He stayed near, not quite close enough to touch, but definitely close enough to notice the way the droplets clung to your skin, the way your hair clung to your neck, the curve of your smile in the late sun.

You watched him with a soft kind of patience. “You always get this quiet when you're nervous?”

He blinked. “Am I nervous?”

You tilted your head. “You tell me.”

He didn’t answer right away. Just looked at you with those eyes — wide and thoughtful, always holding more than he ever let out. The waves lapped softly between you. You were the only two out here now, the beach slowly emptying behind you.

You drifted a little closer. “Bob?”

“Yeah?”

“You can kiss me, if you want.”

It came out like it had always been true — like you weren’t asking so much as offering something that was already his.

Bob swallowed, his voice barely a whisper. “Are you sure?”

You nodded, smiling gently. “I wouldn’t have said it if I wasn’t.”

And then — finally — he leaned in. His hand found your waist, light as air, grounding himself just enough to reach you. The kiss was hesitant at first, soft and cautious, like he didn’t want to spook the moment. But you leaned in too, lips brushing his, slow and steady — and that was all he needed.

It wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t fiery. It was honest. Warm, open, a little messy as the ocean shifted around you. His other hand came up to cradle the side of your face, thumb brushing lightly over your cheek, and your fingers found the edge of his jaw, anchoring him there with you.

When you finally pulled apart, you didn’t go far. Just rested your forehead against his, water moving around your legs, breath mixing in the space between you.

“You’re a good kisser,” you murmured.

Bob laughed — that quiet, surprised kind of laugh that meant he didn’t quite believe you, but he liked hearing it anyway.

“So are you,” he said, eyes still closed, voice full of something real.

You smiled and pressed another quick kiss to the corner of his mouth before pulling back.

“C’mon,” you said. “Let’s go before they leave without us.”

And when you gently grabbed his hand, softly tugging him through the waves and back onto shore, he let you. When you offered to share a towel to keep warm from your body heat, he accepted without hesitation. And when your head fell onto his shoulder as the two of you shared the backseat of Phoenix’s car, he let it happen.

It’s a truth you’ve been sitting with...quite literally...for over a month now. And you feel it every time you sit down. You’re fairly certain your cervix has filed a formal complaint, but honestly? You’re not mad about it. Not even a little.

What you and Bob have built is something intentional. From day one, the relationship grew from mutual respect and open communication. He’s always made it a priority to create a space where you felt safe, loved, and entirely in control of your pace.

When things started to shift and that door opened to something more physical, he was cautious. Gentle. Maybe even too gentle at first. But after a few rounds of encouragement, a lot of trust, and a mutual understanding of just how deep your connection ran, something clicked.

And now you see him differently. The quiet WSO with the glasses, the one everyone describes as shy and sweet? He is. But you also know the other side. The side that leaves you breathless, legs shaking, and avoiding hard chairs the next morning.

That delicious soreness, the aching waddle and slow sits? That’s not from leg day. That’s Bob. And, God help you, you’re addicted. So is he. He gets possessive in the best way, completely obsessed with the effect he has on you. He knows exactly what it means to be drunk in love, and he drinks deep.

Meanwhile, Natasha has been begging for a girls' day out. You met her early on and over time she’s become one of your closest friends. The kind who notices everything. So now, with her watching you move a little too gingerly across the room, you realize your secret might not stay secret much longer.

She grows concerned when you grip the edge of the table at brunch and take your time easing into your seat, practically wincing once you're finally settled.

"Okay, what the hell is going on with you?" Natasha asks, brows furrowed, eyes narrowing in on you like she's about to conduct an interrogation.

You wave her off, forcing a smile that probably isn’t as convincing as you hope. “Nothing. I’m fine. Just... sore.”

Her eyes narrow further. “Sore from what?”

You sip your mimosa like it’s a lifeline. “Pilates.”

“Pilates?” she repeats, like you’ve personally insulted her intelligence.

