People drifted from booth to booth at an unhurried pace, paper bags brushing against their legs, the hum of conversation blending with distant music and the occasional bark of a vendor calling out a deal. The air smelled warm and sweet, bread baking somewhere nearby, fruit cut open and exposed to the sun. Yelena slowed slightly as she walked, lifting her drink and turning it in her hand like she expected it to do something unexpected.

“I do not hate it,” she said after another sip. “But it is very… pink.”

Bob glanced at the cup. The foam clung stubbornly to the lid, pale and glossy. “What is it?”

“Strawberry matcha,” she said, clearly still deciding how she felt about that. “I am trying a new thing every morning.”

He nodded, listening, fingers curled around his own cup. Tea. Plain black tea. Enough sugar stirred in that it had taken him an extra few seconds to dissolve it all. He took a sip and let out a quiet breath through his nose, shoulders easing.

“That one’s good?” Yelena asked.

“It tastes the same every time,” he said.

She snorted. “Boring.”

“Reliable.”

That earned him a laugh, sharp and amused, and she bumped her shoulder into his as they continued down the street.

They did not get very far before a little girl suddenly broke away from her mother in front of them, sneakers slapping against the pavement as she ran toward the pair, her backpack bouncing wildly behind her.

“Are you really you?” the girl asked, skidding to a stop in front of Yelena.

Yelena stopped immediately, crouching down so they were eye level, her expression bright and open. “I am really me,” she said. “You run very fast!”

The girl beamed, chest puffing with pride. Her mother hurried over moments later, already apologizing, but Yelena waved it off easily, chatting like she had all the time in the world. Bob stepped slightly aside, giving them space, hands tucked around his cup. Another child waved at him from behind a stroller and he lifted his hand in return, smile small but genuine. He will truly never get used to being so…In the public eye? If you could call it that. He wondered if the hype around him would die down soon.

The sounds of the market pressed in around him as he waited for Yelena. Voices overlapped, laughter rising and falling in waves. Somewhere nearby, something clinked rhythmically against glass. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other and let his gaze wander without much intention.

That was when he saw her.

She stood at a small booth draped in linen, rows of honey jars catching the light and glowing amber and gold. An old woman with silver hair braided loosely down her back was speaking animatedly, her hands moving as she talked. The girl across from her leaned forward, elbows resting on the table, fully engaged. Then she laughed. It was not quiet. It was not restrained. It spilled out of her easily, bright and unguarded, carrying over the noise of the market. Someone else added onto the conversation and she laughed again, head tipping back slightly, smile wide and effortless.

Bob stopped every movement without realizing it. His attention stayed fixed on her as she reached for a jar of honey, turning it slowly in her hands, reading the label while the woman continued talking. She nodded along, responding easily, clearly enjoying herself. Bob watched her pull out cash, watched her thank the woman with warmth that felt genuine, watched her step away from the booth still smiling to herself.

“Bob.”

Yelena’s voice reaches him, but it barely lands. It blends into the noise of the market, into the chatter and movement and music, and slips right past him without sticking.

She says his name again, closer this time, stepping back into his space.

“Bob.”

He does not answer. His posture has gone oddly still, shoulders set, cup hanging loosely in his hand as he watches her move away from the honey booth. She pauses at the next stand, glancing down at something laid out on the table, attention caught again so easily. The smile lingers on her face like it has nowhere else to be. Yelena watches him for a moment, head tilting slightly.

“Bob,” she says again, sharper now. When that still does not work, she sighs and adds, “The Hulk is behind you. He is very angry. He is destroying the market!”

That finally gets a reaction. Bob blinks, like someone waking up too quickly, and turns just enough for Yelena to follow the direction of his gaze. She looks past him, down the row of booths, and spots the girl immediately.

“Oh,” Yelena says. Then she straightens a little, eyes narrowing with interest. “Oh!”

Bob realizes too late that he has been caught. He shifts his weight, grip tightening around his cup, shoulders pulling in like he wants to make himself smaller.

“I was not staring,” he says quickly, like he already knows what she’s about to say.

Yelena does not bother pretending to believe him. She steps closer and elbows him firmly in the side.

“If you keep staring like that, you will get arrested,” she says.

“I was just looking,” he insists, staring very hard at a completely different booth now.

“At her,” Yelena says, still looking at the girl, delighted at this situation.

He exhales, long and slow, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck. “I did not mean to.”

“You absolutely did.”

She leans slightly to the side, peering around him again, clearly enjoying herself. “You should go talk to her.”

Bob stiffens instantly. “No.”

“Yes.”

“No.”

“She is very hot,” Yelena adds, unhelpfully. “If you do not go, I will. She is very much my type.”

That gets him moving, but not in the direction he hoped. He turns abruptly and starts walking in the opposite way, weaving through the crowd with the clear intention of escaping. Yelena follows immediately, long strides eating up the distance between them. She grabs his sleeve and tugs him to a stop.

“You never like anyone,” she says, lowering her voice just enough to sound serious. “This is suspicious. You can’t let her go!”

“I do not even know her,” Bob says, glancing back over his shoulder despite himself.

“So fix that,” Yelena replies easily.

He hesitates, standing there with the crowd flowing around them, indecision written plainly in the way he keeps shifting his weight.

“What am I supposed to say?” he asks finally. “I cannot just go up to someone. She’ll think i’m a creep!”

“Yes, you can! and no she won’t,” Yelena says. “You say hello. You compliment something. You ask a question. People love questions.”

“I do not,” he mutters.

“That is because you do not let anyone ask you any,” she shoots back. “Now stop panicking.”

He opens his mouth to argue again, hands lifting slightly like he might actually gesture his way out of this, when the crowd shifts.

People move aside. A gap opens, and she is suddenly much closer to Bob and Yelena.

Yelena however, does not notice. She is too busy watching Bob, trying to convince him. When her final try doesn’t work, her hands her hands start to raise, and she makes the decision to shove him forward towards the direction of the girl. Yelena unfortunately does not see how close she is to them or that she has stepped directly into Bob’s path.

Yelena shoves him, and Bob stumbles.

He collides straight into the girl. The impact knocks the breath out of both of them. The small glass jar slips from her hands and shatters against the pavement with a sharp, sticky crack. Honey splashes outward, thick and golden. Bob’s tea sloshes violently, spilling down the front of his shirt as he scrambles for balance. The girl loses her footing and falls backward, landing hard on her ass with a startled curse.

“Oh my god,” Bob blurts, already crouching down. “I am so sorry. I am so sorry.”

“I am so sorry,” Yelena echoes immediately, dropping down beside them.

The people around them react all at once. Someone gasps. Someone else kneels to help, while shaming Bob for being so clumsy. Hands reach in from every direction. Bob grabs one of the girls hands, Yelena the other, and together they pull her carefully back to her feet. She yanks her hands free the moment she is upright, brushing at her clothes, fury written clearly across her face.

“What the hell,” she snaps. “Watch where you’re going!”

Yelena is already fussing over her as everybody around them disperses, hands gentle as she brushes dirt from her back, plucking a leaf out of her hair with surprising care. “Yes, this one is very clumsy,” she says, shooting Bob a look. “Are you hurt?”

Bob stands there, frozen, shoulders tense, eyes fixed on her face like he is afraid to blink. “I really did not mean to knock you over,” he says, words tumbling out too quickly. “It was an accident.”

She looks between them, irritation sharp and immediate. Her gaze drops to the pavement where the honey spreads uselessly across the ground, glass glinting in the sunlight.

“Unbelievable,” she mutters. “I just bought that.” Bob swallows hard.

——

The world tips sideways without warning.

One second you’re walking, half distracted, already scanning the next booth, and the next you’re going down hard. You barely manage to get a curse out before you hit the pavement, the impact jarring straight through your spine. You most definitely were going to be bruised up tomorrow, the back of your things stinging from scraping the ground. Glass shatters next to you, and honey splashes everywhere, thick and golden and completely ruined.

“What the hell,” you shout, palms stinging as you push yourself upright, heart hammering in your chest.

“Oh my god.”

“I am so sorry.”

The voices come at you all at once, overlapping and frantic. People crowd in immediately, shadows blocking out the sunlight for a moment as hands reach toward you from every direction. You’re still blinking, still trying to process what just happened, when someone grabs your hand.

Then another. The grip is steady. Strong. Careful. You’re pulled back to your feet before you can protest, legs wobbling slightly as you find your balance again.

“I am so sorry,” the man in front of you says, breathless. “I really did not mean to knock you over.”

“I am so sorry,” the woman beside him adds immediately, already brushing dirt from your back like she’s on autopilot, fingers quick as she picks leaves out of your hair. “It was an accident.”

Your adrenaline is still spiking. Your heart is racing. You glance down at the pavement and your mood tanks instantly. Your honey is completely shattered. Glass glints uselessly in the sunlight, sticky and unsalvageable.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” you snap. “I literally just bought that.”

“I swear it was an accident,” the man says again, words tumbling over each other. “I was pushed and I did not see you and I-“

You open your mouth to really let them have it, but then you finally look at him, and whatever sharp thing you were about to say evaporates. The man that ran into you is tall, much taller than you. He had brown floppy hair that looked incredibly soft falling into his eyes no matter how many times he tries to push it back. A knit sweater that fits him in a way that makes it painfully obvious he’s far more built than he looks at first glance, paired with brown corduroy pants that look intentional, put together. Even soaked in whatever drink he spilled, standing there apologizing like he might actually die of embarrassment, he’s… adorable.

Your words die somewhere in your throat.

You blink, then glance back down at the ground. His drink is ruined too, dark liquid soaking into the pavement beside your honey. The two casualties sit there together, equally tragic. You look back up at him.

“You owe me a new jar of honey,” you say.

The woman beside him snorts, but quickly covers her mouth to hide it.

“Oh my god,” she says, “I was fully prepared for you to yell at us.”

You smirk despite yourself. “I might still.”

She grins wider. “Fair. But actually, this was completely my fault.” She jerks a thumb toward herself. “I shoved him. I was trying to get his attention.”

You glance between them, taking in the way he looks like he wants the ground to swallow him whole.

“So,” you say slowly, nodding between them, “are you his girlfriend?”

Her reaction is instant and dramatic.

“What?” she says. “No. Absolutely not.”

She waves her hands like she needs physical distance from the idea.

You tilt your head, eyes narrowing playfully. “You sure? So does that mean you’re single then?” You decide to flirt playfully, because what could it hurt?

“Very sure,” she says, then looks you up and down without shame. “You, however, are much more my type, and I am very much single.”

You laugh, surprised and a little delighted. “Oh?”

“Oh, yes,” she says. “You’re gorgeous.”

“Careful,” you say. “You’re making it tempting.”

She beams. “Trust me, I know.”

Out of the corner of your eye, you catch the clumsy man standing there, completely red from the collar of his sweater all the way up his neck, hands fidgeting uselessly at his sides. She notices too and finally snaps herself back into focus.

“Okay,” she says, clapping once. “Enough flirting. Stop panicking.” She elbows him sharply. “You need to fix this.”

“I am trying,” he mutters.

“You are doing terribly,” she replies cheerfully. Then she turns back to you. “He should take you to buy a new jar of honey.”

He blinks. “I should?”

“Yes,” she says. “Right now.”

There’s a beat where he clearly considers arguing. Then he nods. “Yes. Okay. That makes sense. Lead the way?”

You gesture back toward the booth. “After you.”

You walk away from his friend together, and the first thing you notice is how carefully he moves. Not just around you, but for you. He gives you space, a deliberate half step to the side, like he’s afraid of bumping you again. When someone passes too close, he subtly shifts so it’s his shoulder that takes the hit instead of yours. It’s quiet, instinctive, like he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it.

He hasn’t said anything yet. His hands hang awkwardly at his sides, fingers curling and uncurling like they’re restless. He keeps opening his mouth, closing it again, jaw tightening every time he aborts whatever thought was trying to escape. You catch it. All of it.

“So,” you say first, because you’re getting bored of waiting.

He startles like you caught him doing something illegal. “Sorry. I just-“He stops. Clears his throat. “I wanted to make sure you’re okay. I’m Bob..”

“Hi Bob. I am ok,” you say easily. “You knocked the wind out of me, but I’ve survived worse.”

He winces hard at that, shoulders tensing like the guilt physically hurts. “I really am sorry.”

“I know,” you say, glancing at him. “You’ve said it like twelve times.”

“I can say it more.”

You laugh, quick and unfiltered, and that somehow makes him even more nervous. He looks at you like he’s trying to figure out if that was a good sign or a bad one. You keep walking, unbothered, letting the silence stretch again. It’s not uncomfortable for you. It’s interesting. You can feel how badly he wants to say something, how every step feels like another chance slipping past him.

“You were going to talk to me,” you say suddenly. He almost trips.

“What? How did you know?”

“You were staring,” you add calmly. “You didn’t exactly hide it, I could feel your eyes on me the whole time.”

His ears turn red instantly. “I wasn’t- I mean, I was, but not in a creepy way.”

“Relax,” you say. “I wouldn’t be here if I thought it was in a creepy way.” That makes him stop walking for half a second before he forces himself to keep moving.

“I had thought about maybe asking you out, but was too chicken,” he admits quietly, like the words taste strange. “Before my friend interfered.”

You glance over at him again. He’s not looking at you now. His gaze is fixed ahead, jaw tight, like he’s annoyed at himself more than anything else.

“So you froze,” you say.

“Yes,” he says, relieved you put it into words. “Exactly.”

You smile. “Cute.”

He looks at you sharply. “It is not.”

“You’re wrong,” you reply. “It is.”

The honey booth comes back into view slowly, the old woman already rearranging jars like she has all the time in the world. You feel him hesitate beside you, like the moment is getting heavier instead of lighter.

She looks up and smiles when she sees you reach her booth once more.

“Back already?” she asks.

You gesture lazily between yourself and him. “Violent collision. He bumped me and I fell, my jar broke.”

Her eyes sweep over him in one long, unapologetic look. “Honey,” she says, “I’d get knocked down by him any day.”

You laugh, loud and easy. He freezes like he’s been hit by a stun gun. His face goes red in stages, spreading up his neck, into his cheeks, all the way to his ears. His hands curl into fists, then relax, then curl again.

“I was going to ask her out,” he blurts suddenly, defensive and breathless. “I just didn’t get the chance.”

That’s when you fully turn toward him.

“Oh,” you say slowly. “So this was intentional?”

“Yes,” he says immediately, then groans. “I mean- the asking. Not the falling. God.”

You grin. “You’re spiraling.”

“I know.”

The old woman chuckles and slides a fresh jar of honey forward. “Then stop thinking and do it, son.”

He stares at the jar like it’s a lifeline. Takes a breath. Then another. His shoulders rise and fall slowly as he steadies himself. He looks at you again, like he’s finally accepting that there’s no rehearsed version of this.

“I saw you laughing,” he says quietly. “And I immediately thought that I wanted to be the reason you kept on laughing.”

Something sharp and warm twists in your chest. He swallows. “So… would you like to go out with me?”

You don’t let the moment hang. “Yes,” you say immediately.

His eyes widen, like he didn’t actually expect success.

“There’s a restaurant nearby,” you add, stepping closer, invading his space without apology. “Tonight. You’re buying. For the honey. Let’s say 8?”

He lets out a breathless laugh. “Yes. Absolutely.”

You take the honey from him, let your fingers brush his on purpose, and you feel the way he stills at the contact.

“Thanks for the honey,” you say, then lean in and kiss his cheek.

He forgets how to breathe, and you melt back into the market like you were never there. One turn between booths, one slip into the flow of bodies, and you’re gone. That laugh he was already so fond of vanishing before him. Your perfume, that smelt like sweet candy, is already fading into the smell of bread and fruit and honey.

He stays exactly where he is. Honey jar paid for, cash still half out. Tea still drying on the front of his sweater. He’s standing too straight, like his body forgot it can move without permission. His cheek is warm where your lips were, and it looks like he’s afraid to touch it in case it makes the whole thing feel less real.

The old woman watches him with a pleased little smile as she rearranges her jars. She doesn’t say anything else. She doesn’t have to. He finally blinks. Then blinks again, slow, like his brain is rebooting. His gaze stays fixed on the direction you vanished, scanning for a glimpse of you between shoulders, between sun hats, between the hanging bouquets at the flower stand. He doesn’t find you, not really. Just movement and color and the occasional flash of hair that isn’t yours.

A triumphant cheer snaps through the air behind him. Then a familiar voice, far too close.

“I leave you alone for one minute,” Yelena says, breathless with excitement, “and you get yourself a date.”

He flinches, like he forgot Yelena existed.

She’s practically bouncing on her toes, eyes bright, hands already on his arm like she’s checking he’s still solid.

“She said yes,” she says, loud and proud, like she’s announcing it to the entire market. “You did it. You asked. She said yes.”

He opens his mouth, and then closes it. His throat works like he’s trying to find words and none of them cooperate.

“I know,” he manages finally, voice quiet.

Yelena stares at him like she expects him to be screaming too.

“That’s it?” she demands. “I know?”

He swallows. His gaze flicks back toward the crowd again, like he might still catch you.

“I did not think she would say yes,” he admits, and the honesty of it makes him look even more stunned. “I thought… I don’t know what I thought.”

Yelena makes a sound of disgust. “Of course she said yes. Did you see her? She is fearless. She kissed you. She left. Like a criminal.”

He looks at her, dazed. “She kissed my cheek.”

Yelena’s grin turns vicious. “Yes.”

He exhales slowly, almost like he’s trying to calm his body down. “You shoved me.”

“I helped you.”

“You shoved me into her,” he corrects, still quiet, but now there’s a hint of something else under it. A little annoyance. A little disbelief. Like he can’t decide if he wants to thank her or throttle her.

Yelena shrugs, completely unapologetic. “And now you have a date. I am proud of you,” she says, suddenly serious again, grabbing his shoulders and giving him a firm shake like she’s trying to rattle the nerves out of him. “You were like a normal person for once!”

He looks pained. “I was not normal.”

“You were close enough,” she says, then taps his chest where the tea stain is drying. “Except for this. This is pathetic.”

He looks down at his sweater like he’s just now remembering he spilled tea all over himself. “Oh, right.”

Yelena grabs his wrist.

“No,” he says immediately, panicked. “What are you doing?”

“We are leaving,” she says, already dragging him away from the booth. “We are going home. We are changing you. We are picking an outfit.”

“I can pick my own outfit,” he says weakly, stumbling after her.

“No, you cannot,” she replies. “You will wear that sweater again and think it counts as romance.”

“It’s a nice sweater,” he mutters.

“It is a nice sweater,” she agrees. “It is also covered in tea. You are going to look like a sad book boy.”

He tries to pull back, still staring over his shoulder at the crowd as if you might reappear, as if you might suddenly decide to circle back and talk with him again.

Yelena tightens her grip and tugs harder.

“Eyes forward,” she says sharply. “You will see her tonight. Do not ruin this by spiraling.”

“I’m not spiraling,” he lies.

“You are spiraling,” she says, delighted. “It is adorable. But we do not have time.”

He lets himself be dragged, feet reluctant, head still turning every few steps. The market recedes behind them, the noise softening, the smells fading. But his gaze stays stuck on the place you disappeared, like part of him is still standing there with the honey booth and the shattered glass.

Yelena starts listing outfit options like she’s planning a mission.

“No sweaters,” she says. “No corduroy. You need something that says I am calm and I do not get pushed into girls.”

He makes a quiet sound of misery.

“And you need to shave,” she adds.

“I do not need to-“

“Yes you do,” she says. “You are going to look clean. You are going to smell good. And you are going to bring flowers.”

He frowns. “Flowers?”

“Yes.”

“Is that too much?”

Yelena stops walking just long enough to stare at him. “Bob.” He goes still. “You are a sweet man,” she says, like that should be obvious. “She is a woman. She likes sweet.”

His ears go pink again.

Yelena grins. “Now move. We have hours of preparation. I will not let you embarrass me.”

He lets her drag him the rest of the way, still stunned, still quiet, still trying to understand how a morning coffee routine turned into a date. And somewhere back in the market, you’re still out there, honey in hand, smile on your face, already living in his head like you pay rent.

———

Bob stands in front of the mirror while Yelena refuses to let him exist peacefully.

He is dressed. He knows that. The three

different shirts piled up on the floor in front

of him was a clear sign that he was panicking. He couldn’t explain why standing still feels impossible, and Yelena notices immediately. She tugs at the collar of his shirt, smoothing it down, then frowns and does it again like the fabric is personally offending her.

“Stop moving,” she tells him.

“I’m not moving,” Bob replies automatically, even as his shoulders shift and his weight rocks back onto his heels.

Yelena meets his eyes in the mirror. “You are.”

“I’m standing,” he insists.

“You are standing badly.”

She grabs his shoulders and physically squares them, forcing him upright. He freezes for a second, trying very hard to cooperate, but his fingers twitch at his sides and his foot taps once against the floor before he can stop it.

Behind them, Walker lets out a quiet laugh. He’s seated comfortably in a chair near the wall, arms folded, clearly enjoying himself far too much. Bucky leans against the opposite wall, arms crossed, expression neutral, though his eyes flick back and forth with interest as the scene unfolds.

“So,” Walker says, stretching the word out. “You met a mysterious woman at the market, knocked the poor girl over, broke her jar of honey, and now you’re going on a

date?”

Bob glances at the mirror again, then away. “Uh yep, pretty much…”

“You nervous? You have to be, You changed shirts three times,” Walker points out.

Yelena steps back, examining her work critically as she gives Walker a dirty look for adding to Bobs nervousness. Bob is wearing a dark button-down that fits him properly without looking stiff, the sleeves rolled to his forearms in a way that looks intentional but still natural. Dark jeans. Clean shoes that are nicer than his usual but still comfortable. He looks like himself, just… sharpened.

“He looks acceptable,” Yelena decides.

“That’s high praise,” Bucky says dryly.

Walker leans forward. “Alright, describe her. What’s she look like?”

Yelena doesn’t hesitate. “She’s short. Very attractive. Confident in a way that suggests poor life decisions.”

Walker grins. “You sure you aren’t the one taking the market girl out Lena?”

“I did flirt with her,” Yelena says, smirking

up at Bob who was rolling his eyes at the comment. “But Bob saw her first. He gets the girl this time.”

Bob exhales through his nose, hands flexing at his sides. “She has a nice laugh,” he says suddenly.

Walker’s grin widens. “A nice laugh?”

Bob shoots him an annoyed look. “I’m serious.”

Bucky tilts his head slightly. “Go on.”

Bob hesitates, then keeps talking, like once the door is open he can’t quite close it again. “It’s loud. Not fake. She doesn’t stop herself or try to soften it. She laughs like she means it. That’s what drew my attention in the first place, I heard her before i saw her.”

Yelena watches him through the mirror now, quiet, attentive.

“She was laughing with strangers,” Bob continues, warming to it despite himself. “People she didn’t know. Like it was easy. Like she didn’t care if anyone thought she was too much.”

Walker sits back, nodding. “That’s like

the exact opposite of you.”

“That’s what I’m saying,” Bob replies, frustration creeping into his voice. “She doesn’t shrink. She takes up space like it belongs to her.”

Bob rubs a hand over the back of his neck, clearly annoyed that this conversation has turned into an interrogation of his feelings. “I thought she was going to yell at us at first,” he adds. “But the she smiled and told me I needed to replace her honey and i just knew I had to at least try and ask her.”

Yelena steps in again, fingers immediately in his hair. She smooths it back carefully, then pauses, studies him, and shakes her head before messing it up again.

“No. That makes you look like you’re about to file paperwork.”

“Yelena quit fussing,” Bob mutters, even as he shifts again.

“What did I say about not moving,” she replies, unbothered.

She moves to the dresser and starts sorting through his cologne with exaggerated seriousness, sniffing one and immediately rejecting it.

“No. That one smells like regret.”

Another spray. Sniff. Then she gags, quite dramatically, before picking up the final one.

Yelena turns and gives Bob a pointed look. “Hold still.”

He nods, immediately flinching when she spritzes it lightly at his wrist and collar.

“I said hold still.”

“I didn’t move!”

“You flinched.”

“That’s not the same.”

She then reaches into a drawer and pulls out a single flower, placing it carefully in his hand. Bob looks down at it, then back up at her.

“A flower?” he asks.

“Yes,” she says. “You are a sweet man. Do not argue. I know what’s best.”

Walker stands and claps Bob on the shoulder. “Listen. You’re overthinking it. You show up. You eat. You talk. You laugh. You don’t apologize every thirty seconds.”

“I don’t apologize that much,” Bob says

weakly.

Bucky raises an eyebrow. “You apologized like ten times just a couple minutes ago.”

Bob sighs.

Yelena steps closer again, straightening his collar one final time, slower now, gentler.

“She already said yes,” she reminds him. “That’s the important part.”

Bob nods, gripping the flower a little tighter. He takes a step toward the door, then hesitates. He makes it two steps before Walker pushes off the chair and moves into his path, casual but deliberate, like he’s blocking a hallway more than a person.

“Hey,” Walker says, lowering his voice just enough to feel conspiratorial.

Bob pauses, already suspicious. “What.”

Walker doesn’t answer right away. He steps closer and presses something small and unfamiliar into Bob’s palm, curling his fingers around it before Bob can fully register what it is.

Bob looks down.

It takes a second for his brain to catch up.

Then it does.

His eyes widen. His entire body stiffens.

He snaps his hand shut on instinct and looks up at Walker, horrified. “No. No, that’s not- absolutely not!”

Walker grins, unrepentant. “Just in case?”

Bob tries to shove it back at him immediately, thrusting his hand forward like the thing might burn him. “Take it back. I don’t need that. This is dinner.”

Yelena turns sharply at the sound of his voice. “What did you do?”

Walker holds up his hands, innocent. “Being prepared.”

She crosses the room in two strides and smacks Walker square in the chest, hard enough to make a point. “You are making him panic worse!”

“I’m not using this,” Bob says quickly, words tumbling over each other as he gestures

helplessly between the three of them. “I am not even thinking about that. I am going to eat food. I am going to sit in a chair. That’s it.”

Bucky, who has been watching with quiet amusement, finally speaks. “You can still carry it and not use it.”

Bob turns to him, scandalized. “Why would I carry it?”

“Because,” Bucky says calmly, “you’re already panicking, and this is not the thing you want to spiral about later.”

Bob opens his mouth to argue, then closes it again. His grip tightens around the flower in his other hand. He looks down at the small square in his palm like it personally betrayed him.

“I am not using it,” he says again, slower now, more stubborn. “It is staying in my wallet. It will not leave the wallet. This is not that kind of night.”

Walker’s grin widens. “Sure.”

Bob glares at him, then exhales through his nose and reluctantly tucks it away, shoving his wallet back into his pocket like he wants the entire subject buried with it.

Yelena points at Walker. “If he has a panic attack in the elevator, that is on you.”

Bob rubs a hand over his face, then drops it, straightening slightly as if reminding himself why he’s here. He looks at Yelena. She softens immediately, reaching up to smooth his collar one last time, slower now, gentler.

“You’re going to be fine,” she says. “You don’t need that to have a good night.”

He nods, still flustered, but steadier.

“I know,” he says quietly.

He grips the flower tighter, turns back toward the door, and this time he doesn’t stop.

———

The restaurant is closer to the tower than Bob expects. He realizes it halfway there, when the streets start to look familiar to his morning coffee walks with Yelena. The walk that felt long in his head passes too quickly in reality, and suddenly the warm glow of the restaurant is right there in front of him, light spilling through tall windows onto the sidewalk. He slows without meaning to, steps faltering as the sounds of conversation and clinking glasses drift out every time the door opens.

It’s nice. Really nice. White tablecloths, soft lighting, the kind of place where people linger over wine and talk with their hands.

His nerves spike immediately. What if she’s already inside? What if she’s sitting at a table right now, checking her watch, wondering why she agreed to this? What if she doesn’t show up at all? The thought hits harder than he expects, settling heavy in his chest. He stops just short of the entrance, standing there like he’s forgotten what comes next. His fingers tighten around the single flower in his hand, thumb rubbing along the stem until he realizes he’s bending it slightly and forces himself to stop.

He exhales slowly and runs a hand through his hair, smoothing it back, then immediately fussing with it again like it might betray him at any moment. He straightens his shirt, then second-guesses that too, tugging at the hem and then letting it fall. You’re fine, he tells himself, which somehow makes it worse. He glances at the door again, heart thudding. The idea of walking in alone suddenly feels unbearable. He can already picture it, the awkward pause, the host asking if he’s waiting for someone, the inevitable pity when the answer stretches too long.

He’s so caught in the spiral that he doesn’t hear footsteps behind him. A light tap lands on his shoulder. He turns too fast. And there she is. For a moment, his brain simply gives up. She looks even more stunning than she did that morning, which feels unfair considering how impossible that already seemed. She’s dressed for the evening now, something sleek and fitted that walks the line perfectly between elegant and dangerous. The fabric clings in a way that makes it very clear she knows exactly what she’s doing. Black heels ground the look, confident and sharp. Her makeup is darker, sultrier, lipstick rich and distracting enough that Bob forgets how breathing works entirely.

His knees actually feel weak. He just stands there, staring, words completely gone, the flower dangling uselessly in his hand.

She takes one look at his expression and laughs. That laugh. The same one from the market. Loud, warm, unfiltered. It cuts straight through his panic, loosens something tight in his chest, makes the world feel steadier again. His shoulders drop without him realizing it.

“Hi,” she says, clearly amused.

“Hi,” he manages, voice a little rough around the edges.

They stand there for a second, smiling at each other, the city moving around them like they’re the only two people not in a rush. He finally remembers the flower, lifting it like it might be an offering.

“I, um,” he says, then clears his throat. “This is for you.”

Her eyes light up instantly. “A flower?” she says, genuinely delighted. “For me?”

She takes it from him carefully, like it’s something precious, then grins. “This almost makes up for the scrapes on my ass.”

Bob chokes. Not on food. Not on a drink. Just air. He coughs once, then again, one hand flying up to his chest as he desperately tries to recover. She bursts out laughing, completely unrepentant, and the sound only makes him blush harder.

“I’m sorry,” he says once he can breathe again. “I just wasn’t expecting that.”

She smiles at him, pleased. “I like keeping people on their toes.”

There’s a beat where neither of them speaks, the moment stretching comfortably instead of awkwardly. He gestures toward the door, suddenly very aware that they’re still standing on the sidewalk.

“Would you like to go inside?” he asks. “Before I embarrass myself further.”

She hooks her arm loosely through his without hesitation. “Absolutely.”

They step into the restaurant together, the door closing softly behind them, and Bob thinks distantly that whatever happens next, the hardest part might already be over.

The restaurant feels different from the inside. It’s tucked farther back than you expected, your table hidden in a corner booth where the light is low and warm, candles flickering softly between baskets of bread and folded menus. Everything smells incredible. Garlic, butter, fresh pasta. The kind of smell that settles into your skin and makes you relax whether you mean to or not.

You slide into the booth first, and he follows a second later, close enough that you feel the brush of his knee against yours before he pulls back, flustered. The lighting is doing dangerous things to him. Or maybe it’s doing dangerous things to you. Either way, you can see the way his gaze keeps flicking to your face, to your mouth, then quickly away like he’s been caught doing something he shouldn’t.

“I didn’t realize how close this place was,” he says, glancing toward the front of the restaurant before looking back at you. “It’s… embarrassingly close to where I live.”

You smile. “So I made a strategic choice.”

He laughs, a little breathy, clearly relaxing now that you’re smiling at him like that. “I walk past it all the time. Yelena and I get coffee around the corner every morning.”

“Every morning,” you repeat. “That feels very routine for someone who knocked me over in a farmer’s market.”

He winces playfully. “I swear I’m usually more coordinated.”

“I don’t believe you,” you say. “What kind of coffee order are we talking about.”

“Tea,” he admits. “With too much sugar.”

You light up. “Oh. You’re one of those?”

“One of what?”

“The secretly sweet ones pretending they’re not.”

He laughs again, this time easier. “Yelena says it’s a character flaw.”

“She sounds wise.”

“She is,” he agrees, then pauses. “Terrifying, but wise.”

You lower your menu and rest your chin in your hand. “So what do you do on these coffee walks besides people watching and accidentally planning dates?”

He thinks about it. Actually thinks. You can see it in the way his eyes drift for a second.

“We talk about everything,” he says. “Work. Life. Things that annoy her. Things that scare me.”

“That’s a wide range.”

He smiles at that. “She does most of the talking.”

“Shocking.”

He chuckles, then catches himself watching you again. This time he doesn’t look away immediately.

“What about you,” he asks. “Do you come to places like this often?”

“I like good food,” you say. “And places where people linger. I hate anything that feels rushed.”

His shoulders ease at that, like it’s permission. “Me too.”

The server comes by, and you order. You choose something indulgent, creamy and rich, unapologetic. He hesitates for a moment before ordering something comforting and classic, clearly a creature of habit but not ashamed of it. Red wine ends up on the table after all, poured slowly into wide glasses. Once the server leaves, he exhales.

“I feel like I should admit something,” he says.

You raise a brow. “I’m listening.”

“I was very nervous you weren’t going to show up.”

You grin. “Oh. I absolutely considered it.”

His eyes widen. “You did?”

“Briefly,” you say. “Then I remembered your face when I kissed your cheek.”

He groans softly and drops his head for a second. “Please don’t.”

“I liked watching you turn red,” you tease lightly.

He looks back up at you then, something warmer in his expression now. “You’re dangerous.”

“I’ve been told.”

You smile at the way the candlelight catches the curve of his face, the way his lashes cast shadows under his eyes. He’s looking at you again, but this time really looking, and something about the way his attention settles on you makes your stomach flip.

Your smile softens without you realizing it.

That’s when you notice he’s staring, but at your eyes. Your lips. He’s gone quiet, mid-thought, gaze fixed like he forgot the rest of the world exists. The silence stretches just long enough to be noticeable. You don’t call him out.

Instead, you reach for your purse.

The zipper sounds louder than it should in the quiet booth. He blinks, startled, attention snapping back to you just in time to watch you pull out a small metal flask. His eyes widen and your grin turns wicked. You duck slightly behind your menu, unscrew the lid, and take a quick swig. The burn makes you wince just a little, enough to make him stare like he’s witnessing a crime.

You shake the flask once, amused, and whisper, “I’m not really a wine girl. Want a drink?”

His mouth opens.

Closes.

“I usually don’t,” he starts, then stops himself, glancing at you again. Something in his expression shifts. Curiosity. Nerves. Something braver.

“Okay,” he says. “Yeah. Okay.”

You slide the flask under the table, your fingers brushing his as he takes it. The contact is brief, accidental, but it sends a small jolt up your arm anyway. You bite back a smile. He copies you, lifting his menu like a shield, taking a quick swig. You watch his face carefully, waiting for a reaction.

Nothing. No wince. No cough. No dramatic gasp.

Your eyes widen. “Oh.”

“What,” he asks, lowering the flask.

“That was incredibly sexy,” you say.

He nearly drops it.

“I didn’t do anything,” he says.

“Exactly,” you reply, grinning. “Terrifying.”

His face goes bright red, and you huff amused as he hands the flask back. The plates arrive like an interruption neither of you asked for.

Steam curls up between you, rich and fragrant. Your pasta is glossy and decadent, ribbons coated in cream and pepper and parmesan. His is darker, heartier, something with red sauce and slow-cooked meat, the kind of dish that smells like it takes its time. The server sets everything down, asks if you need anything else, and you both shake your heads a little too quickly.

As soon as you’re alone again, the space between you feels smaller.

You take your first bite, humming quietly without meaning to. The sound slips out of you, soft and pleased, and his eyes flick to your mouth immediately. You notice. Of course you do. You chew slowly, deliberately, letting your gaze stay on his as you swallow. You wonder what that brain

of his is thinking as he watches your lips move.

“Good?” he asks.

“Really good,” you say. “Yours?”

He nods, but he hasn’t eaten yet. He’s still watching you. You smile into your next bite.

Conversation keeps going, but it’s different now. Slower. Looser. He leans back into the booth, one arm draped along the seat behind you like he hasn’t realized he’s done it. Or maybe he has and he’s choosing not to move. You tell him another story, something ridiculous and only half appropriate, and he laughs, warm and low, eyes crinkling at the corners.

“I can’t believe you actually did that,” he says.

“I absolutely did,” you reply. “And I’d do it again.”

He shakes his head, smiling, and finally takes a bite of his food. You watch the way his throat moves when he swallows. The way his lips press together for just a second afterward. You’re mid-bite when you feel his attention sharpen. He stills slightly, eyes narrowing in concentration.

“Hang on,” he says softly. “You’ve got something here.”

Before you can ask what, he’s already leaning in. His thumb brushes the corner of your mouth, warm and gentle, wiping away a trace of sauce. The contact is brief at first. Then it isn’t. His thumb lingers, barely moving, like he’s forgotten what he meant to do next. The air goes tight, and you don’t break eye contact. Instead, you part your lips, just enough. And without thinking, or maybe because the wine and the night have both gone to your head, you close your mouth around his thumb and suck gently, slow and deliberate, cleaning it.

The reaction is immediate. His breath catches hard, chest rising sharply as his entire body goes still. His eyes go dark, pupils blown wide, jaw tightening like he’s physically holding himself in place. For one suspended second, neither of you moves. His thumb stays right where it is. Your lips linger. Then you release him.

He pulls his hand back slowly, carefully, like sudden movement might shatter something fragile. He rests it on the table, fingers curling in on themselves, knuckles faintly white.

“Oh,” he says, very quietly.

You smile, unapologetic, and take another bite of your pasta like nothing happened.

Conversation resumes. Technically.

You talk about work, about music, about nothing at all. But everything is layered now. Every glance lasts a beat too long. Every brush of your leg against his under the table sends a spark up your spine. He’s closer than before, shoulder angled toward you, voice lower when he speaks like he doesn’t want anyone else to hear.

At some point, he realizes she’s flirting.

And instead of panicking lol he already has been, he leans into it.

“You do this on purpose,” he says, eyes flicking to your mouth again.

“Do what?”

“Make people nervous.”

You tilt your head. “Is it working?”

He laughs softly. “Yes.”

You clink your wine glasses together again. The red wine is warm in your stomach now, mixing with whatever you’ve been sneaking from the flask. His nerves are gone, replaced with something steadier. Bolder. He’s talking more with his hands, leaning in, making you laugh hard enough that you have to look away once or twice.

“You’re blushing,” he points out at one point.

“So are you,” you shoot back.

He doesn’t deny it. By the time the plates are cleared, the candles have burned lower and the restaurant has quieted around you. The server places the cheque gently at the edge of the table and walks away without comment. You glance at it, and then you look at him. His eyes are already on you, warm and curious and just a little undone.

A very wicked idea takes shape. You smile slowly, say nothing, and let your foot slide just a little closer to his under the table.

And you watch his breath hitch.

Your shoulder presses into his side, soft and deliberate, close enough that he inhales sharply before he can stop himself. You feel it. The way his body reacts instantly, tension snapping tight beneath his calm exterior. You let yourself linger there, cheek close to his, lips just barely brushing the air near his jaw as your heel slides up his calf beneath the table. Slow, teasing, Intentional. His breath stutters yet again.

He doesn’t pull away. He doesn’t move at all, actually. He’s holding himself together by sheer willpower, eyes fixed on yours, pupils dark, mouth parted just slightly like he forgot what he was supposed to be doing.

Your lips drift closer. Close enough that you feel the heat of him, close enough that your noses brush. Close enough that he could kiss you if he wanted to. Instead, you whisper.

“Let’s run.”

He blinks. Once. Twice.

“Run?” he asks, genuinely confused, voice low and rough. “What do you mean run?”

You laugh quietly, softer this time, leaning back just enough to look at him properly. You give his arm a light, playful smack.

“Yes,” you whisper. “Run.”

You start gathering your things like it’s the most obvious plan in the world. Sliding your bag onto your shoulder, scooting toward the edge of the booth. Bob just watches you, completely lost, mouth opening and closing like his brain is lagging behind your actions.

You stop and look back at him when he doesn’t move.

You roll your eyes, and sigh dramatically. “Listen. I know you’re a fancy Avenger and everything and this could look bad, but also who cares. Gotta live a little. Have some fun.”

Thats what does it. His expression shifts from confusion to outright shock.

“You know I’m a…” He trails off, blinking hard. “How did you know I was a…”

You cut him off with sigh, warm and easy, like it’s not even worth making a thing out of.

“Oh, babe. Of course I knew,” you say. “I just didn’t care.”

You lean closer again, close enough that your lips brush his cheek.

“That’s not all you are,” you continue quietly. “I wanted to get to know you. Not the fancy new Avenger.”

Something breaks open in him at that.

It’s not just that you knew. It’s that you didn’t care, and that you saw him standing there in a market, awkward and quiet and staring at you like you hung the moon, and that was enough. The weight he’s carried without realizing it suddenly lifts, just a little, and it makes his chest ache. You go to stand, but he grabs your arm. The touch is firm but gentle, grounding. You turn back to him, surprised, and he looks steadier now.

“You mean run,” he says slowly, “as in not pay?”

You grin, leaning in to kiss his cheek again as you shrug into your coat. “Yes. Run. Not pay. Dine and freakin dash. This place is way overpriced.”

You whisper it like it’s a secret, excitement buzzing through you. He lets you go, brushing his fingers over his cheek where your lips just were. He exhales a quiet laugh, knowing exactly how bad of an idea this is.

“You really are trouble,” he says.

You wink, standing up to start the show. “Okay, honey, you pay. I’m gonna run to the washroom. The kids are probably waiting up past their bedtime for us. You know how cranky Todd can get.”

You lean down once more, close enough that your breath ghosts his ear. “There’s a back door by the bathrooms. Meet me out there in five minutes.”

You turn to leave, and he stops you again.

This time, it’s different. He takes your hand, lifts it slowly, eyes never leaving yours, and presses a kiss to your knuckles. Soft, deliberate, and absolutely lethal.

“Do hurry back,” he says, voice smooth and low, almost with a bit of an accent? “Every moment away from you is just torture, darling.”

You freeze and your mouth drops open, but nothing comes out. Without another word, you slip away, heart racing, cheeks burning, disappearing toward the bathrooms before you embarrass yourself further. Five minutes later, you slip out the back door unnoticed.

Bob waits longer than he should, nerves spiking again, guilt creeping in as he spots the waiter busy across the room. He pulls cash from his wallet, scribbles a quick note, and leaves it on the bill for the tip before finally making his move. The back door opens and as the cool night air hits his face, he exhales in relief. Then he spots you.

Leaning against the brick wall, jacket open, one knee bent casually as you take a drag from a cigarette. The glow lights your face for a moment before fading.

“I didn’t know you smoked,” he calls out.

You yelp, startled, then roll your eyes as you stub it out quickly. “You scared me.”

You jog over and hook your arm through his as if this is all perfectly normal. “I only smoke if I’ve had a few drinks.”

He opens his mouth, clearly about to say something responsible and sensible about how smoking is bad for you, but a door slams open behind you and interrupts you.

“Excuse me!”

You both freeze.

“Oh my god,” you whisper. “That’s our waiter.”

Bob’s heart slams into his ribs. “What do we do?”

You stare at each other, panic flaring. “I don’t know,” you hiss. “I’ve literally never done this before.”

The waiter starts moving faster.

“Does your Sentry thing make you run fast,” you ask desperately.

Bob barely has time to answer before you grab his hand.

“Run.”

You don’t give him time to argue before your fingers lace through his and you take off, heels striking the pavement hard as you drag him out of the alley and into the open street. The sound of footsteps behind you spikes your pulse instantly, shoes slapping against concrete, someone shouting your direction. Bob’s heart is pounding so hard he can hear it in his ears, adrenaline flooding his system faster than his thoughts can catch up. He thinks back to his past, wondering how he ended up in a place like this again. Although this time what he’s doing is much less dangerous, and a lot more fun.

“He’s coming,” you hiss, glancing over your shoulder.

“I can see that,” he pants, already struggling not to laugh from the sheer insanity of it.

You pull him harder, tugging him around a corner just as a door bangs open behind you. The street widens and suddenly there are people everywhere, couples strolling, someone walking a dog, a group laughing loudly on a corner. You slow just a fraction, trying to blend in, chests still heaving, hands still locked together. You don’t let go.

“Okay,” you whisper urgently. “Act normal.”

Bob straightens as best he can while walking, running a hand through his hair, trying to slow his breathing. Then the waiter’s voice cuts through the noise again.

“There they are!”

“Oh my god,” you mutter.

You bolt once more. You cut sharply to the left, pulling Bob with you across the street without waiting for the light. Horns blare instantly. Tires screech. Someone yells something that definitely is not polite. Bob’s grip tightens on your hand as he stumbles, heart leaping into his throat.

“You’re in heels,” he blurts out, half impressed, half terrified.

“I know,” you shout back. “Don’t think about it!”

You make it to the other side by sheer luck, dodging a car far too close for Bob’s liking. The waiter is stuck now, blocked by traffic, shouting something you can’t quite make out, but you don’t slow down. You duck into another alley, then another, weaving through dumpsters and fire escapes, mumbling breathlessly now about losing him because it’s all too much. Bob keeps pace easily, but he stays close, protective without thinking, one arm occasionally coming around you to steer you away from obstacles when the ground dips or the alley narrows.

At one point, you trip slightly. He catches you instantly, arm tight around your waist, pulling you flush against him for half a second before you’re moving again. The contact sends a sharp jolt through both of you, electric and undeniable.

“Sorry,” you gasp.

“Don’t be,” he says, voice low, breathless. “That was… fine.”

You finally slow a few streets over, turning into a darker side alley where the noise of the city dulls to a distant hum. You stop abruptly, pressing a hand to the brick wall, chest rising and falling hard. Bob stumbles to a stop across from you, hands braced on his knees, laughing in pure shock now because he can’t help it. Adrenaline is still roaring through him, limbs tired and one fire, heart racing like he just survived something impossible. You straighten slowly and your eyes meet. The laughter between you fades.

You’re close again. Too close. The air between you feels charged, alive, humming with everything you haven’t said and everything you almost did back at the table. Your breathing starts to slow, but the heat doesn’t fade with it. Bob steps closer without realizing he’s moved, and so do you.

“You’re insane,” he says softly.

You smile, breathless. “You loved it.”

He doesn’t deny it. For a second, he just looks at you, cheeks flushed, eyes bright, hair a mess from running. The city feels far away now. The only sound is your breathing and the faint echo of heavy breathing still trapped in your chest.

Soon he is moving without even thinking. His hands come up to your face, palms warm and sure as he pulls you into him, and the kiss crashes into you with no warning at all. It’s messy and urgent and completely unplanned, mouths colliding like neither of you can afford to hesitate another second. You hit the brick wall behind you with a soft gasp, the impact knocking the breath from your lungs just as his mouth claims yours. The kiss deepens immediately. There’s nothing gentle about it. No testing. No tentative brush of lips. He kisses you like he’s been holding himself back all night and finally lost the ability to pretend otherwise. His grip tightens at your jaw, thumbs brushing your cheeks as he leans into you, crowding your space, pressing his body close enough that you feel every solid line of him.

Your hands fist in his shirt without you realizing you’ve moved. He makes a sound against your mouth, low and involuntary, and it sends a shiver straight through you. His mouth moves against yours with hungry intention now, lips firm, demanding, like he needs to feel you there, needs the confirmation that this is actually happening.

You kiss him back just as hard. Your fingers slide up into his hair, tangling there, tugging slightly. He groans softly into your mouth at the sensation, hips rocking forward just a fraction before he catches himself. The restraint in him is palpable, vibrating under his skin, every muscle tense like he’s holding back on instinct alone.

Bob’s hand slides from your jaw to your waist, settling there, anchoring you. He presses closer, forehead dipping toward yours as the kiss breaks for half a second, just long enough for you both to breathe.

He doesn’t pull away far or for long. His lips brush yours again, slower now, deeper, the urgency melting into something heavier, more intentional. You can feel his breath against your mouth, feel the way his chest rises and falls against you, feel how badly he wants this in the way he’s barely restraining himself.

“Jesus,” he breathes, so quietly it’s almost lost between you.

Then he kisses you again, even harder.

Your back presses into the wall as his body cages you in, one arm braced beside your head, the other still tight at your waist. The city feels impossibly far away now, the noise reduced to a dull hum. There is only him. His mouth. His hands. The way your pulse is racing like you’re still running. When he finally pulls back, it’s slow and reluctant, lips brushing yours one last time like he’s memorizing the feel of them. His forehead rests against yours, eyes closed, breath uneven.

For a moment, neither of you says anything.

Your hearts are still pounding. Your legs feel weak. The air between you feels electric, alive, like one wrong move could tip you both straight over the edge. He opens his eyes, and looks at you. He can’t decide what he’s going to do next. He isn’t even sure what he wants. His mind is clouded with wanting you right here, right now, and wanting to just end the night right here at this perfect kiss. His mind was racing until one small word decided everything for him.

“Bob?” You whispered, worried if maybe you did something wrong. You place your hand gently on his chest and the action grounds his wandering mind.

“I want to be a gentleman,” He instantly snaps out of it to confess. “But I also want you. Right here, right now.”

He searches your eyes and waits for a response, a reaction, anything. His one hand still on your waist and the other tucked under your jaw brushing your skin with his thumb. He expected you to push him away, to call him disgusting for wanting to have sex right out in the open, in a dirty back alley in the middle of the night. But instead, your look of worry turned into a smirk as you wrapped your arms around his neck, pulling him down so he’s closer to your eye level. Your lips brush his and he lets out a small whine as he chases a kiss from you, but you move just out of reach.

“So take me. Right here, right now,” you whisper.

Bob didn’t need any more permission. He pulled you flush against him, his breath hot against your neck, body crowding yours against the wall once more. He’s flooded with things he could do with you here. The thought of it being so out in the open almost excited him even more. Slowly, Bob takes his hand and places it on your knee. You try and hide the full body shudder this causes, but Bob of course catches it as his hand starts to slide up your leg, bunching the fabric of your dress higher. His fingers brush the smooth skin of your inner thigh, inching toward your core. You were holding your breath, knowing exactly what Bob would find if he moved any closer.

You drop your head back in embarrassment against the wall as he reaches the heat between your legs and finds nothing but slick, bare folds hidden underneath your panty hose. He pauses, a low moan rumbling in his chest at the realization.

"Did you just forget to wear them, or was this on purpose? Trouble," he mutters, the word rough and laced with hunger, his voice barely above a whisper.

Bob then grabs your hips with both hands, guiding you so that you were now facing the wall instead of him. Gently he pushes you forward so you were just slightly bent over in front of him. He hisses at the sight, and it was taking everything in him not to just get on with everything he wanted to do. But he couldn’t rush this, he needed to take his time. Carefully, he reaches both hands below you, running them over the exposed skin of your ass. He’s careful around the scrapes from your fall this morning, which he honestly thought you were exaggerating about. You shift your weight from one foot to another and sigh, clearly getting annoyed with waiting so long.

Bob decides to finally give you at least something, and without warning rips a large hole into your pantyhose. You gasp loudly, the cool air hitting your now exposed flesh as you grab the wall for support at the sudden rough movement. He wastes no more time, deciding you’ve waited long enough, and his fingers part your pussy lips, sliding through the wetness that's been building since the chase began. You didn’t want to admit how much the adrenaline turns you on.

You're drenched, your arousal coating his digits as he strokes your clit in slow, deliberate circles. He’s moving this way on purpose. He wants to know exactly what makes you practically melt in his hands. He wants to know exactly how to get you to make all those sounds he’s been imagining from the first touch. A sharp gasp escapes you, turning into a needy whimper that echoes off the alley walls. Raw almost pornographic sounds that make your cheeks burn even as they fuel the fire in his gaze.

He presses harder, and decides to test his luck further by carefully dipping two fingers inside you, curling them until he finds that special spot that sends sparks up your spine. His other hand runs up your back, gently pressing down to hold you in place against the wall. Your hips buck backwards involuntarily, another moan spilling out, high and desperate, almost so perfect it sounded fake.

Those noises were driving Bob wild. His eyes darken, pupils blown wide, as he watches your face contort in pleasure. He shakes his head to try and distract himself from the almost painful tightness in his pants. He wants to be inside you, to pull every obscene sound from your throat as many times as he could. His thumb starts to grind against your clit while his fingers pump faster, the wet squelch of your pussy filling the narrow space. You clutch at the wall with one hand, the other reaching back and holding his arm, your nails digging in, body trembling as the orgasm builds fast and fierce from his touch.

But he doesn't let you finish like that. He wants to feel you finish with him. With a swift motion, Bob withdraws his hand, the sudden emptiness immediately making you whine. You go to protest, to beg him to keep going, but you were cut off by him spinning you around so you were facing him again.

Everything was moving so fast. He grabs your thighs, hoisting you up against the wall, your legs wrapping around his waist on instinct. The cool brick scrapes your back through the thin dress and you hiss at the strong, knowing tomorrow there would be even more scratches all up and down your body. But right now you couldn’t care less. You were chasing the high that was taken away from you, truly unable to form much of a thought as you watch him fumble with his belt. You were nervous for what you were about to see. This was all so new, so exciting.

You watch as he frees his thick cock. It's hard and throbbing, the tip already leaking pre-cum as he lines it up with your soaked entrance. He stays there though, not allowing himself to push into you just yet. Bob searches your eyes, looking for any sign or regret or not wanting to do this anymore. But they weren’t there. In fact, you were practically drooling over the thought of him finally being inside you.

He leans forward and kisses your neck. “Are you sure you want this?” Bob can’t help himself. He needs to hear you, needs to know this is okay.

You nod eagerly, not bothering to respond with real words because you were unsure if it would even come out as anything more than a whine or a babble. He starts to push into you, slowly burying himself to the hilt inside you. You try to keep it contained, but it’s almost impossible. You cry out at the sudden intrusion, the stretch burning deliciously, but he clamps his large hand over your mouth before the sound can carry too far. He makes sure to distract you from

the pain by peppering soft kisses across your whole face, comforting you in any way he can.

His palm muffles your moans, pressing firm against your lips as his fingers splay across your cheek. The risk heightens everything. The alley could be full of prying eyes or footsteps at any moment, but that only makes your walls clench around him tighter.

Bob starts off painfully slow as you get used to his size. But it wasn’t long before his pace quickened and he was fucking you pretty hard, his hips snapping forward in a relentless rhythm, each plunge driving his cock deep into your core. Your back bounced roughly against the wall, but you felt none of the pain. The brick bites into your skin, but soon all that pain mixes with the pleasure, your body arching to meet his thrusts.

You taste salt on your tongue from where your lips press against his hand, your breaths coming in hot pants through your nose. Desperate to mark him, you turn your head to free yourself from his muzzle. It’s just enough to lean forward and latch onto his neck, sucking hard on the pulse point below his ear. Your teeth graze the skin as you bite down, leaving a blooming hickey, then another lower on his collarbone, your mouth working feverishly while he pounds into you.

His shirt strains under your grip as you claw at it, frustration and lust making you yank hard. Buttons pop free with a sharp ping, scattering into the shadows, exposing the taut muscles of his chest. You drag your lips across the newly bared skin, sucking bruises into his flesh. Dark possessive marks that make him hiss through gritted teeth. His free hand grips your ass, fingers digging in as he angles his hips to hit deeper, the head of his cock slamming against your cervix with every thrust.