You nod, still refusing to meet her eyes. “Yeah. The reformer machine kicked my ass.”

There’s a beat of silence. Then she tilts her head, a slow, knowing smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. “Right. And I suppose the reformer machine also left that hickey on your collarbone?”

Your hand instinctively goes to your neck, like you might be able to erase the evidence through sheer will. “It’s a bruise.”

“Oh honey, I know a love bite when I see one.” She leans back in her chair, arms crossing, and now she’s positively smug. “You’ve been defiled.”

You groan and sink further into your seat. “Please don’t say defiled.”

“Ravished?”

“Worse.”

“Ruined?”

“Nat!”

She grins. “I knew it. That shy little WSO has a wild side.”

You cover your face with your hands, your cheeks burning. “Can we not do this here?”

But it’s too late. Natasha is beaming like she just cracked a top-secret code, and now brunch is going to be nothing but teasing, smirks, and far too many follow-up questions. You know she won’t let it go. Not when she’s this entertained. Not when you’re this clearly wrecked by the very man everyone assumes is too soft-spoken to even raise his voice, let alone...

Well. You shift uncomfortably in your seat and wince again.

Yeah. She’s definitely not letting it go.

Natasha doesn’t let up, naturally. She picks at her fruit cup with her fork like she’s got all the time in the world, eyes still glued to you like you're her personal soap opera.

“So,” she says, dragging out the word. “Do we need to get you a donut pillow? Or maybe just ban you from hardwood chairs entirely?”

You give her a flat look, cheeks still warm. “I hate you.”

“You don’t. You love me. Especially when I’m right.” She leans in, eyes glittering. “Come on. How bad are we talking?”

You hesitate, toying with your napkin. “It’s... not bad. Just... sore.”

She cocks an eyebrow. “Sore how?”

You glance around to make sure no one at the next table is listening. Then you sigh, resigning yourself to the conversation you clearly aren’t escaping. “Like... the next day. That’s when it hits. I’m usually fine in the moment, obviously, but then I wake up and I’m like—Jesus.”

Nat’s mouth drops open, then curls into a grin so wicked it could qualify as a felony. “Oh. So Bob really is a menace.”

You shrug helplessly. “A respectful, communicative menace. Who always checks in and makes sure I’m good. But yes. A menace.”

She lets out a low whistle. “Remind me never to underestimate a man with glasses ever again.”

You chuckle despite yourself, sinking further into your seat. “It’s like... I don’t even know how he pulls it off. He’s so sweet. But then we’re alone, and something just... shifts. And I swear, I see God. Then the next day, I need Advil to make it through brushing my teeth.”

Natasha nearly spits out her coffee. “Oh my God. You’re wrecked. You’re so far gone.”

You cover your face with both hands again. “I really am.”

And you are. Utterly. Completely. Sore and stupid in love. And as embarrassing as brunch just became, part of you kind of loves that someone else finally knows. Because when it comes to Bob, you’re done pretending like this isn’t the real deal. Even if you do need to invest in comfier chairs.

The gym is alive with post-flight energy—grunts, sneakers squeaking on the mats, weights slamming down just a little too dramatically. Fanboy and Bob are finishing up a circuit while Natasha wipes down a bench, casually eavesdropping with the precision of a sniper.

“You good?” Fanboy asks, stretching out his shoulders. “You made that last set sound like you were dying.”

Bob shakes out his arms, breathing steady. “Just working through some soreness.”

That’s when Natasha, ever so casually, decides to stir the pot.

“Soreness?” she says, leaning one hip against the bench and raising an eyebrow. “Please. You weren’t nearly as vocal as your girl was after your last night together.”

Bob doesn’t miss a beat. He grabs his water bottle, takes a slow sip, and glances up at her with a smug little smirk.