Your muffled cries vibrate against his skin as you try to keep them contained by leaving whatever marks you could, but they were growing louder, more frantic as the coil in your belly tightens. The public danger amps up the adrenaline, your pussy fluttering around him, slick and greedy. Bob's breaths turn ragged, his thrusts erratic as he chases his own release, the veins in his neck standing out under your latest hickey. He grinds against your clit with each thrust, pushing you over the edge.

You come with a strangled scream into his neck, your body convulsing, walls milking his cock in pulsing waves. The orgasm rips through you, leaving you shaking, but he doesn't stop fucking you through it until his own climax hits.

With a loud groan, he pushes in deep one last time, his cock twitching as he floods your pussy, spilling inside you until it leaks down your thighs. He holds you there, both of you panting, his hand still over your mouth as the aftershocks fade. Slowly, he lowers you to your feet, but his eyes promise this is far from over.

The night feels quieter after. Not completely empty, just softer. Bob is now tugging his pants back into place, movements careful and a little clumsy like his body hasn’t quite caught up to what just happened. You’re fixing your hair, smoothing your dress back down over your hips, fingers lingering there for a second as you straighten the fabric. Neither of you speaks for the first few minutes after you finish.

The alley smells like rain and brick and something faintly metallic. Your heart is still beating too fast. Bob glances at you once, then again, clearly unsure what to say, and finally steps closer. He reaches out gently, brushing your hair away from your face with his fingers. The touch is soft now, in a way that makes your chest ache. He leans in and presses a small kiss to the tip of your nose.

“Are you okay?” he asks quietly.

You smile, nod, then lean in and give him a simple kiss on the lips. Slow, sweet. You couldn’t help but wonder where the hell this version of Bob came from. Nothing about your interactions with him today could’ve prepared you for the way he fucked you just a few minutes ago.

“So,” you say lightly, like nothing monumental just happened, “are you gonna take me back to the famous tower now, or do I have to wait for more than sex in a dark, dirty alley?”

He short-circuits instantly. It’s impressive, honestly, how fast he snaps back into flustered Bob like he didn’t just do incredibly illegal things with you under the open sky. His mouth opens, the closes. He clears his throat.

“Of course,” he says quickly, reaching for your hand like it’s instinct. “Of course I’m taking you there.”

You sigh happily and lean into him, resting your head on his shoulder as he guides you out of the alley and toward the quiet glow of the tower in the distance.

———

The common area of the tower is quiet in the way it only ever is late at night. Lights are dimmed low, the city glowing faintly through the tall windows. Yelena is pacing, arms folded tight across her chest, boots thudding softly against the floor as she moves back and forth.

“He is late,” she says for the third time.

Walker doesn’t even look up from where he’s stretched out on the couch, one arm slung over the back like he owns the place. “He’s on a date, Yelena. That’s usually how they work. They probably went for a walk after or something.”

“It has been hours,” she insists. “What if she murdered him?”

Bucky, perched on the armchair nearby, snorts. “Bob is literally bulletproof.”

“That does not mean he is immune to being stabbed by a hot, mysterious woman,” Yelena fires back.

Walker finally looks up, amused. “That’s actually exactly what that means.”

“I am being realistic here!” She pulls out her phone, thumbs already moving. “I am calling him.”

Before she can hit the screen, the elevator behind them dings, and all three of them freeze.

Yelena exhales in relief, shoulders dropping. “Oh good, He’s home. He is fine.”

Then the doors slide open, and Bob steps out first. He is very much not alone. Yelena’s relief lasts exactly half a second before it turns into wide-eyed panic. Bob is smiling, distracted, one hand laced firmly with someone else’s, and he doesn’t notice anything beyond the person beside him. He guides her forward like the rest of the world has simply ceased to exist. Walker reacts on instinct.

“Oh shit,” he mutters, grabbing Yelena by the arm and yanking her down onto the couch. Bucky barely has time to react before Walker hauls him down too, all three of them ducking just as Bob and his date stumble fully into the room. They peek over the back of the couch like idiots.

Bob and the girl are whispering and laughing, shushing each other between kisses like teenagers sneaking in past curfew. They bump into the edge of the coffee table, giggle, and immediately dissolve into another kiss.

Walker squints. “Damn.”

Yelena elbows him hard. “Do not.”

“What,” he whispers back. “I have eyes. She is in fact hot.”

Bucky leans forward slightly, trying to see without being obvious. “How does he not see us?”

Walker snorts quietly. “He’s busy!”

Bob backs into the wall, moaning softly as the girl presses into him, hands already all over his jacket, his hair, his neck. Walker’s eyes widen as they settle on Bob’s neck.

“Is that a hickey?” he whispers. “Oh my god. That is a hickey.”

Yelena covers her mouth, half scandalized, half delighted. “Oh. He really did it. I hope he used that condom you gave him..”

Bucky blinks slowly. “I did not know Bob had that in him.”

Neither did Bob, apparently. Because he suddenly scoops the girl up without warning, her laugh turning into a surprised gasp as she wraps her legs around him. They disappear down the hallway, still kissing, still whispering and shushing each other like they’re committing a crime. A bedroom door closes, and silence follows.

Walker leans back and gags dramatically. “I am going to bed. I have seen enough.”

Yelena stands slowly, smoothing her t shirt, a soft smile tugging at her mouth. “I am very proud of him.”

Bucky rises as well, shaking his head.

They all scatter awkwardly, each pretending they didn’t just witness something deeply personal, doors closing one by one as the tower finally settles back into quiet.

———

The door to Bob’s room closes softly behind you. The tower feels different up here, quieter, removed from everything that just happened outside. The city glows faintly through the windows, distant and blurred, like it belongs to another life entirely. Bob flicks the light on out of habit, then hesitates and dims it again, leaving only the bedside lamp and the city glow to fill the room.

For a moment, you just stand there. He reaches for you without thinking, fingers brushing your hand like he needs the contact to ground himself. His movements are slower now, careful, like he’s suddenly aware of how real this is.

“I, um,” he starts, then stops.

You smile and step closer, smoothing your dress down over your hips, fixing your hair with a quick shake. He watches you the entire time, eyes warm and almost disbelieving, like he still isn’t sure you didn’t disappear somewhere between the elevator and his door. He turns away first, suddenly shy again, and starts undoing his belt. The quiet sound of it feels louder than it should. He pulls his pants down just enough to step out of them, then fumbles briefly before kicking them aside. When he looks back at you, there’s color high on his cheeks.

You slip your shoes off and take your time with the rest. You let your dress slide down your body slowly, catching it just before it hits the floor. You don’t rush. You’re very aware he’s watching. He doesn’t look away.

You pull one of his shirts from where it’s folded on the bed and tug it over your head. It hangs loose on you, soft and familiar already, the fabric brushing your thighs. When you turn back to him, he’s sitting on the edge of the bed now, shirtless, boxers low on his hips, hands resting uselessly on his knees.

He looks undone. Not frantic. Not hungry. Just… stunned. Like the day caught up to him all at once.

“Quit staring,” you tease gently.

He smiles, small and genuine, and reaches out for you. “Come here.”

You crawl onto the bed and settle beside him. The sheets are cool at first, then warm quickly as he wraps an arm around you and pulls you close. You fit against him easily, like this isn’t the first time you’ve done this instead of the first night you’ve met. You talk quietly for a while. You point out things in his room. The neat shelves. The careful way everything has its place. You tease him about it, light and affectionate, and he just laughs softly, brushing his thumb along your arm.

“Your sheets smell nice,” you say, burying your face into his shoulder.

“Thank you,” he replies, pleased in a way that makes your chest feel warm.

He looks peaceful. Blissed out. Like the world finally stopped demanding things from him.

After a moment, he shifts and gently pulls you so you’re sitting in his lap, legs folding around his waist beneath the covers. His hands settle at your hips, steady and warm, thumbs brushing slow circles like he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it. You kiss him again. It starts soft. Slow. Unrushed. Nothing like the alley. This one is quieter, deeper, lips lingering like you’re both trying to memorize the feel of it. His hands tighten just a little as the kiss deepens, breath catching against your mouth.

You pull back first. There’s something wicked in your eyes now as you slide lower, hands trailing down his chest. You leave gentle kisses to his skin as you move down, feeling goosebumps grow under your touch.

“What are you doing,” he asks, voice already unsteady as he watches you.

You don’t answer. Instead, you lift the blankets and disappear beneath them.

“I’m returning the favour,” you murmur softly, “for what you did back in the alley.”

Bob exhales sharply, immediately gripping the sheets next to him to ground himself. As you work his boxers off him, his one hand reminds buried in the bed, the other lifting to cover his eyes like he needs a second to prepare.

And the night stretches on, with absolutely no sleep in sight.

———

Bob wakes up carefully. He realizes almost immediately that moving too fast will wake her, and that feels unthinkable. She’s still curled in his bed, half tangled in the sheets, one arm flung over the pillow like she fought sleep and lost. Her hair is everywhere. Her face is soft in a way that makes his chest tighten, like this version of her is something private he wasn’t meant to see yet.

He watches her breathe for a long moment.

Then, slowly, he slips out of bed. The kitchen is quiet when he gets there, still dim with early morning light. He moves on instinct, grabbing bread, the good honey he never uses, butter softening on the counter. Toast feels right. Simple. Comforting. Something that says I noticedwithout him having to say anything out loud.

The toast is now done. It popped up a full minute ago, and he just… stared at it, knife hovering uselessly over the butter, brain somewhere else entirely. He keeps glancing down the hallway like the act of looking might pull her out of sleep sooner, like he can will her into waking up just by missing her hard enough. How does he miss her so much already, and she’s only down the hall?

He exhales, forces himself to move. Butter first. Slow, careful strokes. Edge to edge. Honey next, drizzled deliberately, watching it sink into the warm bread. He uses more than he usually would. He tells himself it’s because she likes honey.

“Okay,” Yelena says from the doorway. “You are being weird.”

Bob nearly drops the knife.

“I’m not,” he says automatically.

She steps fully into the kitchen, arms crossed, eyes sharp and observant. She doesn’t say anything at first. Just looks at him. The plate. The honey. The way his shoulders are slightly hunched like he’s bracing for something. Then her gaze lifts, and she squints. She tries to move his shirt to check him out, but he shoos her away and goes back to his toast.

“Oh,” she says.

Bob immediately reaches up and adjusts his collar, too late. “It’s not-“

“It’s several,” she cuts in. “Several is what it is. Is she a vampire?”

Walker appears behind her, yawning, followed by Bucky. Walker clocks Bob’s neck and stops mid-step.

“Wow,” he says. “You look like you lost a fight with someone enthusiastic.”

Bob groans, scrubbing a hand over his face. “Can we not do this first thing in the morning?”

Bucky’s eyes stay on Bob’s face instead of his neck. “You’re making breakfast?”

“Yes.”

“For her?”

“Yes.”

Yelena’s mouth curves slightly. “You like her.”

Bob doesn’t answer right away. He sets the plate down on the counter with more care than necessary, then leans back against it, arms folding loosely like he needs something solid behind him. His gaze flicks to the hallway again before he speaks.

“I can’t stop thinking about her,” he admits quietly. “Like… I woke up and she was still there, and I thought maybe I was dreaming. And then she moved and I realized she was real.”

Walker raises his brows. “He’s whipped.”

“I really like her,” Bob says.

Yelena steps closer. “Tell us.”

He hesitates, clearly unsure where to start. “She’s so funny,” he says finally. “She’s lived a life just like me. She takes up space, she’s like the completely opposite of me. She isn’t awkward or scared of anything.”

Walker smirks. “Whiiiiiiped,” he teases as bob continues.

“And she watches,” Bob continues. “Like she’s clocking everything. When I talk, she actually listens. She looks at my mouth when I speak. Not in a polite way.”

He rubs the back of his neck, flustered now that he’s admitting it. He doesn’t want to tell them too many details, but they are his best friends. And it doesn’t help that he knows they will never stop pestering him about it. “And She’s hot,” he adds suddenly, blunt and honest. “Like, distractingly hot. I forgot how to speak multiple times.”

Nobody says anything to him this time.

“And she knows it,” Bob says, half in awe. “But she doesn’t wield it like a weapon. She just… exists. It’s worse.”

Yelena smiles knowingly. “So what happened on your date?”

Bob stiffens. His ears turn red instantly. “We talked.”

Walker waits, noticing the blus creeping up on his friends face. He knows there’s more to it. “And?”

“We drank. She packed a flask filled with tequila..”

“Tequila,” Yelena nods in approval. “That’s a bold choice for a first date. I like it.”

Bob exhales slowly, like he’s bracing himself. “We ran from the restaurant. We didn’t pay…”

Bucky blinks, in complete disbelief. “You what?

“The alley,” Bob adds, voice dropping. “Things escalated.”

Yelena, Bucky, and Walker all look between each other with confusion, trying to decipher what the hell Bob could mean. It takes a few minutes, but they finally get there and Yelena’s eyes widen. “You had sex in an alley! In public?!”

Bob nods, mortified. “I didn’t plan it. I didn’t even know I was capable of that.”

Walker grins. “We didn’t know that either. I knew that condom would be useful. And after?”

Bob gestures helplessly toward the hallway. He decides to keep the fact that the condom remains unused to himself. “After was… also not planned.”

There’s a beat of silence, and then. Walker lets out a low whistle. “Jesus. You’re nasty! Who knew it took a mystery girl from the market to let out Reynolds’s freak.”

“Please keep it down,” Bob says quickly. “She’s asleep. I don’t want her to hear me talking like this.”

And almost as if he summoned her, small footsteps shuffle softly down the hall. Everybody and everything stops.

———

You appear in the doorway, wrapped in one of Bob’s shirts, hair a disaster, eyes still heavy with sleep. You pause when you realize you have an audience. It was incredibly clear they were trying to act normal, as if they weren’t just talking about you before you walked in.

“You were absolutely talking about me,” you say, walking up next to Bob like you owned the place.

Bob closes his eyes. Yelena straightens immediately. “Good morning. You look good this morning. It’s nice to see you again.” She tries to hold her laugh to herself, but isn’t able to hide the smile. You wink at her, because of course you had to flirt a little.

Walker smirks. “We-“

Yelena smacks his arm. “No.”

You laugh softly, rubbing at one eye. “Relax. I don’t bite before coffee.”

Bob moves toward you like he’s been waiting for permission, holding the plate out carefully. “I made you toast. Butter and honey.”

You smile at him, warm and sleepy. “For me?”

He nods. You take a bite, eyes closing for a second. “Oh. Yeah. This is really good.”

The look on his face is ridiculous. Like you just gave him a giant gold star. And as you lean against the counter beside him, stealing another bite, Bob thinks with startling clarity that he’s already in trouble with you.

You lean against the counter beside him, still sleepy, still warm, absently having another bite of toast. Honey sticks slightly to your fingers. You lick it off without thinking. Bob watches. He shifts uncomfortably, a flash of exactly what your mouth was doing to him last night crossing his mind. He immediately looks away like he’s been caught doing something criminal.

They all notice, because of course they would, it’s not like you were hiding anything very well. Walker groans in disgust at the sight in front of him. “God it’s bad enough we had to see you guys last night when you came home,” Yelena shoves him lightly, knowing they all agreed to take their watching party to the grave. “Sorry! It’s gross. New horny Bob is gross.”

“So,” you say casually, glancing around the kitchen, trying to do anything to change the subject, “is this the part where you all interrogate me, or does that come after coffee?”

Walker grins. “Oh, we already interrogated him.”

You glance up at Bob, amused. “Oh yeah?”

He clears his throat, ears pink again. “They’re exaggerating.”

“Absolutely not,” Yelena says. “You should have heard him.”

You raise a brow, clearly intrigued. “He talk about me? Did he tell you about the sex in the alleyway?

Bob shifts his weight, suddenly very interested in the countertop, turning the darkest red of shade youve ever seen him. “Not like-“

“He absolutely did,” Walker cuts in. “Very detailed.”

Yelena shoots him a look. “Not that detailed.”

You laugh softly and lean a little closer to Bob, shoulder brushing his arm. “What kind of detailed?”

Bob exhales, defeated. “You’re enjoying this too much.”

“Oh yes honey, Immensely.”

You take another bite of toast, humming again. Bob swallows.

“You’re impossible,” he mutters, but there’s no heat in it. Just fondness.

You tilt your head, studying him openly now. “You don’t look like someone who regrets last night.”

His answer comes too fast. “I don’t.”

The kitchen goes quiet for half a second.

You smile at him, slow and knowing. “Good.”

Yelena clears her throat loudly. “Okay. Enough. This is starting to feel like something I shouldn’t be watching.”

Walker nods. “Agreed. I suddenly need coffee. Far away from this.”

Bucky mutters something about training and makes a quiet exit. One by one, they scatter, leaving the kitchen to settle back into something softer. Something almost private again. You finish the toast and set the plate aside, then turn back to Bob. You step into his space without hesitation, close enough that he has to tilt his head down to look at you.

“You okay,” you ask lightly.

He nods, then pauses. Shakes his head slightly. “I think I’m… catching up.”

“To what.”

He hesitates, searching for the right words. “To the fact that I don’t know how to do this casually.”

You blink. “Do what.”

“This,” he says, gesturing vaguely between the two of you. “You. Last night. This morning. I keep thinking it was just fun, and then you walk out wearing my shirt and eating my toast like you’ve been here forever.”

You smile, softer now. “That freak you out?”

“A little,” he admits. “But mostly it just… feels important.”

The word hangs there.

You study him for a moment, then reach up and fix the collar of his shirt, fingers lingering at his chest. “Good,” you say quietly. “Because I don’t really do casual either.”

Something settles in him at that. Clicks into place.

Bob realizes, with startling clarity, that this wasn’t a one-night thing the moment he woke up and checked to see if you were still breathing beside him. That it wasn’t casual when he made toast instead of coffee. That it definitely wasn’t casual when he imagined you leaving and felt a tightness in his chest he didn’t know what to do with. He reaches for your hand without thinking.

You turn sideways, tugging your shirt aside just enough to see the shadows under your skin. Love marks. Power marks. Proof of something you would rather pretend never happens. You scoff at your reflection, a quiet sound in the empty room.

“Get it together,” you murmur, then yank your shirt back into place, strategically covering yourself and heading for the door.

The tower is already awake, and quite loud. The hallway hums with distant voices and the clatter of plates. When you step into the kitchen, the smell of burnt toast and cheap coffee hits you first. You scan the room, smiling at your friends gathered. Your smile falters however when it lands on him.

Bob.

He sits at the far end of the table, hunched over his mug like it is the only thing tethering him to reality. His shirt is rumpled and crooked. His hair looks like he dragged a hand through it too many times. He does not look at you, and do not look at him, a regular routine you’ve created each morning. Walker, unfortunately, looks at everyone. He squints the second he sees you, eyes tracking the way you move like he is trying to piece together a puzzle.

“Wow,” he says, leaning back in his chair. “Either you got into a bar fight with a freight train, or you really need to ease up on whatever sadistic training routine you’re on.”

“Good morning to you too,” you reply flatly, already reaching for the coffee pot.

Alexei appears at your side like a human wall, sliding a plate into your hands before you can refuse it.

“You are too small,” he declares. “Always too small. Eat more. You fight like angry kitten but bones are like little breadsticks.”

You tilt your head up and kiss his cheek just to watch him blink in surprise.

“Thanks for the pep talk,” you say sweetly, then pivot away before he can recover.

Your gaze flicks, traitorous, toward the far end of the table.Bob finally looks up. It is a mistake. His eyes sharpen the second they land on you, like he is bracing for impact. You wonder if he fully remembers coming into your room night after night and doing…What you both did. Something bitter rises in your chest and you lean into it before you can stop yourself.

“Staring again, Reynolds?” you ask.

“Careful. People might think you’re obsessed.”

His jaw tightens. “Hard to ignore a walking health violation.”

You smile thinly. “Funny. I was just thinking the same thing about your posture.”

Walker lets out a low whistle. “And the award for most emotionally constipated morning exchange goes to-“

“Shut up,” you and Bob say in unison.

You drop into the chair beside Bucky, deliberately turning your back on Bob like he does not exist. Across the table, Yelena is watching you with a look that is far too interested.

“You two are like married couple who despise each other,” she says. “It is very entertaining. Also very loud at night.”

You choke on your coffee.

Bucky does not look at you, but his shoulder bumps yours just enough to steady you. He does not say anything while you eat, which somehow feels louder than any lecture. You focus on your plate, chewing without tasting, aware of Bob’s presence in the room like a static charge. When you stand to rinse your dish, Bucky is already on his feet.

“Come on,” he says, hand closing around your wrist before you can protest.

He does not stop walking until the kitchen noise fades behind heavy walls. Then he turns to face you, eyes dropping immediately to your hands. Your knuckles are bruised, split in a way that tells a very specific story.

“Training,” you say before he can ask.

He raises an eyebrow. “You trying to punch the building down?”

You shrug. “Wouldn’t be the worst renovation idea.”

His gaze drifts, careful and brief, to your collar where your shirt has slipped just enough to reveal the edge of one of those marks. His expression does not change. That makes your throat tighten.

“Those too,” he says quietly.

You scoff. “Don’t start.”

“I’m not starting anything,” he replies. “I just don’t like when you look like you’re losing a fight with yourself.”

For a moment, you almost tell him. Almost let the words crack open in your mouth. He was truly your best friend, and not telling Bucky what goes on at night between you and Bob felt like lying. Instead you roll your eyes and tug your wrist from his grip.

“I’m fine. You worry too much.”

He studies you a second longer, then sighs and steps aside.

“Alright,” he says. “But I’m not buying it. Not today, not ever. You’re a bad liar.”

He lets it go, but the concern in his eyes follows you all the way back down the hall until you disappear from his sight.

————-

You take your seat near the far wall of the briefing room with Bucky and Yelena, folding your arms and fixing your attention on the tablet in Ava’s hands like it contains the secrets of the universe. You do not look at Bob, per usual.

Across the room, he sits beside Walker, shoulders tense, fingers laced together so tightly his knuckles have gone pale. You are not in his line of sight, but you exist in every other way. In the echo of his pulse. In the way the air feels too warm in his lungs. In the quiet reminders that do not care if he is awake or asleep. He does not hear Ava explaining entry points or tactical formations. He is busy remembering pinning your wrists above your head last night, the way you had said his name like it was a challenge instead of a plea. He remembers the smell of your pillows, something clean and soft that makes no sense with the way you treat each other when the sun is up.

He hates that he remembers. He hates that it was him and also not him.

Walker nudges his knee with his own. “Earth to Reynolds.”

Bob blinks, slow and heavy. “What?”

Walker glances toward Ava, who is still mid-sentence, then back to Bob. “You with us, or should I start taking notes in crayon?”

Bob exhales through his nose and stares at the table. “I’m fine.”

Ava says your name, and the sound hits Bob like a slap to the face. His shoulders jerk, breath catching before he can stop it. For half a heartbeat the room disappears and all he can feel is the memory of pinning your wrists down, of your pulse jumping beneath his thumbs like he was holding something fragile instead of fighting someone who claims to hate him. From across the room, you notice. Not the memory, obviously. Just the flinch. The way his body reacts to your name like it is a wound instead of a word.

Walker notices too.

He leans closer, voice low enough that it does not carry. “What the hell was that.”

Bob swallows. His mouth is dry. His hands will not stop shaking.

“Nothing,” he says.

Walker studies him, jaw tightening. “You look like you haven’t slept in a week.”

Bob almost laughs. It comes out as a breath instead. “Feels like longer.”

Walker doesn’t pry any longer as Ava finishes the briefing and closes her tablet. Chairs scrape back. The room fills with the sound of people standing, talking, moving on like nothing inside Bob has just splintered.

“You need to get your head straight before we go out there,” Walker says quietly. “Whatever’s going on, it’s bleeding through.”

Bob nods because it is easier than answering. Around you, the team filters out of the room, already shifting into mission mode. You pass his row without looking at him, close enough that he catches the faintest trace of your shampoo, clean and impossible. Then you are gone, and the mission drags him with it whether he is ready or not.

————

Smoke clings to the ceiling of the research wing like a low storm cloud. The corridor you are in narrows into something barely wide enough for two people to pass shoulder to shoulder. Somewhere ahead, a warning alarm pulses in an uneven rhythm, the random building complaining about injuries it never had time to heal.

You had been right behind Bucky pretty much the whole mission until the floor shuddered around you. Not violently, just enough to shift the debris piled against the walls. The path you were supposed to take collapses inward with a sound like a held breath being released. Concrete and wiring drop between you and the rest of the team in a choking plume of dust.

“Seriously,” you mutter, coughing. “You have got to be kidding me.”

The comms crackle. Bucky’s voice cuts through the static, filled with panic. “You guys okay?”

“I’m fine,” you say immediately. “Just stuck with Reynolds. Living the dream.”

Bob steps up beside you, scanning the blockage with an unreadable expression. He holds his hand out to help you up but you ignore it. “We go around,” he says. “There’s a service stairwell off the west wing.”

“Oh, now you’re taking charge,” you reply.

“Thought you were still in zoning-out mode.”

He shoots you a look. “I wasn’t zoning out.”

“You flinched when someone said my name,” you say. “That’s not exactly locked in.”

His jaw tightens. “Drop it.”

“Why,” you press, brushes pieces of rubble and dust from your gear. “Hit a nerve?”

“Can you just focus,” he snaps. “For once.”

You push past him into the narrow passage without waiting for an answer. “I am focused. On not babysitting you.”

The stairwell is worse than the hallway. Lights flicker overhead, and the metal railing rattles every time the structure shifts. You take the first step two at a time just to get it over with.

Bob grabs your arm. “Slow down.”

You jerk away. “Don’t touch me.”

“You don’t get to run into a collapsing building like it’s nothing,” he says. “You are not invincible.”

“I never said I was,” you shoot back. “But I don’t freeze every time something goes wrong either.”

His mouth tightens. “That’s not freezing. That’s thinking.”

“Oh please,” you scoff. “You think I don’t notice how you hover. How you look at me like you’re waiting for me to screw up.”

“Because you keep trying to,” he snaps.

The stair beneath your boot groans.

Then it gives. Your foot slips into empty space, heart lurching as your weight pitches forward. You grab for the railing and miss, the world tilting too fast to make sense of it.

Bob catches you. His hand clamps around your harness and rips you backward so hard you slam into his chest. For a breathless second, everything stops.

You shove him away immediately. “What the hell is wrong with you!”

“No, what is wrong with you,” he fires back. “You almost fell!”

“I had it,” you snap.

“No you didn’t.”

“Yes I did.”

“You were one bad step from breaking your neck.”

“So now you’re my personal safety briefing,” you say bitterly. “I don’t need you hovering over me like I’m made of glass.”

“I am trying to keep you alive,” he says, voice rising. “You act like you don’t care if you come back from these things.”

“Maybe I just don’t need someone breathing down my neck every second,” you shoot back.

“You don’t stop,” he says. “You don’t slow down. You push harder every time like you’re daring something to happen. You might not care but either people do! What about Bucky? Yelena? Everybody else?”

“Stop pretending you know me.”

“I know you’re destroying yourself,” he snaps. “And I’m sick of watching it.”

Footsteps echo at the top of the stairwell.

Bucky rounds the corner first, skidding to a halt when he takes you in, breathing hard, eyes bright with worry. Yelena follows, gaze flicking instantly between you and Bob. Walker lingers behind them, already shaking his head at hearing the arguing.

Bucky grabs your arm and pulls you back from Bob. “Enough,” he says, planting himself between you. “This is not the time.”

At the same moment, Yelena steps directly into Bob’s space and presses her hand flat to his chest, firm and unmoving. Not aggressive. Just a wall. Bob freezes under her touch.

“You are both being very dramatic,” Yelena says calmly. “But you are about to get someone killed.”

Walker exhales. “Can we maybe not have the meltdown in the collapsing stairwell.”

You rip your arm from Bucky’s grip and storm past them down the corridor.

“Don’t,” Bob calls after you.

It is not angry, it is scared.

You do not answer.

————-

The jet hums steadily beneath your feet, a low vibration that usually lulls everyone into sleep or sarcastic commentary. Tonight it does neither.

The cabin is wrapped in a strange quiet, the kind that settles after something goes wrong in a way no one has words for yet. Yelena and Walker are the only ones breaking it, arguing in hushed tones over whether Walker tripped over a cable or whether the cable was clearly trying to assassinate him. It should be funny. It barely registers.

You sit with your shoulder pressed against Bucky’s arm, the way you have since the moment you boarded. He had not asked. He had simply taken the seat beside you and stayed there like it was the most natural thing in the world. You drop your head onto his shoulder, trying to keep yourself from glancing up the aisle.

Bob sits alone near the back, head bowed, hands clasped together between his knees. He has not looked at you once. That almost hurts more than if he had. Bucky notices your glances. He always does. He does not say anything at first, just shifts a little closer, like he is reminding you he is there.

After a few minutes, he murmurs, “You okay?”

It is not a question that expects honesty.

You shrug. “Just tired.”

He waits. You can feel the weight of it, his patience, his refusal to let things slide when they matter.

“Those bruises,” he says quietly. “And your hands. That’s not from today, they’re old.”

Your throat tightens. You stare at the floor between your boots. “It’s nothing.”

He leans back in his seat, crossing his arms. You don’t budge off of his shoulder. In fact, you wished he would just be quiet so you could nap, but you knew that would never happen. “You’ve been saying that since we met.”

You huff a small laugh. “Guess I’m consistent.”

“Guess you’re miserable.”

You finally look at him then, ready with a retort, but it dies when you see his expression. He is not annoyed. He is not judging you. He is worried.

He lowers his voice even further. “I’m not stupid. I see the way you two look at each other. The way he freezes when you talk. The way you won’t say his name anymore.”

Your pulse thuds in your ears. “Bucky, don’t.”

“Is it Bob,” he asks gently. “Or is it something else?”

Your fingers curl into the fabric of your pants. You glance down the aisle again. Bob is still staring at the floor.

“It’s not technically Bob,” you whisper.

Bucky’s brow furrows. “What does that mean.”

You hesitate, then lean closer so your shoulder brushes his. Your voice drops until it is almost lost in the engine noise.

“A few weeks ago I thought he came into my room. We were arguing like usual. And then I realized it wasn’t him.” You swallow. “It was the Sentry.”

His jaw tightens. He does not interrupt you.

“It’s been happening since. That’s where the bruises come from. He remembers. Bob doesn’t act like he does, but I know he does.”

Bucky leans back slowly, eyes on the ceiling now, like he is trying to steady himself. When he looks at you again, something protective flashes through him that makes your chest ache.

“You should have told me,” he says quietly.

“I didn’t want to admit it out loud,” you reply.

He reaches out and squeezes your knee, brief but grounding. “Just be careful. I don’t care what version of him it is. I care about you.”

You nod because it is easier than arguing.

Later, you leave the jet without looking back.

You feel Bob’s eyes on you anyway, burning between your shoulder blades like something unfinished. It makes your skin crawl, makes your chest tight with a mix of anger and something you refuse to name.

The tower is too bright when you get back, the world below completely alive. You curse it, begin to wish you could be the last person on earth as you trudge towards your room.

You strip off your gear in your room and drop it in a heap by the door. Your clothes smell like smoke and sweat and dried blood that is not all yours. You do not shower, that sounds like too much work for your energy level. Instead, you plant your feet in front of the punching bag and hit it. Once. Twice. Again and again until the impact rattles the chain in the ceiling. Your knuckles sting almost immediately, skin splitting open where it was already raw, but you welcome it. Pain is honest. Pain does not pretend to be anything else.

You picture his face when you swing, like you do every night. Not the one he shows everyone else, the one everybody seems to love. The one that looks at you like he is waiting for you to give him permission to exist. You hit harder. The door opens behind you, and you don’t bother to turn.

You know the sound of him entering your space. The way the air changes, the way the room feels suddenly too small. Normally he would already be behind you by now, crowding you, stealing your focus with sheer presence alone, running his hands slowly up your sides until they’re pressing your body against him. Tonight he does none of that.

The silence stretches until it feels like something is going to snap. You finally stop throwing punches, breathing hard, sweat sliding down your spine. You reach for your water bottle without looking at him, taking a long drink just to buy yourself another second.

“What do you want,” you say, voice sharp. “You come in here and then just stand there like you’re waiting for applause.”

He still does not answer. You turn then, slow and irritated, ready to tear into him. He is clean. Fresh clothes. Hair still damp. He looks nothing like the version of him that usually finds you here, all heat and static and barely contained violence. He looks controlled. And he’s wearing that t shirt you mentioned liking him in that one time, and you mentally curse him for it.

Your stomach twists. “Don’t do this,” you warn.

He takes a step closer. Then another, measured, careful. Not the way he usually moves when he is here. You feel smaller under his stare, not physically, but emotionally, like he is peeling something open without touching you. You hate him for it.

“Say something,” you snap. “Or get out.”

He stops a step away from you, eyes dark and unreadable. His voice, when he finally speaks, is low and steady.

“Take your clothes off.”

You don’t know how to react to this. You stutter, ready to argue, but nothing comes out. Instead you swallow, suddenly feeling a bit more confident. You take a few steps back, not breaking the eye contact from him. Your skin shudders as you reach down and pull your shirt over your head, tossing it somewhere in the corner.

The rest of the night was a complete blur.

———

Morning does not feel like a relief, but instead feels like a hangover you cannot remember earning.

Your room is quiet when you wake, too quiet. The space beside your bed is empty, sheets cold where something enormous and impossible had stood only hours ago. Bob is gone. Of course he is. He always is by the time the sun comes up. You sit up slowly, muscles screaming in protest. Your knuckles are worse today, swollen and split open, dried blood dark against your skin. The punching bag looms in the corner like it is daring you to start again.

Instead you drag yourself into a hoodie and pad down the hallway, the tower barely awake. The common room is empty except for the hum of lights and the faint smell of coffee, and Bucky is already there. He is perched on the arm of the couch with a first aid kit balanced on his knee like he knew you would come looking for him. He looks up when you shuffle in, taking in your posture, the way you cradle your hands.

“Morning, trouble,” he says softly. “You look like you fought a lawnmower.”

You drop onto the couch beside him. “It started it.”

He gives you a look that says you are not funny, but there is a hint of a smile there anyway. He takes your hands gently, inspecting the damage like he has done this a hundred times before.

“You know,” he murmurs as he cleans the cuts, “most people don’t wake up bleeding.”

“You hang around the wrong people then.”

“Yeah,” he replies. “And I like them too much.”

His touch is careful, grounding. You watch him work, the lines around his eyes softening when he is focused like this.

“You sleep at all?” He asks.

You shrug. “Some.”

He does not press you, but he knows you’re lying. For being such an expensive place, the tours walls are incredibly thin. He tapes your knuckles, then sits back, studying you.

“You’re not alone in this,” he says finally. “Even when you act like you are.”

Your throat tightens, but you do not trust yourself to answer. From the hallway, footsteps echo faintly. You do not need to look up to know who it is. Bob passes the doorway, moving too quickly, not glancing in. His shoulders are drawn in, posture tight like he is trying to make himself invisible in his own home. Your gaze follows him before you can stop yourself, and Bucky notices.

He squeezes your knee once, grounding you back in the room.

“Hey,” he says quietly. “One step at a time.”

———

The gym smells like metal and sweat and something burnt. Bob has been there a while. You can tell by the dark patch spreading across the heavy bag, by the way his breathing is already too loud for the empty room. He isn’t training. He is trying to erase something. You stand in the doorway longer than you mean to, watching the way his shoulders hitch with every strike, how there is no pattern to it anymore. Just anger.

“You’re going to rip it off the ceiling,” you say at last.

He doesn’t answer. The bag takes another hit, the chain shrieking in protest. You step farther in, irritation crawling up your spine.

“Did you hear me,” you snap. “Or are you just planning on punching your way through every problem now?”

That gets his attention. He turns so fast you almost flinch. His cheeks are flushed red, hair plastered to his forehead, eyes burning with something that looks too close to panic.

“Maybe I wouldn’t have to if you didn’t pretend nothing is wrong all the time,” he shouts.

You blink. “Oh, I’m the one pretending now?”

“Yes,” he fires back. “You walk around like yesterday never happened. Like I don’t exist unless it’s convenient for you.”

Your laugh is loud and ugly. “You think this is about convenience? You think I’m choosing when you matter?”

“I don’t know what you’re choosing,” he says. “But you don’t talk to me. You glare at me. You shut me out like I’m already gone. And then at night time it’s a completely different story! And it’s not even really me..”

“Maybe because every time I try to let you in, you disappear. You Bob, not the other guy.”

His mouth opens, then closes again, like the words are stuck somewhere painful.

“I don’t disappear,” he says hoarsely.

“You do,” you yell. “You’re here one second, gone the next, and I’m left picking up whatever mess you leave behind. You use me!“

He steps closer, hands shaking. “You have no idea what it’s like in my head.”

“Then explain it,” you demand. “For once in your life, explain it instead of hiding behind that sad, confused look.”

The bag swings behind him, forgotten, the chain clanking like a warning.

“I don’t know how,” he admits, voice cracking through his anger. “Every time I get close to you, everything in me locks up. I don’t know what to say without making it worse.”

“So you just stop trying,” you shout. “You think silence is safer than honesty? You think being constantly mean to me gets you anywhere?”

“You’re just as mean back! I think I’m going to lose you either way,” he yells back. “And I don’t know how to stop it.”

Your chest heaves, tears threatening despite how furious you are.

“You already are losing me,” you scream. “You don’t get to act surprised about it now.”

The gym door slams open. Yelena stands there, eyes wide as she takes in the two of you, mid-explosion.

“What is happening in here,” she asks sharply.

You don’t even look at her. You jab a finger over your shoulder at Bob, hands shaking with adrenaline.

“Ask him,” you shout, then storm past her, shoving the door open so hard it rattles the frame.

The echo of your footsteps hasn’t even faded when Yelena turns back to Bob.

He is still standing in the middle of the gym like the floor might give out under him.

“You do not sleep,” she says, softer now but no less direct.

He drags a hand down his face. “I’m fine.”

“You look like ghost that forgot how to die.”

He lets out a broken laugh. “That bad, huh?”

She steps closer. “You are breaking yourself. And she is breaking herself. So tell me why.”

His shoulders slump. “Because I hate her,” he says. “And I can’t stop thinking about her. Because I want her even when I’m furious with her. And I hate that it isn’t me. And I hate that I don’t actually hate her.

Yelena’s eyes narrow. “Not you?”

“I don’t have the courage to go to her as myself,” he whispers. “I keep letting the strongest part of me make the choices.”

She places her hand over his chest, grounding him. “You cannot keep splitting yourself in half and expect love to choose the part you abandon.”

His eyes close. “She said I was already losing her. I didn’t even know I had her to lose! What if it’s like that forever?”

“Then you lose her as yourself,” Yelena replies quietly.

Yelena does not move her hand from his chest right away. She watches his face like she is reading something written too faintly for anyone else to notice.

“You think you are protecting her,” she says. “You think keeping distance is kindness.”

Bob lets out a humorless breath. “Isn’t it?”

“No,” she replies simply. “It is fear wearing better clothes.”

He looks at her, eyes rimmed red, exhausted down to his bones. “I don’t know how to fix this.”

“You stop letting power do your living for you,” she says. “You stop waiting for version of you that is not scared.”

He shakes his head. “She hates me.”

“She hates that you hide,” Yelena corrects. “There is difference.”

Silence settles between them, thick and heavy. Somewhere in the tower a door slams, faint but unmistakable. He knows without being told that it is you.

“She is not angry because you do nothing,” Yelena continues. “She is angry because you almost do something. Over and over again.”

His jaw tightens. “What if I make it worse?”

“You already are,” she says gently. “At least this way you will be honest about it.”

Bob closes his eyes. For a moment he looks like he might fold in on himself, like the weight of everything is too much for one body. Then he straightens, and without another word he turns and leaves the gym.

He does not remember the hallway.

He remembers the way his heart feels like it is trying to claw its way out of his chest, the way his palms keep going slick even though the air is cool. He changes in his room without really seeing what he is doing, stripping out of damp clothes and into something clean, something that feels like him instead of like armor. By the time he reaches your door his breathing is unsteady again. He stops with his fist raised, knuckles hovering inches from the wood.

He cannot knock. He leans closer instead, forehead pressing lightly against the frame, like he is afraid the door might vanish if he does not anchor himself to it.That is when he hears it. Not loud. Not dramatic. Just a faint, broken sound from the other side, like you are trying very hard to keep something contained. His chest tightens as he opens the door and steps inside.

Inside, your room is too small for everything you are carrying. Once the anger burns off, it leaves behind something sharper. Confusion. You sit on the edge of your bed with your hands knotted together, staring at the floor like it might give you answers if you look hard enough.

You cannot tell where the hatred ends and the wanting begins anymore. You have spent weeks convincing yourself that Bob is the problem, that you cannot stand him, that every fight is proof that whatever lives between you is poison. But now you cannot ignore the other questions that have been piling up quietly in the back of your mind.

Does he even want you? The real you? Or does he only want you when he is not really himself? Like when he comes in your room at night, is it just to get off? You assume so.

Your body complains when you stand, a dull chorus of aches from the mission, from overtraining, from nights Bob would come in here as the sentry. You told yourself you liked it, and for a while you truly did. The rough, careless, hate sex. You didn’t care if you woke up sore, or if you both woke up with bruises the next day because it proved how much fun you had having sex all hours of the night. But after weeks of it happening, weeks of bruising and being tired, the feeling got incredibly old. And now? All you felt was used. Hurt. Tired.

You shake the thoughts away tug on a pair of worn pajamas, wincing when the fabric brushes against bruises you try not to look at. As you sit down, the first tear falls down your face and surprises you. It lands on your hand and suddenly you are crying in a way you cannot remember starting, shoulders curling inward as you sink back onto the bed. Usually you never let yourself cry, and you just take it out in training instead. But this time you just let it happen. You press your palms to your face, embarrassed even though you are alone.

The door opens behind you. You do not look up. You know the routine too well, as it was happening pretty much every night now. You couldn’t do this tonight, you needed rest. And not only that, but you do not want him to see you like this, not the version of you that is tired and small and hurting. He always sees the angry, sexy, ready to go side of you. So you stay exactly where you are, head in your hands, waiting for the usual shift in the air that comes with him taking over the room.

It never comes.

Instead, the mattress dips beside you.

Carefully. Hesitantly. Nothing happens for a moment until you feel a hand settle at the center of your back. It is warm, uncertain, nothing like the overwhelming presence you have come to expect. You tense, ready to pull away, but the touch does not demand anything from you.

You lean into it before you can stop yourself.

Your breath stutters. The crying eases, turning into quiet, uneven inhales against his shoulder. He does not move, does not rush you, just lets you exist there like it is allowed.

When his thumb brushes beneath your eye to catch a stray tear, you finally understand.

This is Bob.

You lift your head slowly. He is close enough now that you can see the fear he never lets anyone else notice, the way he is trying to be still so he does not scare you away.

“I’ve wanted to come here like this for a long time,” he says after a moment. “But I didn’t know how to show you any of this without hiding behind something stronger than me.”

Your voice is rough when you answer. “It feels like you’re using me. Like you only want me when you’re not really you. Like you can only tolerate fucking me when it’s a different version of you.”

His eyes close briefly, like the words hurt. “That isn’t it. I want you so much it scares me. So I let the part of me that isn’t afraid be the one who reaches for you.”

The room feels heavier with every truth laid between you.

“All those fights,” you whisper. “All that hate.”

“They were never just hate,” he replies quietly. “They were the only way I knew how to feel this without falling apart.”

His hand is still on your cheek, thumb brushing the corner of your eye like he is memorizing the shape of you. He is breathing shallowly now, like he is afraid a deeper breath will make you disappear.

“You don’t hate me,” he says, not as a question but a realization that scares him.

Your chest aches. “I don’t think I ever did.”

Something in him finally gives. He leans in, not careful this time, not asking for permission with his eyes. The space between you collapses like it was never meant to exist. His mouth finds yours with a desperate kind of relief, like he has been holding his breath for months and only now remembers how to breathe.

It isn’t gentle. It isn’t neat. It is all the words you threw at each other finally running out of places to hide.

You grip his shirt like you might lose him if you let go. And when you finally pull back, foreheads pressed together, you are both shaking in exactly the same way. Bob's breath mingles with yours, warm and ragged, his blue eyes locking onto your gaze with a vulnerability you have never seen before. No more snarls or glares between you two, just this raw honesty that makes your chest ache.

He cups your face gently, thumb brushing your cheek as if you are something precious he fears breaking. "I love you," he whispers again, the words still fresh and trembling on his lips, and you nod, tears pricking your eyes because you feel it too, this shift from fury to fire to something deeper.

You lean in, kissing him slow and deep, tongues sliding together in a rhythm that speaks of forgiveness and need. His hands roam your body with care, peeling away your clothes layer by layer until skin meets skin. It feels incredibly different from his usual rough and needy touch. This was so much better in a way. You felt cared for, like you were a real person and not just a warm body for him.

He lays you back on the bed, the sheets cool against your heated flesh, and you pull him down with you, legs wrapping around his waist to keep him close. Bob settles between your thighs, his weight a comforting press, his cock growing hard and throbbing against your clothed core.

You arch up, spreading your legs wider, but he takes his time, kissing along your neck, your collarbone, murmuring your name like a prayer.

"I want to make this right," he says softly, his voice rough with emotion, and you thread your fingers through his hair, guiding him back to your lips.

He reaches for your hands, interlacing your fingers, and pins them gently above your head against the mattress. This was reminiscent of your sex with the other version of him, but again it felt so much better. The hold is firm but not forceful, a promise of trust rather than dominance, his grip warm as he uses his other hand to gently tug down your pants. They come down easily, your panties going with them, and you’re impressed by the skill he has with just one hand.

You never pictured Bob this way, taking charge but in a gentle way. He nibbles on your neck as you feel him slowly position himself at your entrance. You didnt even notice him strip himself out of his own clothes. You gasp as the thick head of his cock nudges your folds, parting them slowly, and he pushes in with a deliberate thrust, filling you inch by inch.

It's not the frantic hate you knew before; this is measured, intense. He waits awhile before bringing to move, just enjoying the feeling of you wrapped around him. Soon he began to move, each roll of his hips driving deep and hard but lingering, savoring the way your pussy clenches around him. You moan into his mouth, the stretch exquisite, his length hitting that spot inside you that sends sparks through your veins. Bob groans low, his forehead resting against yours again, eyes half-lidded as he watches your face, drinking in every flicker of pleasure.

He thinks about all the time he’s missed with you. All those nights he could’ve spent actually doing this instead of just seeming to watch it from afar. He never knew it could be this way. Bob thrusts again, harder this time, but unhurried, grinding against your clit with each press forward, building the heat between you like a slow-burning flame.

Your bodies move in sync, sweat-slicked and trembling, his hands squeezing yours in rhythm with his hips. You feel every ridge and vein of his cock as he buries himself to the hilt, pulling back just enough to tease before slamming home once more, the impact jolting pleasure up your spine.

“You feel so good," he breathes, lips brushing your ear, and you whimper, legs tightening around him to pull him deeper.

The tenderness in his touch contrasts the power in his thrusts, his free hand sliding down to caress your breast, thumb circling your nipple until it peaks under his attention.

Tension coils tighter in your belly with each sensual drive, his pace steady and relentless, fucking you with a loving ferocity that makes your heart swell. You rock up to meet him, the friction igniting every nerve, your pussy fluttering around his thickness as the edge approaches. Bob's breaths come in harsh pants now, his control fraying but never breaking, his eyes never leaving yours.

“Come with me," he urges softly, thrusting harder, deeper, the bed creaking under the force.

The world narrows to his cock pulsing inside you, your hands locked in his, the shared rhythm pushing you both toward release. You shatter first, crying out his name as waves of ecstasy crash over you, your walls milking him in tight spasms. Bob follows seconds later, a guttural moan escaping him as he spills hot and deep, his hips stuttering through the climax, filling you completely.

He collapses gently onto you, still holding your hands, both of you panting and spent.

For a few seconds neither of you speaks. The room feels like it is catching its breath with you, the earlier chaos reduced to the soft sound of his heartbeat where it presses against your palms. You stare at the ceiling, suddenly afraid to move in case the moment breaks. When you finally look at him, his glasses are crooked again and there is the faintest, disbelieving smile tugging at his mouth.

“Guess we’re really bad at hating each other,” he murmurs.

You let out a shaky laugh, the kind that surprises you by turning into relief instead of tears. Your fingers tighten around his like you are making a promise you do not have words for yet. Outside your door, the tower hums on like nothing has changed.

Inside, everything has.

————-

Bob is not with you, he never is, though that part barely registers anymore.

The ramp lowers after what feels like forever, the cool air hitting your face, and you roll your shoulders as you step off and head into the tower. already thinking about a shower and maybe ten minutes where nobody speaks to you. You know that’s unlikely with this group of people. The compound doors slide open and the first thing that hits you is the smell.

Butter. Garlic. Something roasted. Something with potato maybe?

You slow without meaning to in the doorway, and Walker nearly runs straight into your back.

“Oh god,” you say, flatly. “Not this again.”

He puts his hands on either side of you and forcefully guides you through the door and out of their way. “What do you mean again?”

You don’t answer him right away. Your eyes are already on the kitchen. The lights are on. The counters are way too clean for somebody spending what seems like the whole day cooking. Food is already laid out like someone planned for this.

Walker’s entire expression changes. “He cooked?”

Yelena’s smile spreads instantly. “He cooked.”

Ava tilts her head, considering. “Smells…like chicken.”

“That’s how he lures you in, with chicken!”you say. “Next thing you know, he’s labeling leftovers.”

Walker laughs as he shrugs out of his jacket. “I love when he labels leftovers.”

From the kitchen comes the soft clink of a utensil being set down, followed by footsteps that are unhurried and familiar.

Then Bob appears. He looks comfortable here in a way he never quite does out in the field. Sleeves rolled up, apron tied neatly at his waist, hair slightly mussed like he’s been moving around for hours with no break. There is a faint smudge of flour on his forearm that he clearly has not noticed. You look him up and down and bite down the smile at the little mess he’s made of himself.

He smiles when he sees all of you, relief softening his expression. “You’re back earlier than I thought,” he says. “Everything go okay?”

Walker drops his bag and the rest of his gear as he walked deeper into the kitchen. “You made food.”

Bob nods once. “Dinner’s ready.”

Walker spreads his arms like this is a miracle bestowed upon him. “I could kiss you.”

“Please don’t,” Bob says.

You snort. “He’s emotional. Ignore him.”

Bob’s eyes flick to you without him meaning to, then back to Walker. “Hi,” he says, like he forgot to greet you specifically.

“Hi,” you reply. “So. This is happening again?”

He frowns slightly. “What’s wrong with that?”

“Nothing,” you say. “If you like enabling.”

Yelena drifts toward the counter, peering at the plates like she’s inspecting art. “You are spoiling us. This is dangerous behavior.”

“I’m feeding you,” Bob says. “That’s it.”

Ava grabs a plate quietly, but pauses just long enough to glance at Bob before she does it, like she’s checking whether it’s okay to accept.

Bucky moves last. As he passes Bob, he murmurs, “You didn’t have to.”

Bob’s shoulders ease just a fraction. “I wanted to.”

You hang back a moment longer, arms crossed, watching him move around the kitchen with that infuriating calm competence. This phase of his has been building for weeks now. First it was laundry. Then repairs. Then breakfasts. Then lunches. Now full dinners that smell like effort. The team loves it. You hate how natural he looks doing it. You hate how on days where you have nothing to do, you find yourself peeking in on Bob, watching him in his happy place. You didn’t want to admit it but if you could, you’d tell yourself you could stay there and watch him all day.

You finally decide to grab a plate and sit. Bob notices immediately. You don’t even have to look up to know it. The shift in his attention is subtle, but it’s there, like the room has tilted just slightly in your direction.

Walker is already eating. “This is ridiculous,” he says through a mouthful. “You’re outdoing yourself.”

Bob shrugs, clearly trying not to look pleased. “It’s not that big a deal.”

You take a bite. You chew slowly, deliberately, fully aware of the fact that Bob is watching you like you’re holding his final exam between your teeth.

“You’re staring,” you say without looking at him.

“I’m waiting,” he replies.

You glance up, lips curling. “You look nervous. You that desperate for my approval darling?”

“I’m not.”

“You absolutely are.”

Walker groans between bites. “This is painful.”

Bob folds his arms at you. “Just say whatever you’re going to say.”

You hum, thoughtful, taking another bite like you’re genuinely considering it.

“It’s fine,” you say.

Bob exhales, shoulders loosening just a fraction before he catches himself. “Fine?”

“Yes,” you continue. “Which is unfortunate.”

Walker slams his fork down. “There it is.”

Yelena props her chin in her hand, delighted. “Explain.”

Bob’s jaw tightens. “What’s wrong with it?”

“It’s trying too hard,” you say. “It’s food.”

“It’s?” Bob scoffs, questioning. “Don’t you mean me?”

“It wants approval,” you reply. “Which is embarrassing.”

“I see what you’re doing. I am not trying to impress you,” Bob says quickly.

You tilt your head, studying him. “Then why are you arguing with me so hard?”

He opens his mouth, then closes it again.

Ava snorts quietly into her drink. Bucky’s mouth twitches.

Bob exhales. “What would you change?”

You smile, slow and knowing. “Relax. Stop performing.”

“I’m not performing!”

“You are,” you say lightly. “But it’s kind of cute.”

Walker points between the two of you. “This is flirting.”

“It is not,” Bob says at the same time you say, “Absolutely not.”

Yelena claps once. “Excellent timing.”

Bob looks at you again, and this time he doesn’t look away as fast. There’s something annoyed there, sure, but there’s also focus, curiosity, like he’s trying to solve a puzzle that keeps moving.

“You always do this,” he says.

“Do what?”

“Push,” he says. “Then pretend you don’t know why I’m reacting.”

You lean back in your chair, pleased. “Maybe you’re just sensitive.”

“Or maybe,” he says, voice steady, “you’re enjoying it.”

Your smile sharpens. “What would give you that idea?”

“The fact that you’re still eating it.”

You glance down at your plate, realize you’re nearly finished, and scoff. “I can critique and still be hungry.”

He watches you take another bite, eyes flicking to your mouth and lingering far too long before he can stop himself. Bob knows everybody saw this happen, and quickly tries and fails to play it off.

Walker makes a gagging noise. “I hate this table.”

You finish the plate. Every bite. You set your fork down. “See. Fine.”

Bob shakes his head. “You’re impossible.”

“And yet,” you say sweetly, standing. “You keep asking.”

For a moment, neither of you moves. The air feels tight, like something is being stretched just a little too far.

Then Yelena laughs loudly, breaking it. “I cannot wait to see how this ends.”

Bob looks away first.

You walk out of the kitchen to finally have that shower, wearing a smile you don’t bother hiding.

————

You wake up the next morning with the irritating awareness that you need to start your day. Not alert. Not energized. Just… conscious. Your ceiling stares back at you while your brain replays the end of last night in pieces you absolutely did not ask for. Bob standing at the counter. The way he folded his arms when you criticized the food. The way his jaw tightened before he smoothed it out. The way his eyes stayed on you even when he pretended they weren’t. The way he watched your mouth every time you took a bite and didn’t even try to hide it.