He knew. Of course he knew. You’d told him all about your little brunch debrief with Natasha—face in your hands, voice muffled with secondhand embarrassment as you recounted the moment she connected the dots. He just laughed. Not out of surprise, but pride. Like her catching on was inevitable, and honestly? A little overdue.

Now, with Natasha grinning at him like a cat who cornered a mouse, Bob just looks entirely unbothered. Amused, even.

She could barely sit,” Natasha adds to Fanboy, eyes gleaming. “I thought she was going to slide off the booth at brunch.”

Fanboy freezes mid-stretch. “Wait. What?”

Natasha turns toward him, grinning like she just won the lottery. “Tried to play it off like it was from Pilates. But between the limp and the bruises on her neck? Please.”

Bob lets out a quiet laugh, tossing his towel over his shoulder. “She’s a trooper.”

Fanboy’s jaw drops. “You’re telling me Bob Floyd is out here…what…breaking backs and walking away like it’s nothing?”

Bob just shrugs, smile lazy. “Gotta give her something to think about.”

Natasha blinks. Once. Twice.

Mouth opens—then closes.

For the first time in probably ever, she’s too stunned to speak. She just stares at him, trying to reconcile the soft-spoken, rule-following WSO she’s flown with for years… with this version of Bob. The one who clearly knows exactly what he’s doing—and is damn proud of it.

Fanboy looks between them, eyes wide. “Did you just break Phoenix?”

Bob picks up his weights again, that smirk still tugging at his mouth. “Maybe.”

Fanboy whistles low, still catching his breath. “Man, I don’t think I’ll ever be able to look at you the same way again.”

Bob leans back against the bench, smirking. “Sitting’s overrated anyway. I’m more of a ‘stay horizontal’ kind of guy.”

Fanboy bursts out laughing. “You’re a menace.”

With a past like his, he claimed to himself that he'd never be able to stumble upon someone like you. The moments where his clothes felt too tightly wrapped around him, debilitating even. The days where getting out of bed was the biggest chore, and he felt like a disappointment not proving that things were getting better.

But they were.

And you always reminded him.

You never looked at him differently, never swore him off as a burden or something else to store in a box under your bed. He was just.. him.

He didn't come with a manual that told you how to fix him, you just cared. You listened. You stayed.

And when he realized that it ran deep through your bones, the domesticity of just choosing him, he let you in.

A click like everything had finally aligned, when his fingertips brushed yours along missions and days spent in safe houses as he guarded you with silent protection and lingered with surveillance at galas that had you pondering why every man had glanced and walked further away instead of coming forward to talk.

Nothing bordered on the edges of solely friendship anymore.

You began to say you were just unapproachable. But he changed that, too, appearing instead confidently by your side no matter what Valentina had to say; she knew better than to pry anyways, and stuck her dirty hands elsewhere than in your business.

So he sucked it up and asked you on an official date. Bouquet in hand, a play-it-cool smile stuck on his lips as he ran his hand through his hair to calm himself down. You had never said yes to anything faster.

The headlines did justice when the time came, whether you wanted them to or not- but what you shared was private. You kept it like a hidden secret, only opened when the two of you engulfed each other. You didn't do it for the audience, hell you didn't even hold hands outside of the tower when the cameras flashed and the people yelled.

It was displayed in the shared mornings and late nights. A chemical reaction of natural tendencies and the act of two people loving each other, damned til the end of time.

And with time, so came the other stuff. The longing. The yearning. The way his touch set you on fire, like a match to a flame whenever he lingered and his breath fanned overwhelmingly over your lips. It was addictive. It was passionate. It was absolutely everything.

It wasn't a plaything. It was pleasure. Connection. The highest form of getting to know one another, be attached, close, merged in ways that spoke of everything words couldn't.

With love came worship. With worship came the nights of countless hours of you beneath him, like a push and pull of bodies. It was easy- like inhaling oxygen. He was your oxygen- he surrounded you, deeply, wholly.