You roll onto your side and groan softly.

This is stupid. You are not thinking about him. You are thinking about the reaction. That’s different. You enjoy reactions. You enjoy getting under people’s skin. You enjoy knowing you have an effect. Especially on him. That’s all this is.

You push yourself out of bed and pad into the bathroom, hair a mess, eyes still heavy. As you brush your teeth, your reflection watches you with mild suspicion. You smirk at yourself without meaning to. He did get flustered last night, and it was all because of you grading his food. That thought lands warmer than it should. You rinse your mouth and shake your head, trying to dislodge it. Bob Reynolds is annoying. He is too calm. Too earnest. Too willing to engage with you when you needle him instead of backing off like a sane person would. That does not make him attractive.

You pause.

Okay. Maybe it does a little.

You pull on clothes and head out into the hallway, determined to occupy your time with literally anything else. Training. Coffee. Picking a fight with Walker. Something.

The compound is quieter this morning, the usual hum of activity spread thin. You pass the kitchen without looking inside on purpose. You almost make it to your room again after your little morning routine before you notice the container. It sits just outside your door, neat and intentional, like it belongs there. Your name is written on top in handwriting you recognize immediately.

You stare at it for a full five seconds longer than necessary. Of course he left you lunch today. You glance down the hall, half expecting him to be there pretending not to watch. The corridor is empty. Quiet.

You crouch and pick up the container, heavier than you expected, and slip back into your room, shutting the door behind you like you’re hiding something. You sit on the edge of your bed and open it. The smell hits first. Warm. Familiar. Simple. Not showy.

It’s not one of last night’s elaborate dishes. This is… thoughtful. Something easy to eat. Comforting without trying to impress.

You frown at it. It’s like he knew you’d have a hard time finding something wrong with this to poke at him.

“Unfair,” you mutter.

Tucked beneath the lid is a small sticky note.

Let me know what you think.

No qualifiers. No jokes. No defensiveness.

Just that. You chew on the inside of your cheek, annoyed by how much that works on you. As you eat, you tell yourself you’re being critical, cataloging flaws, ready to pounce on whatever you can tear apart. But halfway through, you realize you’ve stopped doing that. You’re just… eating. And enjoying it. You scowl at the empty container when you’re done. This is not how this was supposed to go.

You grab a pen and stare at the note, tapping the tip against the paper while your thoughts chase each other in circles. You could be nice. You could say thank you. You could give him the satisfaction. The idea makes your skin prickle.

You write instead:

Better. Still overthinking it. Relax.

You hesitate, then add a tiny line beneath it.

You’re not auditioning.

That feels right. You tuck the note back into the container and set it outside your door like you’re returning a challenge. You don’t see Bob for most of the morning, and that somehow makes it worse. Every time you pass the kitchen, you half expect him to be there, pretending to clean something that doesn’t need it. Every time you hear footsteps, your attention flicks up before you can stop yourself. This is ridiculous.

By the time you cut through the kitchen in the afternoon to grab water, he’s there, exactly where you knew he’d be. Bob stands at the counter with the container open in front of him. He’s holding your note between two fingers, reading it like it might change if he stares long enough. You lean against the doorway and watch him for a moment before announcing yourself.

“That bad, huh?”

He looks up, startled, then clears his throat. “No. I mean. Not bad.” A redness dusts his cheeks as you stare him down.

“Liar.”

His mouth twitches despite himself. “You said relax.”

“I did.”

He sets the note down carefully. “I just wanted to make something you’d actually eat.”

You lift a brow. “I eat everything.”

“You critique everything.”

“Because you keep asking.”

“Because you keep answering.”

You smile, slow and pleased. “You like my answers.”

“I like… honesty.”

You hum. “Sure you do.”

You’re still leaning in the doorway when footsteps sound behind you. Bob hasn’t noticed yet. He’s still looking at the note, brows faintly drawn together like he’s trying to decode it instead of taking it at face value. Then Yelena appears, coffee in hand, eyes immediately zeroing in on the counter.

“What is that,” she asks lightly.

Bob’s head snaps up. “Nothing.”

“That,” she says again, already reaching for the note.

He reacts on instinct, sliding the note out of reach with a quick flick of his wrist. “Yelena.”

She grins. “Oh, so it is something.”

You bite the inside of your cheek to keep from smiling. Yelena lunges for it anyway. Bob shifts sideways, blocking her with his body, one hand flat on the counter, the other keeping the note just out of her grasp.

“No,” he says. “It’s not for you.”

“For who then,” she asks sweetly, trying to lean around him.

“For me.”

“That’s suspicious.”

Before either of them can react, Walker appears out of nowhere, hand darting in like he’s been waiting for his moment.

“Got it.”

Bob spins. “John.”

Walker is already backing away, holding the note up triumphantly. “You cannot dodge two threats at once.”

Yelena abandons Bob immediately and joins Walker, peering over his shoulder as he reads.

“Oh,” Walker says. “Oh this is good.”

“Give it back,” Bob says, following them. “It’s private.”

Yelena squints, doing her best to mimic your voice. “Better. Still overthinking it. Relax.”

Walker snorts. “You’re not auditioning for her you know.”

Bob groans. “Okay, that’s enough.”

Yelena looks up slowly. Then she looks at you. Then she looks back at Bob. Her smile spreads, slow and delighted.

“Oh,” she says. “This is the flirting that Walker said.”

“It is not,” Bob says immediately.

You say it at the same time, just like yesterday, as if it was almost rehearsed. “Absolutely not.”

Walker looks between the two of you. “You wrote this?”

“You cooked for her,” Yelena adds. “And you left note. That’s so cute.”

“It was with the food,” Bob says weakly.

“And she wrote back,” Walker says. “With instructions.”

Ava drifts in just then, glances at the note once, then at Bob. Ava shrugs. “It’s flirting.”

Bob rubs his face. “It’s lunch.”

Yelena beams. “Aggressive lunch.”

You push off the doorway at last, unable to help yourself as you hold your hand out for the note. “If you’re done dissecting my feedback?”

Walker hands the note back reluctantly, smirking down at you. “Five out of ten. Could be meaner.”

“Noted,” you say.

You shove the note against Bob’s chest and he catches it immediately, not without letting his fingers linger over yours a little longer than he should. You swore you could feel his heartbeat quicken at your touch.

You meet his eyes for a brief second. There it is again. That focused, slightly flustered look, like he’s trying to decide whether he’s annoyed or intrigued by you and failing at both.

“I’ll let you guys know how the next one goes,” you say casually.

Bob watches you leave, the note still in his hand. Yelena watches him watch you.

“Oh,” she says softly. “He is doomed.”

———-

The teasing becomes routine faster than you expect.

Not comfortable, exactly. Just familiar enough that it slips into the rhythm of the compound like background noise. Bob cooks. You comment. The team lingers a little longer than necessary, pretending they are not waiting to see how you will react.

It starts small. At breakfast, Bob sets a plate in front of you without comment. Eggs done the way you usually prefer them, even though you never explicitly said how. You notice. You do not acknowledge it.

You take a bite, then another.

“Huh,” you say. “Not bad.”

Bob looks up from the counter a little too quickly. “Just not bad?”

“Don’t get cocky,” you add. “You’re still on thin ice.”

From the table, Walker points his fork at Bob. “She didn’t insult it. That’s progress.”

“I did insult it,” you reply. “Subtly.”

Bob presses his lips together, clearly trying not to smile. He fails.

By lunch, he asks questions. Casual ones, he pretends. Ones he throws out while wiping down the counter or reaching for a pan, like the answers do not matter as much as they very clearly do.

“Too much heat?” he asks once.

You shrug. “Depends.”

“On what?”

“On whether you’re trying to prove something.”

He shoots you a look. “I’m not.”

“You are,” you say lightly. “It’s very you.”

From the doorway, Bucky pauses, coffee in hand, eyes flicking between the two of you. “You’re enjoying this? It doesn’t hurt your ego too much?”

Bob glances at him. “I’m just getting feedback.”

“Sure,” Bucky says, then moves on.

At dinner, the banter sharpens. Bob is bold enough to argue back now. Not loudly, not dramatically, but enough that you can feel the push and pull settling into place.

“That’s not what you said last time,” he tells you when you comment on the seasoning.

“That was a different context.”

“It’s the same dish.”

“And yet,” you say, leaning back in your chair, “you managed to make it more insecure.”

From beside you, Ava glances up from her plate. “I like it.”

Bob’s eyes light up for half a second. “You do?”

“Yes.”

You scoff. “She has bad taste,” you nudge her with your elbow. “Quit contradicting me, you’re supposed to be on my team.”

Ava looks at you flatly. “Contradicting? You finished yours.”

You do not dignify that with a response.

Yelena has started rating the exchanges out loud.

“Today was six,” she announces one night, leaning back in her chair. She furrows her brows, contemplating her rating. “Yes, 6 rating. Good tension. More eye contact than usual.”

Bob groans, running his hand over his face.”Please stop.”

You grin. “No, keep going. I want to know what to improve to entertain you guys more.”

He shoots you a look. “You’re insufferable.”

“You keep feeding me! It’s like you get off on the judging.”

That shuts him up, but just for a moment.

You catch him watching you more often now. as the time passes. Not just when you eat, but when you pass through the kitchen, when you lean on the counter, when you open the fridge and stand there too long deciding what you want. You notice the way he adjusts things for you. Portions. Ingredients. The way he stops using one spice and switches to another without explanation. You tell yourself you are enjoying the game. You tell yourself that the warm twist in your stomach when he looks pleased is just satisfaction at winning.

You are lying to yourself, but you do not stop.

It’s late when it finally happens.

The tower has gone quiet, the kind of quiet that settles in after midnight when everyone has either gone to bed or is pretending they have. You pad into the kitchen in your pajamas, glasses perched on the end of your nose, hair loose and unstyled because you are not trying to impress anyone. You should be asleep right now, but it was always around this time that you couldn’t help but feel like snacking. Boredom eating would kill you one day, but you push those thoughts away.

You open the fridge and stare into it, light spilling out and illuminating the room around you. Leftovers. Containers. Things that require effort to heat up that you do not currently have. You sigh and fiddle with your glasses, pushing them up, then letting them slide back down your nose. Your head falls back in a groan, holding the fridge as you sway back and forth. Somehow there was so much food, and yet none at all.

“Looking for something in particular?”

You practically jump out of your skin as you let out a loud yelp, and you quickly spin around covering your mouth as you straighten yourself.

Bob stands in the doorway to the kitchen, hair damp like he showered not long ago, sweatshirt hanging loose over sweatpants that sit low on his hips. You could smell him from where you stood and your heart practically fluttered. Why did he have to smell so good? Like he was sitting next to a campfire all night, but in a good way. He looks far too good, which is unfair this late at night.

“You scared me!” you say.

“You were rattling containers,” he replies. “It was suspicious. You’re gonna wake up the whole tower with this hunger.”

You snort. “I’m starving. Don’t judge.”

He steps closer, peering into the fridge over your shoulder. “You don’t ever eat what I make this late.”

“I don’t want a whole production. I require snacks not a five course meal.”

“I can make something simple?”

You glance at him sideways. “I said a snaaaaack,” You whine, about ready to admit defeat and walk back to your room.

“You know,” he says, then pauses. “You always snack around this time.” He waves you away from the fridge, shutting it behind him.

You blink as you lean against the counter behind him. “Do I?”

“Yes.”

The way he says it makes your chest tighten just a little. How did he know that? Does he watch you? Does Bob take an interest in your late night activities?

All of a sudden, He reaches past you into the cupboard above your head, close enough that his arm brushes yours. His shirt lifts as he stretches, just enough that you catch the line of muscle at his side, the way it moves under skin, the way his sweatpants dip lower than they probably should.

Heat floods your face so fast it almost makes you dizzy. You stare, you cant help it.

Bob pulls down a box and sets it on the counter. Captain Crunch. You freeze, because he really was watching you. It wasn’t just a line, a cheap thing to gauge your reaction. He glances at you, casual, like this is nothing. Like he doesn’t know your favourite guilty pleasure snack.

“I figured this is what you actually want. I always buy extra box’s so you don’t run out.” He refuses to look you in the eye as he admits to watching you.

“You snoop,” you say weakly. It was the best you could come up with, your brain still fuzzy picturing the stretch of his arm and his exposed skin.

“I notice,” he replies. “You keep hiding boxes in your room.”

“I do not hide.”

“You absolutely hide.”

You snatch the cereal off the counter, flustered and irritated and suddenly very aware of your own heartbeat. “This is a violation!”

His mouth twitches. “Relax..”

You glare at him, trying to come up with a rebuttal. Anything. He was using your own line against him now. Sighing, you push your glasses up once more. “I’m going to bed.”

You turn and leave before he can say anything else, clutching the cereal like contraband, pulse still racing. Behind you, Bob watches you go, expression thoughtful, like he just learned something important. His eyes don’t leave your back until he hears the soft click of your bedroom door.

And as you crawl into bed, cheeks still warm, you finally admit it to yourself.

You don’t just like messing with him. You like him noticing, you like how close he gets.

You like how flustered he makes you feel. You definitely like looking at him, and that realization is far more dangerous than any teasing you’ve done so far.

———-

You wake up later than you meant to yet again.

Not because you slept well, but because you kept waking up and deciding it was easier to close your eyes again than face the day. The light filtering through the curtains is already too bright by the time you finally roll onto your back, staring at the ceiling like it personally betrayed you. Your first thought is cereal. Your second thought is Bob.

You groan out loud and roll onto your side, shoving your face into the pillow like that might smother the memory. It doesn’t help. If anything, it makes it worse, because now you’re thinking about the way his arm brushed yours when he reached past you, the casual confidence of it, the fact that he didn’t even hesitate. You yank the pillow away and sit up.

“This is stupid,” you mutter to the empty room.

You are not fourteen. You do not get flustered over arms and cereal and late-night kitchens. You mess with people. You enjoy reactions. That’s all this is. Bob is easy to poke at because he reacts, and you like knowing you can get under his skin.

That does not mean you want him.

Except… you liked the way he noticed things. You liked that he knew what you ate when you thought no one was paying attention. You liked that he didn’t make a big deal out of it, didn’t preen or tease you back, just handed you the box like it made sense for him to know.

That part sits heavier in your chest the longer you think about it. You drag yourself out of bed and change into something comfortable, then promptly climb right back onto the mattress like you never left. You scroll mindlessly on your phone, not actually absorbing anything, until there’s a knock at the door that doesn’t wait for permission.

Yelena lets herself in like she owns the place, which she sort of does. She takes one look at you sprawled on the bed and smiles.

“Oh,” she says. “You are avoiding?”

“I am relaxing.”

“You are hiding,” she corrects, kicking off her boots and climbing onto the bed without asking. “What happened?”

“Nothing.”

She raises an eyebrow. You sigh. That’s when you tell her everything. Not all at once, but in pieces. You start with the kitchen, then the fridge, then the cereal. You skip over your reaction at first, glossing over it like it’s irrelevant, but Yelena notices immediately.

“And then,” she prompts, eyes bright, “you ran away.”

“I left.”

“With cereal. That he bought you. After watching you sneak it to your room.”

“Yes.”

“In panic.”

“No.”

She grins. “In panic.”

You drop your face into your hands. “I did not mean to react like that.”

“But you did,” she says cheerfully. “This is interesting. He is hot, you reacted like he is hot.”

“It’s annoying. You’re annoying!” You reach across and hit her on the arm with a small stuffed bunny you keep on your bed.

“It is sexy,” she corrects. “He noticed you. He paid attention. You do not like this because you like control.”

You peek at her through your fingers. “You’re enjoying this.”

“I am delighted.”

You sit up, cross-legged now, agitation buzzing under your skin. “He shouldn’t know things like that about me.”

Yelena tilts her head. “But he does. And you did not stop him.”

“I didn’t know he was paying attention.”

She smiles slowly. “That is the part that scares you.”

You scowl. “You’re reading too much into it.”

She leans closer. “Did you like it? Did you like watching him back?”

You open your mouth.

Close it.

Exhale.

“…Yes.”

Yelena claps her hands softly, thrilled. “There it is.”

“I don’t want to,” you add quickly. “I don’t want this.”

“And yet,” she says gently, “you have it.”

You spend the rest of the morning in your room, half venting, half spiraling, Yelena alternating between teasing you mercilessly and offering unsettlingly accurate observations about your behavior. She points out every sign you’ve missed. The way you always sit in the kitchen longer when Bob’s there. The way you argue with him more than anyone else. The way you watch him, and then deny deny deny when you’re caught by anybody else. The way you soften, just a little, when he looks genuinely pleased.

By the time afternoon rolls around, you’re curled on your side, staring at the wall, emotionally exhausted.

“I am not going to dinner,” you announce.

Yelena hums. “You are absolutely going to dinner.”

“No.”

“There is food. Food is fuel.”

“I don’t care.”

She smiles wider. “It is your favorite.”

Your stomach drops. Before you can argue, there’s a knock at the door. Heavy. Impatient.

Yelena hops off the bed. “Showtime.”

The door opens to Walker, arms crossed, already annoyed.

“Get dressed, it’s dinner!”

And you know, with sinking certainty, that whatever you were trying to avoid is waiting for you in the kitchen.

By the time you make it halfway down the hall, you know. Not because you see anything yet. Because the smell reaches you first, warm and heavy and unmistakably familiar. Bread, cheese, tomatoes in a slow-simmered sauce, the kind that clings instead of sliding away.

You slow your steps without meaning to.

Stuffed pasta. Not just any kind. The kind packed full of cheese, soft and indulgent, the kind you order at your favourite italian place on the corner. Whether it was a good or bad day, that meal was always there for you. The kind you eat when you want comfort and nothing else. When you want something that will not surprise you or challenge you or ask questions.

Yelena’s hand settles between your shoulder blades, light but insistent. “You see,” she murmurs, voice amused. “It’s not a trap.”

“Lena help me!” you plead, but it’s too late. she’s already leaving, snickering to herself.

The kitchen is already occupied. Ava sits at the table, arms folded loosely, eyes on you instead of the food. Bucky leans against the counter near the sink, posture relaxed, gaze fixed not on the stove but on Bob.

And there he is. Bob stands at the stove, sleeves rolled up, movements steady and unhurried. He looks at peace, like he’s never had a rough moment in his life.

He glances over his shoulder, catches sight of you, and something shifts in his expression. Not nerves. Not surprise. Awareness.

“Hey,” he says.

The word lands softer than it should.

“Hi,” you reply too quickly.

Yelena slides into a chair like she’s settling in for entertainment. “This smells incredible,” she announces. “Deeply suspicious.” You roll your eyes, knowing she’s just instigating at this point.

From behind you, Walker pushes past, already grinning. “Okay, wow. This smells serious.”

You stop just inside the doorway.

There’s no denying it now. Stuffed cheese pasta sits steaming on the counter, sauce glossy, edges just slightly crisped, plated with care that makes your chest tighten uncomfortably.

You sit because everyone is waiting for you to. The chair scrapes softly against the floor as you pull it out, the sound cutting through the quiet that’s settled over the kitchen. Bob sets the plate down in front of you without ceremony, and starts to grate some fresh parmesan over top. He stops at the perfect moment, because of course he does, and then steps back, like he’s giving you space instead of hovering.

Walker digs in immediately. “Okay, wow. That’s… yeah. That’s really good.”

Yelena hums in agreement, twirling her fork before pointing at you. “You look offended already.”

You ignore her and look down at your plate.

There’s steam still curling up from the sauce. Bob watches you, careful not to stare too hard.

“You don’t have to eat it,” he says quietly.

“I know,” you reply, and pick up your fork anyway.

The first bite is slow. Not because you’re trying to be dramatic, but because you’re bracing yourself. You chew, letting the texture settle, the flavors hit. It’s exactly right, and you just hate that. Ava notices your reaction first. She doesn’t say anything, just glances at Bob, then back at you. You swallow and take another bite before you can stop yourself.

Walker looks between you and Bob. “So. Are we waiting for commentary, or can I relax?”

You set your fork down.

“It’s good,” you say.

Bob’s shoulders ease just a fraction. It’s subtle, but you catch it, and something sharp twists in your chest.

Then you add, “But it’s a lot.”

The relief drains from his face, and a look of hurt you’ve never seen takes its place. “A lot how?”

You shrug, trying to keep it light, and maybe shake the look off his face. “You didn’t need to go this hard.”

“I wasn’t trying to impress anyone,” he says.

Yelena tilts her head. “He absolutely was.”

Bob shoots her a look. “Not helping.”

You exhale. “This isn’t just dinner.”

He frowns slightly. “It’s food?”

“No,” you say, tapping your fork lightly against the plate. “It’s my food.”

The table goes quiet as Bob straightens. It’s hard to read the look on his face. “What does that mean?”

“It means you didn’t guess,” you say. “You didn’t ask. You knew.”

“I paid attention to you,” he replies. “That’s not a crime. At least it wasn’t when i pointed this out yesterday.”

You cringe at his comment, hoping there would be no questions from the peanut gallery watching this whole thing go down. “It is when I didn’t know you were doing it.”

Walker shifts in his chair. “Way to make it weird guys..”

Bucky speaks for the first time, calm and even. “Let them talk.” You’re surprised he hasn’t left, he isn’t exactly the kind of guy for drama.

Bob keeps his eyes on you. “I didn’t think it would bother you.”

“Well, it does,” you snap, then immediately soften, annoyed at yourself. “Because it feels… personal.”

“It is personal,” he says. “That was the point.”

That lands harder than anything else.

You laugh, short and defensive. “See, that’s the problem.”

Bob’s brow furrows. “How is that a problem?”

“Because you don’t get to decide that for me.”

“I wasn’t deciding anything,” he says. “I was trying to do something nice.”

“For who,” you ask. “Me, or you?”

The question hangs there, ugly and heavy.

Bob’s jaw tightens. “That’s not fair.”

“Maybe,” you say, voice sharper now. “But neither is turning me into something you figured out without telling me.”

Silence.

He stares at you for a long moment, hurt flashing across his face before he pulls it back under control.

“Okay,” he says quietly.

That’s it. He doesn’t argue. He doesn’t explain. He reaches for the plates and starts clearing them, movements controlled and efficient like he’s shutting something down.

The table feels colder immediately.

Yelena watches him go after he’s finished cleaning up, then looks at you. “That wasn’t teasing.”

“Was a little bit harsh,” Ava nods, agreeing. “And i don’t totally understand the problem?”

Bucky’s voice is steady. “You panicked.”

You stare at your plate, appetite completely gone. “I didn’t ask him to care like that.”

“No,” Bucky says gently. “But he did.”

Walker exhales. “Well. That sucked.”

No one disagrees. You drop your head onto the counter with a thud, wondering where the hell you go from here.

——

You lie awake long after the compound goes quiet.

Not because you’re replaying the argument line by line, but because every time you try to pin down why you reacted the way you did, your thoughts slip right through your fingers. It doesn’t make sense. That’s the most frustrating part. You didn’t yell. You didn’t accuse him of anything unforgivable. You didn’t even say anything you can point to now and go, that was the moment I messed up. It was just a feeling, sharp and sudden and completely uncooperative, and you let it steer you instead of stopping to examine it.

You stare at the ceiling and try to walk yourself through it again. He cooked your favorite food. Not poisoned it. Not ruined it. Not weaponized it. He cooked it perfectly, and you couldn’t even be nice about it.

Your jaw tightens. That shouldn’t have made you angry. It should have made you grateful. Or flattered. Or at the very least neutral. Instead, something in your chest had locked up like a trap snapping shut, panic flaring hot and fast before you could talk yourself down.

Why? You turn onto your side, burying half your face in the pillow. Was it the attention? Was it the timing? Was it the fact that he knew without you telling him? You groan softly.

“Get a grip,” you mutter to yourself.

People notice things all the time. That’s normal. That’s not invasive. That’s not some great betrayal. If anything, it’s… considerate. That thought makes your stomach twist with incredible guilt. Because maybe that’s the problem. Maybe it wasn’t just the food. Maybe it was the way he’d been paying attention for weeks. The lunches. The adjustments. The questions he pretended were casual but clearly weren’t. The way he looked at you when you critiqued his cooking, like it mattered in a way that irritated him and intrigued him in equal measure. The way he looked at you in general, like your presence made his day better. All that care, aimed directly at you.

You squeeze your eyes shut.

“Idiot,” you whisper. “You absolute idiot.”

You weren’t upset because he crossed a line. You were upset because he stepped closer to one you didn’t even know was there. And worse than that, some traitorous part of you liked it. The realization settles in slowly, heavy and unwelcome. You liked that he noticed. You liked that he remembered.
You liked that he cared enough to try, even knowing you’d probably tear it apart.

You curse under your breath and roll onto your back again, staring up at the dark.

All this. Because of cooking, because of attention to detail. Because he learned you the way you learn something when it matters. You didn’t see it coming. That’s what really got you.

Sometime before morning, exhaustion finally drags you under. When you wake, the first thing you notice is the quiet. Not peaceful. Just… missing something. You lie there for a minute longer than usual, listening for sounds you’ve come to expect without realizing it. The clink of a pan. The low hum of the stove fan. Movement in the kitchen that signals someone is already awake and doing something useful. There’s nothing.

You get up anyway, moving on autopilot, and wander toward the kitchen before you can stop yourself.

It’s empty. No food laid out. No coffee already brewing. No containers lined up like a quiet offering. You stand there longer than necessary, arms folded, irritation prickling under your skin even though you know you have no right to it. Of course he’s not cooking, and that’s all your fault. Five minutes later, Walker storms in and immediately starts opening cabinets like the answer might be hiding.

“What the hell,” he mutters. “Did the apocalypse start without me?”

From behind him, Yelena peers into the kitchen, then looks at you.

“Oh,” she says softly.

“What,” Walker demands.

“He is not cooking,” she replies.

“Interesting.”

You shrug, too quickly. “Maybe he’s busy.”

Walker turns to you. “He’s never busy when there’s food involved. This is your fault. You broke our chef.”

That stings more than it should. Somehow Lunch is worse. People hover. Open the fridge. Close it again. Ava eats a protein bar with visible disappointment. She the watches you tear open a wrapper with more aggression than necessary.

“You look miserable,” she says.

“I’m fine.”

She tilts her head. “You’re a bad liar. You’re really not fine.”

By the second night, the absence has weight to it. You pass the kitchen twice without going in. The lights stay off. The counters bare. It feels wrong in a way that sits heavy in your chest.

Eventually, you find him there anyway. Not cooking, just cleaning.

The kitchen is dim, lit only by the soft glow beneath the cabinets. You almost turn around when you see him there.

Bob stands at the counter, methodically wiping it down even though it’s already spotless. His shoulders are tense, posture rigid like he’s holding something back. He’s wearing a baggy long sleeve shirt, and a pair of blue plaid pj pants you’ve never seen before. There’s no music, no hum of appliances, just the quiet scrape of cloth against stone. You hover in the doorway for a second too long.

“Hey,” you say.

“What?” He doesn’t even look up at you when he says it, as flat as can be.

You step inside anyway, the door clicking shut behind you. The sound feels final. “I didn’t mean for it to go like that.”

That makes him stop mid counter wipe.

He straightens slowly, sets the cloth down, and turns to face you. His expression is unreadable, but there’s something tight in his jaw, something simmering just beneath the surface.

“You don’t get to decide that after the fact.”

You take another step forward without realizing it, closer to the counter, closer to him. “I panicked.” You can smell his shampoo again and it almost makes you knees a little weak.

“I noticed,” he replies. “That doesn’t excuse it, now does it?”

Your stomach flips. You couldn’t tell if it was from feeling bad or the way he was speaking. You weren’t used to stern Bob, and you kind of liked it. “I wasn’t trying to hurt you.”

His mouth curves slightly, but there’s no humor in it. “Well, you did.”

The certainty in his voice makes your pulse stutter.

“You stood there,” he continues, taking a step closer, “and made me feel stupid for doing something nice. For you.”

“That’s not what I meant.” Your voice cracks, watching the distance between you close.

“No,” he cuts in, sharper now, moving closer again. “It’s what you did.”

You swallow and back up instinctively until your hips brush the edge of the counter. You hadn’t realized how close you’d gotten.

“You crossed a line,” you say, trying to steady your voice.

“I cooked you dinner,” he snaps. “After weeks of you tearing into everything I made. Pushing me. Challenging me. Enjoying watching me try harder and harder.”

He takes another step forward.

“You don’t get to do that,” he says quietly, “and then act offended when I finally get it right.”

Your back presses fully against the counter now. You don’t move away. You can’t.

“That’s not fair,” you whisper, staring at the tiled floor.

He steps in once more close enough that you can feel the heat coming off him.

“It’s exactly fair.”

Your breath starts to come faster. You hate that you can feel it. You hate that you like it.

“You liked messing with me,” he says, voice low, controlled. “You liked knowing I cared. You liked knowing you could get under my skin. That id do anything for your approval.”

You open your mouth to argue, but nothing comes out.

“And then,” he continues, even closer now. “the second I stop playing along, you punish me for it.”

“I didn’t punish you.”

“You rejected me,” he says plainly. The word hits hard.

“I didn’t ask you to care like that,” you say, your voice softer than you want it to be.

“No,” he agrees. “But you encouraged it.”

His hands come down on the counter on either side of you, and you completely freeze.

He’s caging you in now, arms braced, body close enough that your breath catches every time his chest rises. You’ve never seen him like this. Assertive. Angry. Focused in a way that feels almost dangerous. Your glasses start to fog from how fast you’re breathing. Bob notices immediately.

He huffs a quiet, almost amused breath. “Look at you,” he murmurs, voice dropping. “All that attitude, and now you can’t even breathe straight.”

Heat floods your face. Slowly, deliberately, he reaches up and hooks a finger under the arm of your glasses.

“Hold still,” he says, almost gentle, condescending in a way.

He tosses them onto the counter with a clatter, his hand sliding down to grip your chin, forcing you to meet his gaze without the barrier. Your vision blurs slightly at the edges, but his face, sharp jaw, that infuriating half-smile, is crystal clear, and it sends an unwelcome thrill straight to your core. You had no idea how much this would you on, this mocking edge to his dominance, the way he makes you feel small and exposed.

You shove at his chest, a half-hearted attempt to push him away, but he doesn't budge. You try to reach for your glasses but you can barely move. Bob chuckles at your weak attempts, deep and rumbling in his chest that’s practically pressed against you now. You fidget under his gaze, not realizing how much bigger he was than you. You’d never been this close to each other before.

“Bob! I need those it’s dark in here.” You try to say with confidence, but it came out all broken. You made a mental note to curse yourself out later for letting him get under your skin.

His words hit like a slap, humiliating and electric, making your thighs clench involuntarily. You bite your lip, trying to deny it, but the heat building between your legs betrays you. Before you can snap back, Bob's grip tightens, and he drops to his knees in one fluid motion, the tile floor echoing softly under his weight. Your breath hitches, eyes widening as he looks up at you from that position, still somehow towering in his control, his hands already yanking at the waistband of your pants.

“Bob, what the-stop!” you hiss, glancing wildly toward the open doorway to the shared kitchen.

The tower is never truly empty; anyone could wander in, Yelena for a midnight snack, Ava grabbing water. The risk makes your pulse race faster, a mix of fear and forbidden excitement. He ignores your protest, tugging your pants and underwear down in a rough pull, exposing you to the cool air. Your hands fly to his shoulders, pushing, squirming back against the counter, but he's relentless, hooking one of your legs over his broad shoulder to spread you open.

“Freaking out already?” he murmurs, his breath hot against your inner thigh, eyes gleaming with that smug satisfaction. “Better shut up and finish quick then, if you're so worried about company.”

The command is laced with mockery, like your panic is just another thing to tease you about, and it only makes the ache in your pussy throb harder.

“Just tell me to stop and I will.” He’s close enough you can feel his breath against you, making you gasp slightly.

You open your mouth to argue, but nothing comes out. You push down slightly on the back of his head, your version of giving him permission. He wastes no time and his face is buried between your legs, no warning, no buildup, just his tongue flattening against your clit in a firm, hungry lick that rips a gasp from your throat. Your hand clamps over your mouth instinctively, muffling the sound as he dives in like a man possessed, starved for your taste. His mouth devours you, lips sucking greedily on your folds, tongue thrusting inside your slick entrance before swirling back to circle your swollen clit with relentless pressure. He groans against you, the vibration shooting straight through your core, his hands gripping your ass to pull you closer, lifting you slightly off the ground so you're balanced precariously on the counter's edge.

Your fingers tangle in his hair, not sure if you're pulling him away or holding him there, but the pleasure crashes over you in waves, overwhelming any resistance. He eats you out with brutal intensity, tongue lashing, teeth grazing just enough to make you jolt, lips sealing around your clit to suck hard while two fingers push inside you, curling to hit that spot that makes your vision white out. It’s almost like he’s trying to force a noise out of you, like the possibly getting caught is exciting him. You start to bite your lip so hard you swear it’s bleeding, but you couldn’t care less.

Your leg over his shoulder trembles, toes curling in your sock as he works you mercilessly, his nose bumping your clit with every deep plunge of his tongue. It's filthy, the wet sounds of his mouth on your pussy echoing in the quiet kitchen, and you switch from biting your lip to biting down on your palm to stifle the moans building in your chest. Honestly, even that wasn’t stopping the noises he was forcing out of you.

The humiliation burns, knowing he's on his knees but still utterly in charge, reducing you to this quivering mess with his condescending hunger.

Bob pulls away long enough to taunt you some more. “That's it,” he pants against your skin, and you hear smugness in his voice before diving back in. “Cum on my face, then you can tell me how good I did after.”

His words push you closer, the edge sharpening as his fingers pump faster, tongue flicking without mercy. Your hips buck against his mouth, chasing the release despite the panic clawing at you, anyone could walk in, see you like this, legs spread, Bob's head between them. You don’t even bother answering, worried it would come out as nothing more than a scream. It hits you all at once, the orgasm ripping through you like lightning. Your body arches, pussy clenching around his fingers as you come hard, flooding his mouth with your release. He doesn't stop, lapping it all up greedily, tongue prolonging the spasms until you're shaking, oversensitive and panting behind your hand. But just as the waves crest and start to fade, footsteps echo down the hallway. Heavy, casual, shuffling past the kitchen door.

Bob freezes, his mouth still pressed to your throbbing pussy, eyes snapping up to meet yours. You both go still, breaths ragged, your leg still hooked over his shoulder, his fingers buried deep inside you. Any sane person would scramble away, fix themselves so they wouldn’t get caught, but the fear basically paralyzed you both. The footsteps pause for a heartbeat outside the door. Someone was muttering to themselves, maybe Bucky or Walker heading towards the bathroom, their steps fading away without a glance inside. No one notices. The kitchen remains your dirty secret.

For a long moment, you just stare at each other, chests heaving, shock mirrored in his widened eyes and your flushed face. Bob stands, his lips glisten with you, a smirk threatening to break through the surprise, but he doesn't move, doesn't speak. He just holds you there, suspended in the aftershocks and the thrill of almost getting caught. You want to say words, but instead you lean forward and wrap your arms around his neck, pulling him down.

You lick his lips, tasting yourself on them, salty, musky, and Bob makes an unholy noise, a guttural groan that rumbles from his chest like thunder.

"Fuck this,” he mutters, voice hoarse, eyes dark with something feral. "We're not done. Not here."

Bob grabs your wrist, dragging you out of the kitchen and down the dimly lit hall to his room, the door slamming shut behind you with enough force to rattle the walls. The space is sparse, bed, nightstand, a few scattered files, but right now, it's just a battlefield for whatever this is. He doesn’t give you much time to look around before he

spins you around, shoving you against the bed so you land on your back, legs splayed.

Bob's on you in seconds, stripping off his shirt to reveal that chiseled chest, veins bulging from the rush of almost being caught. He yanks your top over your head, palming your breasts roughly, thumbs flicking your nipples until they're hard peaks. Normally you’d want this to move slower, to be able to admire everything happening. But right now you couldn’t care less, wanting nothing more than for Bob to just rip your clothes off and have you right here, on his bed. The sheets smelled like laundry and his soap, and you felt like you were in heaven.

"I'll show you what I can do. What I do best."

His annoyance with you fuels him, but there's that desperation underneath, the way his eyes search yours for any sign of approval. He wants you to praise him, to finally tell him how good he’s doing, and he intends to get it. You reach for his waistband, undoing the knot with trembling fingers, and he hisses as you free his cock, thick, throbbing, already leaking pre-cum at the tip. It's bigger than you expected, veined and heavy in your hand as you stroke him once, twice.

"O-oh my god,” he protests, but his voice cracks just a little, betraying his once confident demeanour.

You slide down, heart pounding with giddy anticipation, the thrill of seeing golden boy Bob unravel like this. You wrap your lips around his head, tongue swirling over the slit, tasting the salt of him. He bucks into your mouth, hands fisting your hair, not guiding, but holding on like you're his lifeline.

"Shit-“ Bob groans, hips jerking as you take him deeper, hollowing your cheeks and sucking hard.

You bob your head, letting him fuck your face with shallow thrusts, gagging slightly when he hits the back of your throat. Saliva drips down your chin, mixing with his pre-cum, and he watches you with hooded eyes, that annoyed edge sharpening his pleasure.

"God that feels so good. I can’t stop thinking about how you taste. Bet you didn't think I could make you come like that in the kitchen, hm?” His speech is filled with panting, like he’s close and is trying to keep from finishing too fast.

You hum around him, the vibration making him swear, and pull off with a pop to gasp,

“You're full of surprises, aren’t you?”

It's teasing, but it spurs him on, thrusting deeper, his control slipping as he chases that validation. But he's not content to just receive. He hauls you up, flipping you onto all fours on the bed, the mattress creaking under his weight.

“My turn to prove it," he grunts, slapping your ass once, hard, leaving a stinging red mark. You yelp, but it sends a rush of heat straight to your core, your pussy clenching in anticipation.

Bob lines up behind you, rubbing his cock along your soaked slit, teasing your entrance. "Tell me you want it. Want me to fuck you like you deserve." His voice is rough, but there's a vulnerability there, like he's waiting for you to say he's enough.

"Yes, fuck me, Bob. Show me," you breathe, pushing back against him. He doesn't hesitate, slamming into you in one brutal thrust, stretching your pussy around his thick length. You cry out, the burn mixing with pleasure as he bottoms out.

"Like that?" he pants, pulling out almost all the way before driving back in, hard and deep.

His hands grip your hips, bruising, as he sets a punishing rhythm, rough, unrelenting, each snap of his hips jolting you forward. The bedframe bangs against the wall, a dirty symphony to his grunts and your moans.

“Not so funny now, huh? Me taking what's mine."

You twist to look at him, seeing the sweat-slicked determination on his face, his hair bouncing with every thrust. His eyes were glued on your ass, watching it bounce against him over and over.

“Harder! god, Bob, you're so fucking good at this. Better than-ah! better than your damn cooking." It's half-tease, half-truth, and it lights a fire in him.

He laughs, dark and breathless, leaning over you to bite your shoulder, not breaking skin, but enough to mark. "Damn right. Gonna make you scream my name so loud the whole tower hears."

One hand snakes around to rub your clit in tight circles, the other pinning your wrists behind your back as he pounds into you, cock dragging against that spot inside that makes stars burst behind your eyes. The room fills with the obscene sounds, wet slaps of skin on skin, your pussy wrapped around him, his ragged breaths in your ear.

"You feel that? How wet you are for me?" he murmurs, voice dripping with smug satisfaction mixed with need. "Cum on my cock. Show me I'm not a joke."

You do, shattering around him with a scream, walls pulsing and milking him as waves of pleasure crash over you. He doesn't stop, fucking you through it, chasing his own release. "Fuck, yes, take it!” he groans, burying himself deep and coming with a groan, hot spurts of cum flooding your pussy, spilling out around his cock as he grinds against you.

He collapses over you, both of you panting, sticky and spent. But even in the afterglow, he presses a surprisingly tender kiss to your neck, whispering, "Was that... Worthy of approval?” His voice is soft now, the desperation peeking through the roughness, making your heart flutter with that giddy warmth.

He stays there for a moment, breathing you in, like he’s making sure you’re real.

When he finally pushes up onto his elbows, his hair is a mess, his expression softer than you’ve ever seen it, like the anger burned itself out and left something warmer behind.

He clears his throat.

“Are you… hungry?”

You blink at him, then laugh, breathless and a little dazed. “Fuck yes.”

That gets a quiet smile out of him. Not smug. Not teasing. Just pleased, like he’s been hoping you’d say that. He helps you clean up without a word, movements careful, surprisingly gentle. You steal the long sleeve shirt he’d been wearing the second his back is turned, tugging it over your head before he can stop you. It hangs off you, sleeves swallowing your hands, smelling like him. He notices immediately.

“Hey,” he says, mildly offended. “That was mine.”

“Too bad,” you reply. “You should’ve guarded it better.”

He shakes his head, but there’s no heat in it. Just fond resignation. By the time you make it to the kitchen, the place feels different. Not tense. Not loaded. Just quiet and warm, like it’s finally exhaled. You hop up onto the counter while he moves automatically, opening cupboards, grabbing a bowl, reaching for a familiar box without even thinking about it. Captain Crunch.

You snort. “Wow. Really pulling out all the stops.”

“Nope,” he says, pouring the cereal. “I’m off duty.”

Milk. No fuss. No presentation. Perfect. He steps in close to hand it to you and doesn’t step back. Instead, he settles between your legs like it’s the most natural thing in the world, hands coming to rest on your hips, grounding and warm. You take a bite, then another, humming contentedly.

“This,” you say, holding the spoon up toward him, “is a ten.”

He scoffs, but leans in when you offer him a bite anyway. He eats it straight off the spoon, eyes never leaving yours.

“You’re impossible,” he murmurs.

“And yet,” you reply sweetly. “You still had sex with me. So, i win.”

His hands tighten just a little on your hips as he dips his head, pressing an innocent kiss to your neck. Then another. Nothing heated. Just affectionate, like he can’t help himself.

You tilt your head into it, still eating.

“Hold on,” he says suddenly.

You pause. “What.”

He reaches up and gently nudges your glasses into your hand. “You forgot these.”

You blink, then laugh. “Oh.”

He carefully puts them back on your face for you, fingers brushing your cheeks, adjusting them until they sit just right.

“There,” he says softly.

And then he kisses you. Slow. Easy. Smiling into it, then the kitchen lights snap on.

“Oh for the love of god.”

You freeze. He freezes. Slowly, you both turn your heads. Walker stands in the doorway, hand still on the switch, staring at the sight of you sitting on the counter in Bob’s shirt, cereal bowl in hand, Bob planted firmly between your legs like he belongs there.

He squints. “Is that my lucky charms?”

You lift the bowl slightly. “Captain crunch..”

He makes a sound of deep, spiritual regret. “Good. came in here for water.”

Bob clears his throat and steps back, hands lifting like he’s been caught committing a crime. “We can explain.”

Walker holds up a hand. “Nope. Don’t. I don’t want context. I knew I wasn’t hearing things earlier.” He turns around immediately. “I’ll be thirsty later.”

The lights click off as he leaves. You and Bob stare at each other for half a second, and you both lose it. You laugh so hard you nearly spill cereal everywhere. Bob drops his head against your shoulder, groaning.

“We’re never hearing the end of this.”

“Worth it,” you say, feeding him another bite.

He kisses your cheek, still smiling.

“Completely.”

Your eyes flick to the door without you meaning them to. And almost right on cue, your favourite regulars make their entrance.

They come in loud and together, like they always do, voices overlapping, laughter already spilling into the room before the door even shuts. Hangman clocks you instantly and heads straight for the bar, sunglasses still on like he is committed to the bit.

“And how is my favourite bartender today?”

You roll your eyes, already exhausted and wondering when your shift was going to end. You couldn’t handle him all night. “If you think flattery is going to get you free alcohol, you are sadly mistaken.”

He grins, planting his elbows on the bar as he sits in is regular spot. “Worth a try,” Hangman gives you a quick look up and down and smirks. “You look especially dangerous tonight.”

“Drink or get out of my bar. You guys seriously mess up my tip making abilities when you’re here.”

“That’s flirting,” he says. “You flirt mean. I tip you very well.”

You pour his whiskey without looking at him and slide it across the bar. He watches your hands openly, unapologetic, because Hangman never pretends his flirting is anything other than exactly what it is.

Behind him, Rooster drops onto a stool with Phoenix beside him, both already entertained. You lean forward and give Phoenix a quick kiss on the cheek. She really was your only normal friend in this group.

“She always treat you like this?” Rooster asks.

“Yes,” Hangman replies gravely. “It’s emotional abuse.”

Phoenix laughs. “You keep coming back. You never get tired of it?”

“She’ll crack one day. It’s called devotion.”

You roll your eyes but smile anyway, busying yourself with another order. The room fills quickly, noise rising, glasses clinking, laughter bouncing off the walls. You let your gaze drift toward the door again, for what felt like the tenth time, pretending you are just checking the crowd. He still is not there.

“So,” Phoenix says casually, watching you too closely, “where’s Bob tonight?”

It’s as if she knew. It’s not an odd question, though. Most of the time Bob Floyd would beat them there. He spent most nights sat in front of you for hours, in fact. Even if he wasn’t drinking, there he was, chatting up a storm drinking so many coke zero’s you lost count. You two were practically joined at the hip. Bob would even spend his nights helping you close up, all just so he could mill whatever time he had with you.

You grab a clean glass, keep your movements smooth. “I don’t keep tabs on him.”

At least you were a good liar.

Rooster hums. “Funny. Usually you do.”

Hangman tilts his head. “You waiting on your other boyfriend? What, am I not enough for you?”

“He is not my boyfriend.” You correct, but your voice cracks and it immediately gives you away.

“Could’ve fooled me.” Phoenix smirks at you over her beer, knowing things maybe the others don’t. She spent far too maybe nights listening to you go on and on about your ‘innocent’ crush on Bob Floyd.

You flip her off just as the door opens again.

Bob finally steps inside, eyes lifting instinctively toward the bar like they always do. For a split second, something warm and hopeful lights in your chest. You put your rag down and get ready to run over, to meet him at the door like you always do.

But then you see the girl beside him, and you stop before you even make it out from behind the bar.

She is tucked close, fingers curled comfortably into his sleeve, smiling up at him like she belongs there. Pretty in a soft, effortless way. Easy. She has long strawberry blonde hair and is dressed in the most dainty sundress. For a split second you look down at yourself, comparing your style to hers. It was quite the opposite, actually.

You wondered what he saw in her. You always thought you knew his type which was… Well, you.

The warmth drains out of you as you look back at them.

Bob spots you and lifts his hand, smile forming before faltering slightly when he takes in your expression. It feels like forever by the time he and his new fling reach the bar, and you can’t seem to even look at them anymore.

“Hey?” Bob says it almost as if it was a question.

“Hey,” you reply, tone even as you turn back to the bar. You distract yourself by wiping down the wooden counter in front of Hangman and Rooster.

Bob hesitates, but introduces his new friend to the group anyway. “This is Emily.”

“Cool,” you say, already reaching for a beer, not giving the rest of your friends a chance to say hello. “What can I get you?” The question feels clinical, wrong coming out of your mouth.

Emily blinks, surprised by the lack of warmth coming from you. Quite the opposite of what Bob has told her, she expected something different. “Uh, a beer is fine.”

You set it down without ceremony. Your fingers do not brush Bob’s this time like they always do, and the absence feels louder than the music.

“You been busy today?” Bob asks.

“Always,” you reply, again without lifting you head.

Hangman leans in, his face close to yours, voice deliberately loud. “She’s been unbearable all night. Probably missing me. Ain’t that right?”

You shoot him a look, pushing him back down into his seat. “You wish.”

Emily smiles politely at Phoenix. “You all come here a lot?”

“All the time,” Hangman says. “She keeps us hydrated. Especially Bob. Right?”

Bob shifts slightly, jaw tight, eyes flicking to Hangman and back to you. Emily touches his arm. He doesn’t get the chance to answer before she directs his attention where. “They’re setting up pool. Wanna play?”

Bob looks at you again, like he wants to say something else. “Yeah. Sure.”

You watch them walk away together, and you’re thankful that looks are unable to kills You turn back to the bar, forcing your smile back into place.

Hangman waits exactly three seconds before leaning closer once more. “Wow. That one hurt, huh?”

“Do not start,” you warn.

He smirks. “If you want to make him jealous, I am more than happy to help. We could be back at my place in ten minutes.”

“Absolutely not.”

“Offer stands.”

The nights that follow blur together.

Bob keeps coming in. Always with Emily. Always late after everybody else. You watch them play pool, watch him laugh with her, watch him stand close while teaching her darts, hands hovering where yours used to be. Your shifts used to be spent laughing with your friends, stolen touches with Bob all night and being teased about it. Now they’re filled with bitter looks and aggressive cleaning to distract yourself. You hate how easy it looks. You hate that he still glances toward the bar like he is checking if you are watching, because you are, and you can’t let him know it.

By the third night, you stop pretending you aren’t watching. In fact, you had a better idea.

Bob comes in with Emily again, and it still hits the same way it did the first time. The tightness in your chest. The way your hands hesitate for half a second before you force them back into motion. You watch them from behind the bar as casually as you can manage, the way she laughs too easily, the way Bob leans in without thinking, familiar and comfortable in a way that feels painfully earned.

You sigh as you watch them. You miss him.

You miss the version of him that used to sit at the bar just to talk to you, even when he was not drinking. You miss the way he looked at you like you were something steady in his life, something that did not require effort or explanation. And if he gets to walk in here with her on his arm, smiling like everything is fine, then you get to do something too.

Hangman catches on almost immediately.

He slides into his usual spot after winning yet another game of darts, eyes flicking past you toward Bob and Emily, then back to your face. “Oh,” he murmurs. “We are choosing violence tonight.”

You arch a brow, turning your stare to him. “Excuse me?”

He grins. “I know you very well. You have that look. The one that says you are about to be unbearable on purpose.”

You pour his drink and lean in just a little closer than necessary. “You going to complain?”

“Absolutely not.”

You know Hangman does not think this means anything. He never has. He flirts because it is fun, because it gets a reaction, because it fills space. That makes him perfect for the job.

You lean your elbows on the bar, lowering your voice. “Play along.”

His grin sharpens. “Say less.”

The flirting is loud. Obvious. Unapologetic.

“If you keep leaning over the bar like that,” Hangman says, voice carrying, “you are going to be responsible for several poor life choices.”

You smile sweetly. “You are a grown man. Your bad decisions are not my problem.”

“Strong disagree.”

Rooster groans from a nearby table. “Do you two ever stop?”

“No,” Hangman says easily. “She likes me.”

“I tolerate you.”

“That is basically love.”

You laugh, letting your hand brush his wrist as you slide his drink over. You feel it immediately. The shift in the room. The way eyes start tracking the exchange. Across the Hard Deck, Bob goes still. He stands near the pool table, cue forgotten in his hand, gaze locked on the bar. His jaw tightens. His shoulders draw stiff, posture going rigid like he is bracing for impact. Emily notices too.

She follows his line of sight, watches you laugh loud at something Hangman murmurs, your head thrown back, watches him lean closer. Her smile fades just a fraction. “Do they always do that?

Bob does not answer right away. When he does, his voice is tight. “Yeah.”

“You seem… invested,” she says carefully. “At least she’s smiling. I didn’t know she could do that.”

Bob exhales through his nose. “I am not invested.”

But his eyes do not leave you.

Hangman leans in again, lowering his voice just enough that Bob has to watch rather than hear. “You are really committing to this.”

“He walked in here with her again,” you reply quietly. “I am allowed to cope however I want.”

His grin softens, just a touch. “You know he is going to lose it, right? He always gets mad at me later for chatting you up.”

“That is kind of the point.” Your brow furrows as you realize what he said. “Wait, he does?”

You let Hangman’s arm rest against yours. You tilt your head when he speaks. You laugh louder than you need to. Every move is deliberate. To finish it off, you grab Hangman’s beer from the counter and take a gentle swig. He reaches up, using his thumb to wipe a little dribble from the corner of your mouth. Even you were a bit flustered at the move.

Bob snaps.

“Do you two need to get a room or something?”

The words cut clean through the noise.

The Hard Deck quiets, not fully silent, but close enough that everyone hears it. Heads turn. Phoenix’s eyes light up like she just got handed a gift.

Hangman straightens slowly, expression delighted. “Jealous, Bobby?”

Bob steps closer, cue abandoned now, eyes dark and fixed. “Not jealous. Just nobody wants to see you guys eye fucking each other from over the bar.”

You meet his gaze, heart pounding, refusing to be the first to look away. You were surprised at him. He was always so sweet, shy in many ways. Swearing and being confrontational was far from his thing.

“What is your problem?”

“My problem,” he says tightly, gripping the pool cue tighter. “is that you are doing this on purpose.”

Hangman slings an arm loosely around your shoulders. “Relax. We are just having fun. It’s harmless.”

Bob’s laugh is sharp, humorless. “Yeah. Harmless.”

Emily shifts uncomfortably beside him, arms folding. “Bob.”

He does not look at her. “You think this is funny?” His eyes are glued on Hangman.

Hangman shrugs. “I think it is entertaining.”

Bob’s eyes flick to the arm around you, then back to your face. “You want to stop touching her?”

Your pulse hammers. “You do not get to tell me what to do.”

“I am asking him,” Bob replies, voice low.

Hangman lifts his arm immediately, hands up in surrender. “Hey, man. Easy. You are the one who showed up with a girlfriend.”

Emily’s jaw tightens. “I am standing right here.”

You finally look at her, offering a polite, distant smile. “This is none of your business.”

Her eyes sharpen, challenging you. “It seems like it is.”

Bob drags a hand down his face, frustration bleeding through. “Can we not do this here?”

“Then stop staring at me like that,” you shoot back.

The tension lingers long after Bob pulls away, Emily tugging him back toward the table, irritation written all over her face. You watch her lean in, whisper something sharp. Bob barely reacts, eyes still drifting back to the bar at you despite himself.

Hangman exhales. “Well. That went great.”

“You can stop now,” you say quietly.

He nods, suddenly serious. “You okay?”

You swallow. “No.”

He nods and gives you a small kiss on the cheek before giving you space, leaving you to lick your wounds in peace.

———

The Hard Deck feels stripped bare without the music.

The lights are low, casting long shadows across the empty room, chairs stacked on tables like evidence of a night that went wrong. You move behind the bar with a rag in your hand, wiping the counter harder than necessary, even though you’ve done it about a hundred times today, anger buzzing under your skin with nowhere to go. Your shoulders ache from holding it in.

You can still see it if you let yourself slow down. Bob leaning toward her. The way she laughed like she belonged there. The way his eyes kept drifting back to the bar even when he tried not to. You grab the bottle and pour yourself a shot without measuring. The burn is sharp and grounding.

“You gonna offer me one of those?”

You do not turn around.

Bob stands at the end of the bar, sweater half zipped, posture tense like he has been pacing outside arguing with himself before finally coming back in. His eyes track every movement you make. You pour another shot.

“Get your own,” you say coolly.

He exhales. “I wasn’t trying to start a fight.”

“Then you picked a bad night to walk back in here.”

You toss the shot back and finally face him. His gaze flicks to the empty glass, then back to your face, careful, searching. You hate how good he looks right now. His hair was just the perfect amount of messy, glasses lower on his nose, the sleeves of his sweater rolled up to show off his arms, which were one of your favourite things about him.