Bob wasn't a fan of anything quick and easy, not when he had you at his very fingertips. It wasn't a lousy hookup of bad decisions when his mind fluttered in ecstasy and temporary pleasure to pass the bad days.

It wasn't something to put off until the time came where he craved some sort of human connection again. This was pure. A tremble in his hand and a shaky exhale kind of pure.

From stolen glances to hands grazing, soon lips crashed, saliva stuck to the corners of mouths and teeth clashed one another like they finally found salvation.

And with that came everlasting trust. And.. the eventual loss of condoms. Birth control was a must. You never had a full conversation, but mutual understanding of stances that came to something further.

Take your time. Don't rush. You had the time. You didn't need to rush this.

When he trailed low and explored you like a map he was carefully putting together, mesmerized by you. Every shape and form, the mold of you together when he gave into the strong seduction of your eyes and the admiration in his turned hungrily into more.

Intently, shamelessly grappling onto you like a lifeform, cradled in your touch, scent, god it was absolutely everything to a man who once had nothing.

Sweat beading down foreheads, sticking to each other while the room began to steam and soon the lingering of sex filled it like a plea, or a promise.

Every night spent in each other's arms was almost routine, giggles and the tangling of limbs when it was over, the pillow talk and gentle succumbing of sleep laced in with the other to their side like a pillow.

The routine was paused when Bob had been selected to go on cross-country missions that required selective effort of his talents. Handpicked, given a chance to shine. You encouraged him to take it. And as he put it, to his unfortunate sake, he did.

Of course he knew it was the right thing, still, he nonetheless missed you.

Bob had left in the early morning, quiet while he sneaked out as the sun raised slowly over the horizon. He was efficient; got most of his stuff packed the night before except for his toothbrush and things like the crewneck he wore plainly, full of tears and how it looked worn from the cuffs becoming less like cuffs and more like loose strands of fabric. It unfurled, showing the beauty and reminding him of all the moments spent with you while wearing it.

That's why he knew he had to be quiet. Although you always told him he wouldn't be a burden if he did wake you, you even asked him to shake you til your eyes eventually fluttered open before he left at times, he still couldn't find himself poking the part of him to purposefully drift you away from your cozied form without the guilt.

Your legs curled into where he used to lay beside you, twitching underneath the blankets like they were hoping they'd eventually find him again, missing the natural warmth of his body. The rest of you was peaceful. Hands on his waist replaced with a cheeky pillow, face delicately displayed as though you had no worries- and in sleep, you didn't, comfortably beside your boyfriend.

Since sleeping together, you found yourself having the sweetest of dreams- whether it be cute dates or wet dreams, they always travelled back to him. No more fights. No more blood. Curling of fists and the raised voices of men unfamiliar and dangerous. Just Bob flying around every inch of your mind that put an unconscious smile on your face that made him smitten in return.

The little moments like these were the ones that made Bob even more desperate to come home, or to not even leave at all. He'd rather pull the blanket back and slide right in against you like he had never moved, cancel this four-day wreck of info and poorly planned mission put together.

He sighed out into the quiet of the room, capturing you with his eyes one more time to ingrain it in his memory before sourly walking out to join Walker and Ava on the quinjet.

He left you a note like always, one that was rushed but always thoroughly detailed like it didn't matter if he would've been late because of it. In all honestly, he would've taken a lecture for his untimely departure because this was much more important than any sort of data and fighting. It spoke of how he missed you dearly, affirmations and cute reminders that he signed off on with a doodle that made you giggle- he swore he could hear it across the span you two were apart.

A day had passed since his departure, leaving you alone on somewhat of a vacation that came of weirdly timed sickness and tiredness that almost truly made Bob drop the mission entirely, but your begging made him reconsider, just this once- he felt something wrong, but he'd never say that.

For the fact that it would freak you out, and he didn't want to put more stress on top of the distance and your groans from the past couple of days. He wanted you easily relaxed even though he couldn't be there, only thinking of him arriving back. Was it selfish? Maybe. But did he want the love of his life focusing on anything but herself? No. Especially not when something was creeping beneath the surface yet to be revealed.

The bed sheets weren't in knots like they usually were. Instead left cold, hands reaching for someone who wasn't there while moaning into the balled fists of your hands at the realization of absence.

"Bob" you croaked out, like he'd suddenly appear at the flick of your fingers if he heard your voice. Which, frankly, he would've if he had known.

With resentment you rose, muscles slow and weirdly aching in a way that should've been familiar when sore, yet no reason to feel such a way when you hadn't entered the gym in a good week.

You groaned when the shower curtain creaked open, the door weirdly annoying as you entered, immediately softened by the warm sprinkles of water drenching you. The room steamed easily, humming in the way you felt like everything from aches and sudden exhaustion left your body temporarily, only to be met with the contrast of the cold room outside of it and the symptoms coming back all the same.

Finally, you got dressed, opting for one of Bob's larger hoodies and your comfiest pair of sweatpants known to man you wore on days they deemed fit.

You made your way to the kitchen, seeing Yelena had already made breakfast consisting of toast slobbered in handfuls of butter and scrambled eggs with sausages to the side arranged for pick-up.

You scoop them onto a plate, hitting her with a thank you before plopping down into the seat beside her.

"You look pale" she comments with a perked brow. You ease your fork away from your mouth at the sudden conversation starter that definitely everyone started with at seven in the morning.

"pale?" You ask, now looking back at her with a confused face.

"Up by the bathroom sink all night and clinging to your bed while drenched in sweat pale- a little too pale..."

She stares, examining your form and taking in your seated stance. You straighten yourself up at that.

"Like a.. sick kind of pale- but not bad sick, just.. weird."

You only gaze at her as you chomp down on your food, wondering what else to say as she narrows her eyes down on you, like she's trying to catch you in a lie or you're her next target. Both are scary options.

The second the taste lands on your tongue, it's fine... at first.

Then the aftertaste.

It's absolutely revolting- and suddenly, you're rushing for the sink to empty your stomach of the one bite and whatever you ate the night before.

You're so dizzy you don't notice Yelena's already holding your hair away from your face, urging a cup of water for you to get the sickly taste out of your mouth and breathe a couple of times before insisting you're okay.

"You're definitely not okay." She rubs your back as more spills out of you, but the relief that comes quickly after is met with a pleasant sigh as you lean into the hands gripping onto the edge of the sink.

You can already tell a headache will be there later, but you're too busy trying to think just what could've elicited your stomach to be so upset with you over a breakfast you love routinely.

When you finally get up, Yelena's biting her cheek with a look that makes you nervous all the same, wondering what conclusion she's drawn up in her head.

"I- I think I know what it might be.." she states quietly. Almost regretful.

You find yourself sitting on the lid of your toilet not even ten minutes later, setting a timer, hands fidgety and leg bouncing as you await the pregnancy test that both of you have got your eyes on, though you look away from time to time.

The seconds passed sourly, every tick tempting and a tease to whatever results were under the stick.

Your mind is running rampant. Pregnant. The word echoes, good or bad you can't tell. Both scares you now. Every little thing that comes with it. The details. The bump. The care. A human life in your arms with Bob. Three and a half years towards a relationship- he wouldn't regret this... right?

"Yelena- oh fuck, I can't do it"

"Me?-"

"Please. I beg you."

She gulped, hand reaching towards the stick and clasping it with slightly shaky hands like the weight of it affected her, too.

"oh my god" she turned it over as you muttered anxiously, breath stuttering as you took in her facial expressions.

The drop in her half-smile half-fake reassurance to keep you both intact. The slack of her jaw. The stillness to her bouncy stature.

Clear red lines staring back at her wide eyes, drawing back to you then to the test again like she was making sure it was real.

"It's-

"I know," you whispered. "I know.."