“You’re angry,” he says quietly.

You laugh, short and sharp. “You brought a date to my bar, Bob. What did you expect? It was so sudden. One moment you’re sitting in front of me, flirting, telling me how good i look, how much you love being my friend and being close to me, and the next you show up with a girlfriend.”

“She’s not my girlfriend.”

“Then you should probably stop letting her think she is.”

Silence stretches between you, thick and uncomfortable.

“You were flirting with Hangman on purpose,” he says finally.

You lean back against the bar. “And?”

“And it was obvious,” he replies. “You wanted me to see it.”

“Yes,” you say immediately. “I did.”

He looks like he wasn’t prepared for the honesty. “Why?”

“Because you stopped choosing me,” you say, the words tight but steady. “You stopped sitting here. You stopped talking to me like I mattered. And then you walked in with her like nothing between us ever existed. You’re my best friend. You can’t just do that.”

Bob drags a hand through his hair, agitation bleeding through his restraint. “You used him.”

“He knew exactly what he was,” you fire back. “Hangman was noise. He was safe. He wasn’t real.”

Bob’s voice drops, rough around the edges. “I almost punched him.”

Your breath catches.

“Twice,” he admits. “I had to leave the room. Watching him touch you, watching you laugh like it meant something, it felt like I was losing my mind.”

“You think I wasn’t?” you snap. “You think I enjoyed watching her touch you like she belonged there? I hated it. I hated her stupid laugh and the way you looked at her like she was easy.”

His eyes widen. “You were jealous.”

“I was miserable,” you say. “And angry. And hurt.”

The words settle heavy between you.

“There was a few moments,” Bob says quietly, “where I thought maybe you wanted him. And it nearly broke me. So I tried to move on with her.”

Something in your chest gives. You take a few steps closer, out from behind the bar, the space between you shrinking until it feels charged, unstable.

“I wanted you to fight for me,” you whisper.

“I wanted to,” he replies, voice cracking just slightly. “I just didn’t think I was allowed to.”

You let out a breathless laugh. “I waited for you.”

He nods once. “So did I.”

The realization lands slowly, painfully.

“I sat at that bar for months,” Bob says, eyes dark, voice unsteady, “telling myself I didn’t want you like this. You’re my best friend too. I couldn’t ruin this. Watching you walk away every night nearly killed me.”

Your pulse thunders.

“Bob… Come here, please?”

He moves closer, then stops. Close enough that you feel his breath. Close enough that his mouth hovers just shy of yours. His hesitation is almost worse than the distance was.

“If I kiss you,” he murmurs, wrecked and honest, “I don’t think I’ll be able to stop.”

You don’t answer. You grab his sweater and pull him in. The kiss crashes into you, hot and desperate, all restraint finally snapping. Bob makes a low, broken sound as his hands come up fast, gripping your waist like he has been waiting months to do it. He kisses you like he’s been starving, like every night of watching has been building toward this exact moment.

“I hated it,” he mutters against your lips.

“Watching you with him.”

“I hated watching you with her,” you whisper back, kissing him again, slower now, deeper, letting it sink in.

His thumb brushes your jaw, trembling with the effort to stay present, to stay gentle even as need burns through him. When you finally pull back, you’re both breathing hard, foreheads pressed together, hands still locked in place.

“This is going to make things complicated,” he says quietly.

“I know,” you reply.

You reach for your keys and lock up the Hard Deck with shaking hands, tugging him outside into the cool night air. Bob follows behind, trying hard to keep up with your quick steps. The world feels narrowed down to just the two of you and the thrum of your pulse.

Bob reaches the driver’s door automatically, opening it out of habit. You stop and smirk.

He looks back, confused. “What?”

You tilt your head. “That’s not where we’re going.”

His brows knit. “It’s your truck.”

You gesture toward the back door. “Back seat.”

Understanding hits him all at once. His eyes widen. His breath stutters.

“Oh,” Bob says softly.

He closes the front door and opens the back for you immediately, hand braced on the frame, gaze locked on yours like he finally understands exactly what you’re offering.

You climb in. Bob follows without hesitation.

The back door shuts with a soft, solid thud that sounds far too loud in the quiet parking lot.

For a moment, neither of you moves.

The cab of the truck is dim, lit only by the faint glow of the dash and the spill of light from the Hard Deck behind you. The windows are fogging slightly already, your breath still uneven, heart still racing from everything that led up to this. You sit on the seat with your hands folded in your lap like you have forgotten what to do with them, suddenly acutely aware of how small the space feels.

Bob sits a few inches away, posture stiff, hands braced on his knees like he is grounding himself. He looks just as unsure as you feel, glasses slightly crooked from the rush outside, chest rising and falling too fast. This is different. The kiss inside was heat and adrenaline and relief. This is quiet. Intentional. The kind of moment that makes everything feel very real all at once.

“So,” you say, then stop, because you have no idea what you were going to say.

Bob lets out a breath that sounds almost like a laugh. “Yeah.”

Silence stretches, thick but not uncomfortable. You glance at him. He is already looking at you, eyes curious behind his glasses, expression soft and tense all at once. He swallows, then shifts closer, not touching you yet, like he is asking without words.

“You okay?” he asks quietly.

You nod. “Just… nervous.”

“Me too,” he admits. “Which feels ridiculous, considering everything.”

“It doesn’t,” you say. “This is scary.”

He nods once, like that makes perfect sense to him. The next moment happens fast enough to steal your breath.

Bob reaches for you, firm and sudden, one hand at your waist as he pulls you toward him in a single smooth motion. You yelp in surprise as he lifts you easily, strength catching you completely off guard, and suddenly you are in his lap, knees braced on either side of him, hands flying to his shoulders to steady yourself.

“Bob,” you gasp, half laughing, half startled.

“Sorry,” he says immediately, breathless and a little wild. “I just… needed to stop thinking.”

You barely have time to respond before he kisses you.

His hands settle at your waist, thumbs pressing in like he is reminding himself you are real. You melt into it, fingers sliding up into his hair, heart pounding as his mouth moves against yours with a heat that makes your head spin. He makes a soft sound into the kiss, barely there, like he forgot to keep it in. When you pull back just enough to breathe, you notice it first. His glasses are fogged over, lenses clouded completely.

You blink, then laugh, unable to help it. “Bob.”

“What,” he asks, breathless, leaning back just enough to look at you.

“You can’t see anything.”

He blinks, then realizes it, huffing a quiet laugh as he reaches up. “Oh. Yeah. I should probably take these off.”

He starts to lift them and you stop him instantly, fingers wrapping around his wrist.

“No,” you say.

He pauses, confused. “No?”

You meet his eyes, heat pooling low in your stomach. “You have to keep them on.”

His breath stutters. “Really?”

“Yes.”

He swallows. “Even when…?”

“The whole time,” you cut in softly, firmly.

His eyes darken behind the fogged lenses, a slow, disbelieving smile spreading across his face.

“Okay,” he says quietly. “Yeah. Okay.”

Your lips suddenly crash against his in a heated kiss, tongues tangling desperately. It didn’t take long for hands to start roaming, quickly becoming more comfortable with each other. You couldn’t help but notice feeling Bob becoming more bold, his gentle exploring turning into grabbing you everywhere. Your thighs, your back, even feeling his hand ghost over your neck, like he was lazily choking you. Your eyes widened into the seemingly never ending kiss as he slipped his hand past your waistband and into your panties.

Bob’s eyes don’t even open. He was too focused on you. As his fingers began to slide further down, you broke the kiss, rolling your head back in a low whine. He watched through his still slightly fogged glasses, admiring the sight of you beginning to grind into his hand. He panted as if watching you was stealing the air from his lungs, moving his fingers faster, sliding through your soaked folds, circling your clit with his thumb in deliberate strokes.

The cab of your truck filled with fixed moaned and gasping as you reached down the return the favour, hand pressed against the bulge in his jeans, rubbing the hard length of his cock through the denim. Bob lifted his hips into your palm, seeking friction, but he bit back any sounds, his jaw clenched to hide how much he needed this. You could feel him throbbing under your fingers, thick and insistent.

Suddenly, Bob pulled his hand free from your pants. Before you could protest, he gripped your waist with both hands and flipped your positions. He laid back against the seat, yanking your pants and underwear down your legs in one rough motion. You had no words, watching everything he did with wide eyes. You weren’t expecting him to take such charge. As the cool air hit your exposed skin, you instinctively moved to cover yourself, cheeks burning bright red with vulnerability.

"No," Bob said firmly, batting your hands away. "Let me see you. All of you."

You hesitated, but his eyes locked on yours, dark with hunger. He tugged you up his body until you straddled his face, thighs trembling on either side of his head. "Bob, wait," you gasped, trying to shift away. This was too much, too exposed, and this was all happening so fast.

Before this Bob hadn’t seen so much as too much cleavage from you, and now he was fully staring down your core, waiting for a taste while you tried to squirm away. He didn't listen. His hands clamped around your wrists, pinning them to your sides as he pulled you down. Your pussy hovered right above his mouth, and then his tongue flicked out, lapping at your wetness like a man starved. You cried out, hips jerking at the first contact. You expected him to start slow, gentle, but you were wrong. Bob practically devoured you, sucking your clit between his lips, his tongue thrusting inside you, tasting every inch. His stubble scraped your inner thighs, adding to the intensity.

"Bob, oh god," you whimpered, your body fighting the hold on her hands.

He held you pinned for a moment longer, his mouth working relentlessly, slurping and licking until your legs started to shake. Then, he released your wrists, grabbing your hands instead and guiding them to his hair.

"Pull," he murmured against your skin, voice muffled but commanding.

You didn’t even bother to argue, letting your hands through the soft strands of his hair, tugging as he resumed eating you out. His tongue swirled faster, nose bumping your clit with each movement. Down below, you heard the rustle of fabric. You turned over your shoulder to see Bob tugging his jeans down just a little, his hand dipping into his boxers and pulling himself out. You moaned as you watched both his hands wrap around his cock to stroke himself slowly.

"Ride my face," he ordered, pulling back just enough to speak. "Use me. Get off on my tongue."

You again were too far gone to argue, the edge of orgasm building fast. "Oh fuck," you breathed, rocking your hips forward. You ground against his mouth, chasing the pressure, his tongue flattening to let you fuck his face.

Bob groaned into you, the vibration pushing you even closer. His hands pumped his cock steadily, but he kept control, not letting himself tip over.

Your thighs clenched around his head as the climax suddenly hit. You came hard, flooding his mouth with your release, body convulsing as you rode out the waves. "Bob! Fuck, yes!" you screamed, fingers yanking his hair.

His hands shot up to hold your hips steady over him as he lapped up every drop, slowing his tongue while you shuddered above him. When you finally slumped, gasping, Bob sat up carefully, his hand back to lazily stroking his slick cock. He brushed a strand of hair from your sweaty forehead, pulling you close to him, his touch gentle now.

“You okay?" he asked softly, pressing a kiss to your neck, then nipping at your jawline.

You nodded, words wanting to come out but failing you, chest heaving. The aftershocks were still crashing through her, but the emptiness between her legs grew insistent. You had never cum that hard in your life before, and you were aching for more: "Bob, please," you begged, voice hoarse. "Fuck me. I need you inside me."

His eyes darkened again. "Yeah? You want my cock?" He pulled you back into his lap, positioning you over him. One hand gripped his shaft, rubbing the thick head against your entrance, teasing your swollen lips.

you whined, trying to sink down, but he held her hips steady. "Not yet. Feel how wet you are for me."

You nodded, letting his tease you, the feeling driving you absolutely wild.

Then, with a firm grip, he dragged you down. His cock stretched you wide, filling you to the brim inch by inch. You gasped at the burn, the fullness almost too much, your walls clenching around him. "So big," you panted, nails digging into his shoulders.

Bob stilled, letting you adjust, his hands roaming her back anywhere they could reach to soothe you. He smirked with an idea and leaned forward, capturing a nipple between his teeth, sucking hard before biting down just enough to make you arch. You yelped, the sharp pleasure shooting straight to her core. He chuckled at your reaction switched to the other breast, licking and nipping, drawing out your gasps.

"You good?" he murmured, releasing your nipple with a pop.

"Move," you urged, rolling your hips experimentally. "Please, Bob, fuck me."

He didn't need more encouragement. His thrusts started slow and deep, pulling out almost all the way before sliding back in, letting you feel every ridge. He was doing all the work for you, lifting you up and down by your hips on him.

“That's it, take me," he praised, voice low.

But then his pace shifted, abrupt and brutal, and with no warning. He gripped your hips and pile-drove up into you, just once, the truck rocking with each slam. He wanted to see how you’d react. You screamed, your hand flying to the roof for stability. He smirked once more, watching your eyes screwed shut in anticipation. Bob took that as his invitation, and continued with the rough and quick pace. The force shook the entire vehicle, loud thumps echoing as your hand hit the roof with each thrust.

"Holy shit," you moaned, breasts bouncing wildly in his face.

Bob's hands continued to drag you up and down his length, using your body like he owned it, cock pounding you relentlessly.

"You feel so fucking good," he grunted out, thrusting harder. "Just fucking squeezing me."

You were already unraveling, the intensity building again. "I'm gonna cum," you warned, voice breaking. "I really can’t last much longer.”

Bob reached up, fisting your hair and yanking your head back, exposing your throat. He leaned forward and started kissing your neck, the feeling sending shivers all over your body. His other hand came down on your ass with a sharp spank, the sting making you clench around him. "Not yet," he teased, tone praising but edged with condescension. "Hold it for me, baby. You're doing so well, taking my cock like this. But you cum when I say."

You begged, tears pricking your eyes from the overload. "Please, Bob, let me cum. I need it!”

"Alright," he decided, spanking you again. "Cum for me. Scream my name."

The permission shattered you. You screamed "Bob!" over and over as the orgasm ripped through you, pussy spasming around his cock, milking him. You were lucky no one was around, the sound echoing in the empty lot.

Bob followed seconds later, slamming you down one final time. He buried himself deep, cock pulsing as he came, flooding you. “Fuck, yes," he groaned, holding you tight against him as you both trembled.

For a long moment, neither of you moves.

The truck is quiet except for the sound of your breathing, uneven and shaky, the windows fogged so thoroughly the outside world feels like it no longer exists. Your legs are still trembling, body humming, nerves buzzing like they do when everything has gone a little too far and exactly far enough all at once.

You’re hunched forward, your body cuddled up against his bare chest. He hasn’t eve pulled out of you yet, you’re still just sitting, resting. Bob’s chin rests against the top of your head. His eyes are closed. He looks completely undone, glasses crooked, hair a mess, chest still rising and falling against you like he has not figured out how to slow it down yet. You let out a breathless laugh that turns into something close to disbelief.

“Holy shit,” you say, voice wrecked. “Bob Floyd absolutely fucks. What the hell was that?”

His shoulders shake as he laughs quietly, still catching his breath. “Wow. Okay.”

You pull back just enough to look at him, eyes wide. “I am serious. I need answers. Where did you learn all that?”

He finally opens his eyes, blinking behind fogged lenses, mouth tugging into a lazy, dangerous smile you have never seen before. “Couldn’t handle it?”

You scoff, offended. “Oh, I handled it. I am just surprised.”

“Surprised how?”

You gesture vaguely between the two of you. “That shy, sweet Bob just… vanished. Like he clocked out. And then suddenly there was this other version of you.”

He tilts his head, amused. “Other version?”

“Yes,” you insist. “Kinky, absolutely unfair Bob. Big dick Bob! I was not prepared.”

He laughs softly, thumb brushing your arm in a way that feels grounding now. “I told you I wanted you. I just never said how much.”

You shake your head, still dazed. “I think I need a minute to process the personality switch.”

He hums thoughtfully. “I mean, if it helps, I’ve been processing this moment in my head for months.”

That makes your chest ache in the best way.

You rest your forehead against his again, breath finally starting to steady. “So that wasn’t just… adrenaline.”

“No,” he says immediately, serious now. “That was me. All of me. Wanting to give you exactly what you needed.”

“What, teaching me a lesson for flirting with Hangman?”

He gives a small shrug as the silence settles, softer this time.

You smile, slow and satisfied. “Good.”

He mirrors it, eyes warm behind his glasses. “Good?”

“Very good.”

He laughs again, quiet and content, pulling you closer like he has decided you belong right here. The night feels calmer now, like the worst of the storm has passed and left something solid in its wake.

Eventually, you sigh. “We should probably… move before my legs give out completely. We can go back to my place. I’ll finally let you drive!”

Bob grins. “Take your time. I’ve got you.”

Eventually, you both fumble back into your clothes, laughing quietly as Bob hands you something inside out and you fix it for him without comment.

She laughs. “You are sweating like you ran from one of Alexei’s healthy breakfast’s.”

“Those are torture,” you say. “This is fun.”

You dart in with a jab toward her ribs. She blocks, pivots, and tries to hook your leg out from under you. You hop over it, stumble, catch yourself, and bring your elbow around toward her shoulder. She leans back just enough to avoid you, eyes glinting.

“Better,” Bucky calls from the sideline, arms folded, metal fingers tapping his bicep. “But you’re dropping your left when you kick.”

“Yeah, yeah,” you mutter.

Walker stands nearby with a towel over his shoulder, water bottle in hand, watching like he’s at some mildly entertaining sporting event. He just got done training with Bucky, but of course he would stay for the show. “You’re doing great, kid. If you don’t lose, I’ll be very impressed.”

“Super helpful, thanks,” you throw back.

Yelena’s eyes flick past your shoulder, as if clocking something, and her grin widens. You tighten your stance, suspicious. “What?” you ask.

“Nothing,” she says, which obviously means something. “Just wondering, did lover boy keep you up all night? I heard the giggling.”

You lunge for her, partly out of irritation, ignoring her comments, partly because you know she’s about to try something nasty. She ducks, sweeps her leg out, and your foot nearly goes out from under you. You twist, barely catching yourself, knee hitting the mat and springing back up.

“See?” she says. “Already distracted. Terrible.”

“By you,” you counter, stepping back, breathing hard. “And your mouth.”

“You love my mouth.”

“Shut up and fight.”

You move again, this time with more purpose. You feint toward her right, draw her block, then turn your weight and drive a clean hook into her left side. She grunts, stepping back.

“Okay, that wasn’t nice,” she laughs.

You follow through before she can reset—duck under her swinging arm, hook your foot behind her ankle, and twist. Her balance vanishes. She hits the mat with a sharp exhale, shoulders slamming down.

You seize her wrist, twist gently, and pin her.

She taps out, staring up at you in disbelief.

“You cheated.”

“That’s called technique,” you say, chest heaving. “Ever heard of it?”

She groans and collapses flat. “I am dead. Someone else deal with her.”

You push to your feet, breathing hard, sweat dripping down your neck. Your lungs burn, but in a good way.

Bucky steps onto the mat, rolling his neck. “My turn.”

You squint at him. “You’re not gonna go easy on me, are you?”

“In all the times we’ve been in here together and me teaching you, have I ever?” He smirks at you from across the mats.

“No,” you sigh. “Fine. Let’s go.”

You bring your hands back up. Bucky doesn’t waste time. He closes the distance in a few smooth strides, throws a testing jab, and you block—barely. He goes low for a sweep; you jump back just in time, landing a quick jab to his shoulder.

He nods once. “Good.”

You move around him, eyes locked on his center of mass. He’s bigger, heavier, more experienced than you. You’re the smallest on the team by a mile, constantly reminded of it by everyone—Yelena with her teasing, Walker with his jokes, Bucky with his calm corrections. But you’ve learned how to use it. You can be quick. Slippery. Hard to grab.

You dart in, feint high, then drive a kick toward his thigh. He takes the hit, absorbs it like it’s nothing, then surges forward and snaps a hand toward your midsection. You twist away, his fingers grazing your side.

“Faster,” he says.

“You try being fast when—”

He sweeps your leg, and you go down, your back hitting the mat with a dull thump. You groan. “Ouch. you’re rude,” you finish, staring at the ceiling.

Bucky looks down at you, unaffected. “Again.”

You roll to your knees, push yourself up, and reset your stance. This time, you manage to slip past his guard twice more, landing a soft hit to his ribs and a glancing touch to his forearm. He’s mostly humoring you, but not entirely. His eyes say he sees the progress.

“You’re thinking less,” he notes. “That’s good.”

Walker snorts. “She’s probably just exhausted from staying up all night with Reynolds.”

You flip him off without looking. Bucky steps in again, faster now. He jabs, you block, he hooks, you duck, he pivots, and you feel the shift before you see it. He catches your wrist, turns, and you’re thrown cleanly onto your back again.

“You keep letting your right arm drift,” he says. “It’s an invitation.”

You wince. “To what? Floor kisses?”

Before Bucky can answer, the door opens with a soft hiss, and footsteps cross the threshold. You know who it is before you even lift your head. The air doesn’t stop, but it thickens in a way you’ve become embarrassingly attuned to. Bob walks into the training room. He’s in a navy t-shirt that clings to his chest and shoulders, darkening slightly with sweat, and black sweats that hang low on his hips. His hair is a little messy, pushed back in soft waves like he ran a hand through it repeatedly on the way down. There’s a faint flush on his cheeks, and a sheen on his throat that tells you he’s been working out too.

But the real hit is the way he looks at you.

He comes in mid-movement, your body still on the mat, chest rising and falling quickly, skin shining under the harsh lights, and his gaze locks onto you like it doesn’t know how to do anything else. His eyes trace the lines of you: the curve of your throat, the damp collar of your tank top, the way your stomach moves with every breath, the glint of sweat running down your ribs. You’re small compared to everyone else in this room, dwarfed by Bucky’s broad frame, but right now you look fierce and wrecked and alive.

He feels punch-drunk. Heat curls low in his gut, sharp and insistent. His jaw tightens, like he’s physically holding something back, and for a split second the rest of the room fades into so much background noise. It’s just you. Flushed, breathing hard, tiny on the mats and still glaring up at Bucky like you’re ready to fight again. It shocks Bob every times he sees you. You’re his girlfriend.
Everything was so new between you both. There were a few nights where you’d done more than kissing, him spending hours with his head between your legs and other times with your hands exploring him underneath the blanket as you watch a movie together, but nothing ever went further. You both wanted to wait. And right now you are the hottest thing he’s ever seen.

Walker glances between the two of you. “Oh yeah,” he mutters. “This is gonna be gross.”

Yelena props herself up on her elbows. “He looks like he’s seeing God. Like two horny teenagers.”

Bob drags his gaze away from you long enough to acknowledge Bucky. “How’s she doing?”

“Better,” Bucky says. “Still dropping her right.”

Bob’s eyes flick back to you. There’s something a little wild in them now. “She looks… really good.”

You manage, “Don’t say that while I’m lying on the floor.”

He smiles, soft and helpless. “Can’t help it.”

You push yourself up, cheeks hot for reasons that have very little to do with the training. “You’re late.”

“I know,” he says. “I was—thinking about this, actually.”

“About what?” you ask.

He gestures vaguely at you, at the mat, at the sweat, at everything. “You. Training. I wanted to see it.”

That admission hits like a physical touch. You swallow hard, suddenly very aware of the way your tank top clings and how bad you probably smell right now.

Bucky steps back. “You want a round with her?”

Bob nods, too quickly. “Yeah. If she’s okay with it.”

You snort. “I’m not gonna say no to beating you up.”

His eyebrows rise. “You think you can?”

“No,” you admit. “But I can try.”

He huffs out a breathy laugh and moves onto the mat with you. As he comes closer, you really feel the difference in size. He’s always been taller, broader, you know that. You feel it every time he pulls you into one of those slow, drawn-out makeout sessions that end with his hands under your shirt and both of you breathing like you just ran miles. Or when you spend the night in his room, body tucked up against him all night, his body warm like a heated blanket.

But here, barefoot on the mat, with both of you standing and squared off, he finally sees it in a way that rearranges something in his brain. You raise your hands, chin up, small frame lined up opposite his, and his breath stalls. He really towers over you. Like really. Enough that his shadow falls over your shoulders. Enough that his chest is level with your eyes, and your fingers look like they barely span half his wrist. Something lights up inside him. He’s noticed before, sure. But this is different. This is controlled, measured, deliberate, no dim light or tangled sheets or half-dressed hallway kisses. It’s you standing in front of him like you’re ready to take him on, and him realizing you’re so much smaller and he could, if he wanted to, fold you up with one arm.

The thought shouldn’t feel as good as it does. His gaze drops to your hands, then his, then back again. His fingers flex without his permission, imagining them circling both your wrists, pinning them above your head in his bed, with room to spare, sliding around your waist and overlapping, caging you easily against his body. Heat punches straight through him. Heavy. Warm. Dangerous.

He doesn’t understand why this sudden realization is throwing him off so much.

At the way you look facing him down anyway. At the idea of being that much bigger than you and using it to keep you safe, keep you close, hold you exactly where he wants you. Later, he’ll realize there’s a name for that. Right now, he just knows it feels good.

You tilt your head. “You gonna stand there staring all day, or are we fighting?”

He snaps out of it. “Sorry. Yeah. We’re fighting. Definitely fighting.”

You smile, slow and a little wicked. “You sure? You look a little overwhelmed.”

“By you?” he says. “Always.”

Your heartbeat stutters. Yelena groans dramatically. “I hate both of you.”

You move first. A quick jab toward his chest. He blocks with almost insulting ease, but his fingers wrap around your wrist for a second longer than they have any right to. His hand nearly swallows yours, skin warm, grip careful but firm. He glances at where you connect, where his much bigger hand encircles your much smaller wrist, and there it is again, that flash of something hot and appreciative in his eyes. You feel it burn through you.

“You’re distracted,” you murmur.

“I’m fine,” he lies.

You twist your arm free and pivot, aiming a sharp hit to his side. It lands, and his breath hitches. Not from the power of it, but from the way your body grazes his in the movement.

“Nice,” he says quietly. “Do that again.”

“You like me hitting you?”

“Little bit.”

You grin. “You’re weird.”

“You chose me.”

You kick lightly toward his thigh. He catches your ankle in one large hand, his palm wrapping easily around it, thumb pressing against your skin as he guides your leg back down in a controlled arc. His touch makes your breath snag.

“Your balance is better,” he says. “You’re quicker.”

“Flatter me more,” you tease. “Maybe I’ll let you win.”

“Let me?” His eyes blaze. “Okay. That’s cute.”

You move in closer, pushing, testing. You duck under his arm, spin behind him, tap his back with your knuckles and dart away again. He turns, slower this time, gaze tracking you with a focus that’s half tactical, half something else entirely.

“You’re holding back,” you say.

“So are you,” he counters. “I have super strength, I have to hold back.”

You step in again, and this time you don’t dodge when his hand finds your hip. His fingers spread across your side, spanning almost the entire distance from your waist to your lower ribs. His thumb presses into the soft place just above your hipbone. Your breath stutters visibly.

“Careful,” you murmur. “You’re gonna make it obvious.”

“It already is,” he says under his breath.

You twist out of his hand, ignoring the way your skin tingles, and throw a quick combination—high, low, then a pivot to his left. He blocks the first, dodges the second, and lets the third graze his ribs. His smile is small and wrecked.

Yelena mutters, “They are one bad decision away from ripping each other’s clothes off.”

Walker sighs. “And we’re all gonna be here when it happens. Fantastic.”

You and Bob keep moving. You duck, he steps in; you angle to the side, he follows. Every time his hands touch you, they linger on your forearm, your shoulder, the back of your neck. He never hurts you. He never even comes close. His strength is a constant, humming presence around you, like you’re moving against a warm wall that could close in at any second. You throw one more strike, but your timing is off. You can feel his gaze on you, can feel your own nerves buzzing with how close his body keeps getting, with the memory of his hands under your shirt, his breath against your mouth, the weight of him pressing you into his mattress only to stop because you both agreed you wanted to take things slow.