Each individual finger on your hand trembled, and whether the ache in the pit of your stomach was concern or something else entirely, you couldn't differentiate.

You should've known. Period.. your period last month- you had it, then it just never came. It was late. Accidentally going off on Bob for folding a shirt a clumsy way, or putting his feet up on the coffee table, which had never even stumbled into your head before.

Since finding out the truth, you had been stuck in limbo. Between the constant shock and the conscious opening in your brain that you were sharing a life with Bob- growing a mini you, right now, in some way.

Would he be mad? Grateful? Disappointed?

You knew Bob like the back of your hand. You knew he wouldn't be anything but worried for you, yet you couldn't stop telling yourself the opposite.

The day ahead wasn't very kind either. Your mind was racing with possibilities, and still Yelena was the only one to know the truth about your delicate secret.

You began days off-settled when you stumbled into the bathroom counter loosely, lousy, like a punishment to yourself of how hopeless you had become in just a few hours.

You wanted to call- say something, anything, a hint or a clue. But you didn't. Not yet.

Everything was steady. Was.

His powers had finally been on track to become greater than what he used to stress himself to bed about, freely taking the reign and advantage of the Sentry side of his serum effects. Days spent training made him gain muscle in places that didn't have the sturdy outline til now.

Regardless of what he was doing to his body, you kissed it all the same. Skinny? You shamelessly stared him down, letting him witness how bad you truly wanted him. Lean? His freckles still littered his body all the same, looking back at you teasingly, anticipating your next move. Now a little built, not exactly muscular, but enough to see the strain against shirts just in the slightest? You praised him, again, and again, and again.

Because Bob was Bob. And he was finally in the place he wanted to be in when you had first met the shy, timid man who had snuck from the capsule that kept him in that damned one-of-a-kind furnace contraption.

When everything was going good, there came an obstacle. An anomaly in progress. You held your stomach like it was foreign.

He came back abruptly that night. Something about finishing early and great teamwork. You greeted him, hugged him all the same. Those sweet words uttered out into his ears, the relief of him being safely escorted back to your side.

Yet, everything felt different. Like while he was away, a piece had snapped off the once completed puzzle and now there was a hole.

He trusted you- that's why he knew it wasn't a someone, but a something. You both didn't have time to be doting onto random strangers, especially since he knew your homebody tendencies. That made him snort to himself.

Though the distance you had accidentally formed between the two of you didn't help. You were slipping, and fast. When the tears poked at your eyes and you turned the bathroom light on, flicking the fan as a decoy. He could sense the stutter of your soul.

He tried not to, he really did. But he couldn't help himself in taking a peak inside of you.

His eyes rimmed with the brightness of gold, unintentional abilities coming to life in the literal blink of an eye to hear your elevated heartbeat and the harsh breathing patterns that occupied you, sending rapid shivers down your spine. Sore, soft and weirdly gentle, everything within you sent warning signs blaring towards him.

He nearly barreled himself toward you, resisting plowing into the door in an attempt to rescue what he was missing, but ended up knocking anyways to preserve the last of your privacy he left for you to voice to him.

"Everything alright, baby?" He held back a stutter, a habit grown on him when exceedingly nervous. He wanted to seem strong. Able to help. Because he didn't know what the problem was- only that maybe this would be able to fix it.

"Y-yeah" muffled, he heard the jitter in the facade.

And before he could say anything else, he felt it.

Something sickening in the air, sweet? Soothing? Whatever it was, It wasn't you. Whatever he sensed was off, and it was in that bathroom alongside you.

"I'm coming in" he'd decided, just this once it was needed.

Sentry didn't come with an off-switch. Every sense of his was suddenly very enhanced. Sensitive, almost shiveringly delicate like it was hitting his nerves and setting off alarm systems.

A faint, terribly dull sound of a second pulse. It wasn't yours-

Wasn't his.

And while sobs racked your body with the same realization, you handed him the stick with the clear red lines plastered on the front.

Pregnant.

Real.

The proof was right in front of him. He went still, for a solid second. Frozen, every muscle attempting to pull him out of the shock. And he fought, too, alongside you when he fell to the floor to hoist you into his chest, rubbing the expanse of your back while gently shushing you and helping you calm your erratic nerves down.

He looks at you. To your hands. The lines. Rubs some more.

"Let's get you somewhere more comfortable, please?" He begs, helping to lift your heaving self back into the dimmed room.

He lays you down on the bed gently, like a delicacy awaiting to be unwrapped. But you're not just a present, something to be eye candy. No, never, he's running his hand down your body with a look in his eyes. Like now that he's aware, he's had more urgency. He wants to solve you and your problems, be with you through all of it.

You'd say they're darkened, but with the shining of gold still present, they're anything but. You can't see inside his head, but if you could, you'd find the abundance of a picture laid out on a platter. You, Him, and the coos from a child in your shared arms. It flipped a switch in him. More so Sentry than Bob. The urge to protect. The urge to do every single thing for you so that you'd have the easiest time nurturing what was made in a night of passion.

That if anyone made you uncomfortable, or touched you wrongly, he'd have their head in no time.

"My little star. My own in a sea of galaxies. All because of you." He looks up at you while mumbling it, now soothing circles over a hardly-there bump.

"You've brought me.. something I never thought would set me aflame so vividly-" and suddenly, a tear was sliding down his cheek and his eyes dulled into Bob's soft, cozied look.

He was ecstatic. He wasn't showing it at the moment, but the way his breathing stilled and he felt you up, you could almost see into his head.

"Are.. are you mad?" Almost a whisper, but he's catching it immediately.

"No- god no, baby, are you crazy?" he reassures, but you glare back unknowingly.

"I- ...I'm shocked, yes. But no way in hell would I ever be mad- are you okay? Sick?"

"A little" it comes out weak, and a little pitiful. He doesn't care.

"Are you okay with all this?"

"I don't know if I'm ready-"

"neither do I- not to, um, not to discourage from you.. but when I say I really don't know what we're getting into, I mean it" you giggle lightly at that, and it makes his heart pick up like it's the first time he's looked at a pretty girl and now has butterflies.

"I just.. wanted to be good. For them. Want them to know their loved."

He grabs your hand, interlocking yours with his. "We'll do everything we possibly can. I promise" before giving you a pause to reply, he goes on,

"Would you.. would you be mad if they grew up to be like me?" It was shy, almost embarrassingly admitted to you in the shadow that loomed above him.

"Bob.."

"The good days, the bad- if they were like me-"

"I'd love them all the same." His ears perked, and a rosy tint landed on his cheeks. The warmth of it all encapsulated the two of you, stuck in the precious offering of a moment.

"There's nothing in this universe that could ever, ever pull me away from you, or the child- powers, no powers. You're it for me Bob. And they're going to be ours."

"Our little creation.." he huffed with a laugh and a soft sob, cracking under both relief and the thought of what was to come.

"Do you think I'll be a good father?" He said it innocently, like the words would crack and crumble beneath him all the same. Like he was looking back at himself in those footsteps.

"I know I can't say the words and everything will magically turn out okay- but I know this, for sure, that you are not anything like the people who raised you. You are love, and joy, and excruciatingly kinder than anyone else I've had the pleasure of placing my love on to."

You heard another sniffle, more pronounced, eyelashes starting to wet from the fresh tears stumbling down his cheeks.

"Thank you," he muttered, cupping your cheeks with his calloused hands and pressing your forehead to his.

"God I love you- what would I do without you. And now.. now I have them too. I'm the luckiest man alive" he laughed, sniffing before more beaded down, now cascading onto yours from the proximity.

"Yeah?" You nodded, echoing the same wide grin spanning across the juncture of his face.

"Yeah."