All that wanting hasn’t gone anywhere. It’s only gotten sharper. Your focus slips, and he sees it.

In a smooth motion, he hooks your leg, takes you down, and follows you to the mat. The world tilts, and then your back hits the floor, air rushing out of your lungs in a gasp.

His knees land on either side of your hips.
One of his hands captures both your wrists, easily pinning them above your head.
The other braces by your shoulder, holding most of his weight off you—but not all of it.

He leans over you, and suddenly you understand just how big he is. His torso blocks out most of the overhead lights. His arms cage you in, thick and solid on either side. His chest is inches from yours, his breath rolling over your lips, his thighs enclosing your smaller ones. The mat feels very far away. Everything else feels like him.

Your pulse punches against the inside of your wrists where his fingers wrap around them. His hand is huge. You test the hold, just to see.

You don’t move an inch. His eyes flicker, watching you try, feeling the difference in strength, and something inside him snaps into razor-sharp focus. He really could hold you there with one hand. He really could cover your whole body, tuck you under him, keep you still and safe and his. The realization hits him like a live wire.

His throat works as he swallows, voice lowering to something rough and almost broken. “You okay?”

You nod, breathless. “Yeah.”

“Sure?” he presses, gaze searching your face, making absolutely certain.

“I’m sure,” you whisper. “Are you?”

He lets out a quiet, shaky laugh. “Not even close.”

He looks down at you, really, truly looks, and you see the shift again. The way his pupils darken, the way his gaze flicks from your eyes to your mouth, to the slender line of your pinned arms, back down to where your waist disappears beneath his body. He’s taking in all the contrast, all the places where you fit into him like you were made for this exact position. His brain can’t think of anything else. It’s just this hot, heavy awareness: I’m huge next to her, and I love it.

You feel it in him. In the way his fingers tighten just slightly. In the way his breath shortens. In the way his hips shift almost imperceptibly as he forces himself to hold still. The way something in his pants seems to be poking you a bit more than usual, the same thing you feel every morning when you wake up. He’s turned on by this, by pinning you here.

“You’re staring,” you murmur.

“Have you seen yourself?” he fires back softly. “Can you blame me?”

“That’s unfair,” you say. “You’re on top of me. Kind of hard to think straight.”

“Now you know how I feel all the time,” he says, smiling faintly. “You make it impossible to think.”

You swallow. “You know we have an audience.”

“I’m trying really hard to forget that,” he admits.

Yelena covers her face. “I hate this room.”

Bucky exhales loudly through his nose. “Gym rule number two: if you’re going to flirt like this, take it somewhere else.”

Walker mutters, “This is beyond flirting.”

Bob finally, reluctantly, loosens his grip on your wrists and pushes himself back, careful as he shifts his weight so he doesn’t crush you. He tries his best to cover his half boner from your shared friends. He straightens, then immediately reaches down and lifts you up by your waist, helping you to your feet like you weigh nothing. You stumble forward into his chest. His hands hold you steady, large and warm around your hips. Up close, you can feel his heart hammering just as fast as yours.

“You’re getting really good,” he murmurs, voice low enough that it’s only for you. “You were fast. Smart. You made me work.”

“You let me hit you,” you say, but your voice is soft, betrayingly fond.

“Maybe a little,” he admits. “But I liked it.”

“You like a lot of things,” you say, looking up at him through your lashes.

His mouth curves slowly. “Especially when it comes to you.”

Your stomach flips. Behind you, Yelena stands with a groan. “I am going to shower. If they start making out, please kill me.”

“I’m leaving too,” Walker says. “Before I end up as a witness in whatever this is.”

Bucky looks between you and Bob, decides he’s seen enough, and claps his hands once. “You two can finish… whatever this is on your own time. Training’s done.”

You barely hear them leave. You don’t even say bye, no wave or comments about seeing them later. Bob’s thumbs are still resting at your waist. You’re still slightly out of breath, chest brushing his with every inhale. The tension between you hums like a live wire, all the undone things hanging in the air—not just the spar, but the way every heavy makeout session has ended with both of you pulling back, frustrated and shaking and agreeing, “Not yet.”

All of that is right here.

In the way he looks at you.
In the way you look back.

“We should… cool down,” you say eventually, though your voice doesn’t sound particularly cool.

“Yeah,” he murmurs. “We should.”

He doesn’t move.

Neither do you.

And the worst part is, you both know this is only going to get harder to walk away from.

The training room finally goes quiet once the door slams shut behind Bucky, Yelena, and Walker, all three fleeing after watching far too much sexual tension for one morning. Their footsteps echo away, leaving the air so still it's almost humming, thick with heat and the leftover sound of your ragged breathing. You’re still flushed from the workout, sweat shining along your collarbones and the curve of your stomach. Your tank top clings to you, damp and tight, outlining every contour of your small frame.

Bob notices. Oh, he definitely notices. He moves toward you with your water bottle in hand, his breathing uneven, his navy shirt clinging to him in all the ways your brain is currently trying to ignore.

But when he reaches you, his eyes drop, not subtly, along your body. They move in slow, deliberate lines. Your throat, your shoulders, your waist… your hips. Not a lusty

He hands you your water. “Here.”

Your fingers brush his when you take it, or maybe he makes sure they do, and your heart stutters.

“Thanks,” you say, breathless. He’s still staring.

You blink. “What?”

“Nothing,” he lies instantly.

It is absolutely not nothing. His hand lifts toward your face, moving slowly, deliberately. He tucks a piece of damp hair behind your ear, but his fingertips graze your cheek, his thumb brushing your jaw, and that brief, warm pressure sends heat streaking through your chest. He lingers there longer than he intends to.

“You did really good today,” he murmurs, voice softened by something that feels too close to hunger. “You looked… strong.”

“You were staring the whole time,” you tease.

His cheeks flush slightly. “I— yeah. I was.”

He clears his throat, trying to play it cool, but then makes the mistake of looking you up and down again.

He steps closer without thinking, like he needs to see it properly. His hand lifts slowly, almost cautiously, and he holds it up to your face.

Your eyes widen. “What are you doing?”

“Just…hold still,” he mumbles, embarrassed. “I’m curious.”

Your breath stutters as his palm hovers beside your cheek. You realize suddenly: his hand could almost cover your entire face. His thumb could touch your temple while his pinky grazes your jaw.He realizes it too, and he inhales sharply.

“Bob?” you ask, confused but flustered.

“What are you… comparing?”

He drops his hand quickly, looking dazed. “Sorry. I don’t know why I did that.”

But he does.
And the truth hits him like a freight train.

He loves it.
He loves how tiny you are next to him.
He loves the contrast.
He loves the way he can touch you and feel your whole body respond.
He loves that he has to bend down, a lot, just to kiss you properly.

He’s learning he has a type.

You shift awkwardly under his gaze. “You’re acting weird.”

“I’m not acting weird,” he says, instantly defensive.

“You’re standing suspiciously close and looking at me like you’re trying to solve a math equation.”

“okay, that’s fair,” he breathes, rubbing the back of his neck. He looks anywhere but at you. “I just… kept noticing things.”

“What things?”

He swallows. “A lot of things.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Examples?”

He gives up trying to hide. “Your hands. They’re so small compared to mine. I didn’t… realize how much until today.”

Your cheeks heat. “Okay…”

“And your waist,” he continues, voice dropping without him meaning it to. “I could wrap my whole arm around it without trying.” Your breath catches.

“That’s not weird, is it?” he blurts, almost flustered. “I don’t want to be weird about it. I just-“

“You’re not weird,” you say softly. “Just very observant.”

He huffs a shaky laugh. “If you knew the things I was thinking while watching you train-“

“Oh?” you tease, stepping closer. “Care to elaborate?”

He looks at you like you just pressed a detonator. “No,” he says too quickly. “Nope. Definitely not.”

You smile, slow and wicked. “That’s not suspicious at all.”

He groans. “Please don’t tease me right now.”

“Why not?”

“Because,” he says, stepping even closer until your chest grazes his, “we said we’d wait.”

“And?”

“And I’m trying really, really hard to be good.” His voice is low. Strained. “But you’re not making it easy.”

You feel warmth pool low in your stomach.

“Well,” you say lightly, trying to diffuse the intensity before you melt, “I need a shower anyway. Like… immediately.”

You grab your towel and turn toward the door, but you only make it three steps.

A hand wraps gently, but firmly, around your wrist. You basically stop breathing. He pulls you back, turning you toward him with a controlled, deliberate steadiness that leaves your heart hammering. You barely have time to gasp before he dips down, far down, and captures your mouth in a sudden, deep, hungry kiss.

It steals your air.
Your thoughts.
Your balance.

His hand slides to your waist, fingers spanning nearly the entire left side of your torso, squeezing gently as he backs you into him. His other hand cups your cheek, thumb brushing your cheekbone as he angles the kiss deeper. You gasp softly into his mouth. He breathes in that sound like he’s starving for it. Your hands fist into his shirt, pulling him closer even though there’s hardly any space left between you. He kisses you like he’s been holding himself back for months, and finally the restraint snaps. He pulls back only when breathing demands it, forehead resting against yours, chest rising fast.

His voice is wrecked. “Sorry. I just… I couldn't let you walk away.”

You whisper, “Bob…”

His eyes flicker to your mouth again, dark with wanting. The kind that aches. “We’re finally alone,” he murmurs. “Just us. No interruptions. No teammates gagging in the corner.”

“And?” you whisper.

He cups your face in both hands — and God, his hands are huge on you, completely engulfing your jaw, his thumb brushing your lips.

“And,” he breathes, “I am losing my mind trying not to touch you. To hear all those pretty noises you like to make when I touch you.”

Your pulse thunders. “And I want you,” he admits, raw and honest, “in ways we said we’d wait for. And I want to keep waiting. I do. But—”

“But?” you whisper, voice trembling.

His mouth brushes yours again — not kissing yet, just hovering. “But it’s getting really hard.”

“Good,” you murmur, smirking. “You deserve to suffer. I like watching it.”

He laughs, breathless, ruined, then kisses you again. Harder, deeper, like he can’t control himself. His hands stay planted on your waist, warm and huge and possessive, holding you close without pulling you further than you’re both ready for. The tension between you crackles, hot and hungry and impossible to ignore.

His mouth is still warm against yours when you whisper, “Tell me what you want.”

He doesn’t hesitate. “You.”

The word breaks out of him like he’s been holding it between his teeth for days.

Before you can even react, his hand slides beneath your thighs and he scoops you up with one arm. Effortless. Instinctive. Your breath leaves you in a startled gasp, then a bubbling laugh you can’t hold back.

“Bob—!”

He grins against your mouth, kissing through your giggle, his free hand cupping the back of your head as he holds you pressed against his chest like you weigh nothing. “I told you I could pick you up with one arm,” he murmurs between kisses. “Didn’t believe me?”

“I believed you,” you breathe, wrapping your arms around his shoulders. “I just didn’t know you’d do it in the middle of-“

“This?” he finishes, kissing you again, deeper, hungrier.

Your giggle dissolves into a soft sound that goes straight to his spine. He starts walking, carrying you easily across the training room, your legs wrapped loosely around his waist. Every step jostles you closer to him, every shift of his body making the kiss more desperate. Your fingers knot in his hair. “Where are you taking me?”

“To somewhere,” he says, breathless, “where we can finally finish what we start without an audience.”

“The locker room?”

“The locker room.”

He pushes the door open with his shoulder, never putting you down, the metal hinge creaking as you both stumble inside. The moment the door clicks shut behind him, he pins you gently against the wall. Not trapping, just anchoring you so he can kiss you deeper. Your back hits the cool tile.
His body presses warmly against yours.
Your pulse flutters wildly beneath his mouth.

He kisses you like he’s starving. Like he’s been holding himself back for months and something in him finally snapped.

You tug at his shirt, pulling him even closer. “Why did we even wait?”

His breath shudders against your lips. “I don’t know. God, I don’t know.”

You tighten your grip on him. “It feels stupid now.”

“It is stupid,” he says, voice rough, kissing down the curve of your jaw. “I’ve had you in my arms, in my bed, on my couch…” He cuts himself off, groaning quietly. “Every time we stop, it gets harder.”

“Then why stop?” He lifts his head, forehead pressed to yours, breathing hard.

“You remember the first time?” he whispers. “When we finally moved past just kissing?”

Your face heats immediately. “Bob-“

“No, listen,” he insists, voice low and honest, like he’s telling you a secret he’s been holding too close to his chest. “Do you know what went through my head that night? When I got to actually touch you like that? When you made those sounds?”

Your thighs tighten unconsciously around his waist. His eyes darken, and he kisses you again, slower, deeper.

“I remember thinking,” he says softly, “that there was no way in hell I was stopping. Not after that. Not after feeling you like that.”

“Then why did we?”

He laughs, breath warm against your lips. “Because you said you wanted to take things slow.”

“And you said you agreed.”

“I agreed,” he murmurs, thumb brushing your cheek, “because I wanted everything to be perfect for you.”

“It will be,” you whisper. “But why can’t perfect be now?”

He lets out a low, shaky breath. “You’re killing me.”

“Good,” you say, smirking against his mouth. “Maybe you deserve it.”

He growls softly, sound you’ve never heard from him, and kisses you again, harder this time, his fingers tightening at your waist.

“You don’t understand,” he murmurs between kisses. “I know exactly how you taste. Exactly how you feel in my hands.” His voice drops even lower, warm and wrecked.

“And the second I found that out, I swear I haven’t thought about anything else.”

Your breath leaves you in a rush. Your hand curls in the hair at the nape of his neck. “Then don’t think anymore.”

He stills, just for a heartbeat, his chest pressed to yours, breath shaking. Then he lifts you higher against him, hands firm, mouth returning to yours in a kiss that nearly knocks the air from your lungs. He carries you deeper into the locker room, toward the row of shower stalls, the sound of your breathing and his footsteps echoing off tile and concrete.

“Tell me you want this,” he murmurs, kissing along your cheek, your jaw, your throat.

You grab his face, force him to look at you. “I want this.”

“Then,” he whispers, voice trembling, “I’m done waiting.”

He kisses you again. It’s slow, deep, overwhelmed, carrying you past the threshold of the showers, the steam and the echo of dripping water from previous showers swallowing your breath as you finally, finally give in. His mouth claims yours with a hunger that's been building for way too long, tongues sliding together in a wet, desperate tangle as he backs you into the tiled wall of the shower. Your body presses flush against his massive frame, every inch of him dwarfing you, his broad chest like a wall of muscle, his arms thick and unyielding as they cradle your smaller form. You've felt the tension during training, the way his eyes lingered on your curves, the subtle flex of his biceps when he spotted you. But now it's raw, electric, his want for you igniting as he lifts you without effort, your legs wrapping around his waist.

Your back hits something hard and you wince. It’s the faucet controls, and suddenly hot water cascades over you both, soaking your clothes in an instant, but you don’t seem to care. Streams pour down your skin, plastering your shirt to your breasts, but neither of you pauses, lost in the kiss, the heat between you overriding everything else. Bob groans into your mouth, his huge hands gripping your ass, fingers digging into the firm flesh as he pins you against the slick wall. Water slicks his short hair, rivulets tracing the ridges of his abs, dripping from his jaw as he breaks the kiss to trail his lips down your neck again. He sucks gently at your skin, teeth grazing just enough to make you gasp, your nails scraping down his shoulders through the drenched fabric.

"God, you're so perfect like this," he murmurs, voice rough but laced with tenderness, his breath hot against your collarbone.

One hand slides up your thigh, bunching your shorts higher, while the other keeps you hoisted effortlessly. Your weight is nothing to him, like you're made for his arms. He grinds his hips forward, and you feel the thick bulge of his cock straining against his pants, pressing right against your core, the size of it making your pussy clench in anticipation.

You arch into him, your soaked shirt translucent now, nipples hard and visible as they rub against his chest.

“Bob... please," you whisper, voice breathy, needing more of him.

His free hand yanks the hem up, exposing your breasts to the warm spray, and he dives down, mouth latching onto one peak. He sucks hard, tongue swirling over the tight bud, teeth nipping softly as water streams between you. The sensation shoots straight to your clit, and you moan, grinding back against his hardness, feeling how massive he is even through the layers.

"I love how you feel against me," he says softly, switching to your other nipple, lavishing it with the same attentive care, his hand kneading your breast, thumb rolling the wet skin.

All the while, he rocks his hips, the friction building heat in your core despite the water. Your hands fumble at his waistband, desperate to feel him, and he growls low, helping you shove his pants down just enough to free his cock. It springs out, thick and long, veins pulsing along the length, the head already leaking pre-cum that mixes with the shower's flow. You're half his size, and seeing it up close makes your breath hitch, it's going to stretch you wide, fill you completely. You’ve touched it before, even seen the outline, but seeing it out in the open like this made you really understand how big he was.

"You're so beautiful," he whispers, voice full of awe, but there's an edge to it as he hooks his fingers into your shorts and panties, ripping them down your thighs in one swift pull, the fabric tangling at your ankles but forgotten as he spreads your legs wider with his knees.

Water pounds down, soaking your exposed pussy, and he reaches between you, his thick fingers sliding through your folds. You're drenched already, slick with arousal, and he groans at how easily one finger pushes inside you, curling to stroke your inner walls. You start to whine, not wanting to wait to feel him.

"Let me get you ready for me, sweetheart," he says gently, adding a second finger, pumping them slowly, his thumb circling your clit with deliberate pressure.

You buck against his hand, the pleasure building fast after months of denial, your body trembling in his hold. "That's it, just relax... I want you to feel good," he encourages, his tone sweet even as his fingers thrust deeper, testing his luck by adding a third finger, preparing you for his size. You hiss at the extra stretch, core aching to feel him inside you.

"Bob, oh god, it feels so good," you gasp, your hips rolling to meet his hand, the coil in your belly tightening unbearably. He's hitting that spot inside you perfectly, his thumb flicking your clit just right, and you're right on the edge, breaths coming in short pants. "Don't stop... I'm so close."

But he does stop, pulling his fingers out abruptly, leaving you empty and aching. You whine, a desperate sound escaping your lips as your pussy clenches around nothing, the denied orgasm leaving you throbbing. "Bob! Why'd you- please, I need you," you beg, squirming in his arms, your hands clutching at his shoulders.

He chuckles lowly, a teasing glint in his eyes as he brings his slick fingers to your lips, tracing them before you suck them clean. "Not yet, baby. I want you begging for me first," he says, voice husky and affectionate, even as he cruelly denies you. He grinds the head of his cock against your entrance, sliding through your wetness but not pushing in, letting you feel how thick he is.

"Tell me how bad you want it. You're so tight and ready... but I love hearing you say it."

"Please, Bob, fuck me," you plead, voice breaking, your body arching toward him. "I need your cock inside me now. I've waited so long."

His expression softens with a smile, but the roughness returns as he notches the blunt head at your pussy. "That's my girl," he praises, then thrusts up, slow at first, the thickness breaching you inch by inch. It burns so good, your walls yielding to his girth, fluttering around him as he sinks deeper. He's huge, splitting you open, and the size difference makes every sensation sharper; you feel so full already, and he's not even all the way in.

"You're taking me so well," he murmurs sweetly, bottoming out with a final push. He pauses there, buried to the hilt, letting you adjust to the stretch, his forehead pressed to yours, breaths mingling in the steam. "You feel incredible, like you were made for me."

Then, after what feels like forever, he starts moving, pulling back almost out before slamming back in, the force rattling your body against the tiles. He’s moving slow but hard, Water splashes everywhere as he fucks you, effortless in his strength, holding you up like you weigh nothing. Each thrust drives him deep, his cock dragging along your sensitive spots, hitting that angle that makes stars burst behind your eyes.

"Yes, just like that," you moan, legs tightening around him, heels digging into his ass, urging him faster. "More, faster Bob... you feel so good.”

He obliges, pace turning relentless, hips snapping with the power of his training-honed muscles. "I love how you squeeze me," he groans, voice tender amid the roughness, one hand bracing the wall beside your head for leverage, the other gripping your hip, fingers bruising as he controls the rhythm. Your breasts bounce with every impact, nipples grazing his chest, and the water amplifies everything, the wet slap of skin, the slick glide of his cock in your pussy.

His mouth finds yours again, kissing you sloppy and deep, swallowing your moans as he pounds into you. Tension coils tight in your belly once more, building toward release, and Bob senses it, shifting his angle to grind against your clit with each plunge.

"Come for me, sweetheart," he whispers against your lips, voice strained, his own control fraying. "Let go... I've got you."

You shatter around him, pussy clamping down hard, waves of pleasure crashing as you cry out his name, nails raking his back.

"Bob! Yes!"

He doesn't stop, fucking you through it, drawing out your orgasm until you're shaking. Then his thrusts grow erratic, deeper, harder, and with a guttural moan, he buries himself deep one last time. "Fuck, baby..." Bob floods your pussy, filling you as he pulses inside, his massive body shuddering against yours.

He holds you there, both panting, water still pouring over you, as the aftershocks fade. Slowly, he lowers you, but keeps you close, cock softening inside you, unwilling to let go just yet. "You're everything to me," he says softly, kissing your forehead.

The shower room is quiet now, the steam settling in lazy curls around your bodies. The only sound left is the soft drip of water hitting tile… and the slow, uneven breaths the two of you are still trying to catch.

Bob is the first to move. He doesn’t go far, just shifts enough to gather you against his chest, one strong arm sweeping under your back, his other hand smoothing wet hair away from your forehead. You melt into him without thinking, cheek pressed against the warm, solid rise of his shoulder.

For a long moment, neither of you speak.

He rests his chin lightly on top of your head, breathing you in, grounding himself. You feel the tremor still in his arms, the way his fingers twitch softly against your spine, like he still can’t believe any of this happened.

“…hey,” he murmurs eventually, voice low and wrecked in the sweetest way. “You okay?”

You nod against his skin. “More than okay.”

He lets out a breath that sounds almost like a laugh. “Good. Because I was… I was worried it would be too much. I didn’t want to hurt you.”

“You’re too much in general,” you say sleepily, smiling. “But that’s kind of your charm. I’m small Bob, but i’m not made of glass.”

He pulls back just enough to look at you, eyes warm and soft in that way that makes your stomach flip. His thumb drags over your cheekbone, gentle, tracing the faint heat still lingering there.

“You’re unbelievable,” he murmurs. “I mean it.”

“Why?” you whisper.

His smile grows crooked, shy, almost boyish despite how confidently he had you moments ago. “Because you let me… be close to you. All the way. I’ve wanted that for so long I think my brain short-circuited halfway through.”

“Pretty sure mine did too.”

He brushes the back of his fingers down your jaw, slow, almost reverent. “You’re okay? Really?”

“I’m perfect,” you repeat softly, lifting his hand and kissing the inside of his wrist. “You?”

He pauses, not uncertain, just overwhelmed as he cups your face with one large palm.

“I’m…” He shakes his head, laughing under his breath. “I’m insanely happy. And kind of terrified. And completely obsessed with you. So yeah. I think I’m good.”

Warmth spreads through you like sunlight.

He leans forward and kisses you, slow and tired and sweet. So different from the desperate way he kissed you earlier. This one tastes like trust. Like something settled. Like something brand new. When he pulls back, he gently tucks you under his chin again, arms wrapped around you like he’s afraid if he lets go for even a second, you’ll vanish.

“You know,” you murmur against his skin, “the others are definitely going to know.”

He snorts. “They knew the second I carried you out of the training room.”

“Good point.”

“We don’t have to tell them anything though,” he adds, tipping your chin up so he can see your face. “This part-“ he kisses your forehead “Is just for us.”

You hum, content and warm and safe in his hold. After a moment, he shifts slightly, holding you closer. “We should probably… stand up at some point.”

You tighten your arms around him. “Eventually.”

“Eventually,” he echoes, pressing another kiss to your temple.

On the coffee table sits the remains of a gingerbread house that once looked respectable. You and Yelena decorated it with chaotic enthusiasm and entirely too much icing. Now it is days old, sagging in places, the gumdrops half hardened. You snap off a wall and bite into it anyway. You weren’t proud of it, but it looked so sad sitting on the counter. It tastes like regret and nostalgia and sugar that has been sitting too long. You chew while staring at the ceiling, wondering when your life turned into this exact tableau.

You have too much time. That is the problem. Too much time to think. Too much time to remember. Too much time to accidentally open apps you told yourself you were done with. Instagram loads before you can stop it. You do not even pretend you do not know what you are going to see. Your thumb hesitates for only a second before tapping the familiar circle. There he is. And there she is. New girl. Her arm draped around him like she has always belonged there. They are both smiling in a way that feels aggressive in its happiness. The caption is light, harmless, almost cruel in how normal it all looks. She definitely wrote that for him. Why did he never post you that way?

Your chest tightens before you can stop it. The gingerbread goes dry in your mouth. You stare longer than you should, searching for something wrong with the photo. Some tiny flaw. Some hint that this is not as perfect as it looks. There is none. You lock your phone and toss it onto the couch beside you with more force than necessary. The impact thumps against the cushions, loud in the quiet room. You groan, dragging your hands over your face, then let them fall uselessly at your sides.

“This is miserable,” you mutter to no one.

Right on cue, the front door unlocks.

You jolt upright so fast your head spins, heart kicking against your ribs like you have been caught doing something illegal. Keys jangle. Boots hit the floor. The door swings open and Yelena steps inside with cold air curling in behind her, cheeks flushed from the winter outside, coat half unbuttoned.

You scramble instantly. The gingerbread gets shoved back onto the table. You swipe at your hair, tug your sweatshirt down, check your reflection in the dark screen of the television as if you have not been horizontal for hours. Yelena watches all of this with a slow, unimpressed blink.

“Did you move today,” she asks flatly as she shrugs out of her coat.

“Yes,” you say quickly. “I totally moved.”

She arches a brow. “I went from here to the kitchen to make food. Then to the bathroom after,” you add defensively.

She stares at you for a second longer, then snorts despite herself. “Athletic.”

She kicks off her boots and collapses onto the couch beside you with a heavy sigh, shoulder bumping yours. Her gaze drifts immediately to the coffee table and lands on the slumped ruin of the gingerbread house.

“You are eating that,” she says slowly. “Right now. On purpose?”

You follow her eyes and groan. “Please do not start.”

“That thing is practically a biohazard.”

You slide down until your head drops onto her shoulder, voice muffled against her sleeve. “I need a life,” you whine.

Her annoyance evaporates almost instantly.

“Oh,” she says, tone shifting into something dangerous. “Say less.”

Before you can react, she snatches your phone off the cushion. “Hey,” you protest, reaching for it. “Give that back.”

“No. This is an intervention.”

Your stomach drops. “Yelena, no.”

She is already tapping furiously. “Yes. This is happening.”

You lunge for the phone, but she twists out of your reach with infuriating ease, laughing as you flail at her arm.

“Stop,” you say, half serious, half breathless. “I am not ready. I look unhinged.”

She shoves you flat against the couch with one hand and swings a leg over your hips in one smooth movement, pinning you there like this is a sanctioned sport. The phone is held high above your face, untouchable.

“This dating profile is important,” she announces. “You need to get some dick before you wither away and die.”

“I am not withering.”

“You are eating ancient pastry on a friday night.” She scrolls through your camera roll. “Oh, this pic is hot. Oh, this one is good. This one says emotionally unavailable but in a sexy way.”

“Delete that,” you yelp. “Delete that right now.”

She ignores you with commitment.

Minutes pass that feel like seconds and hours all at once. Then she gasps loudly.

“It is done,” she declares, finally sliding off you and tossing the phone onto your chest.

You sit up, stunned. “That is it?”

“Already live. Already dangerous.”

Your screen lights up almost immediately. One notification. Then another. Then three more. Matches. Your mouth falls open.

“No way!” you whisper. You stop and look over your profile. It was actually pretty well set up. “That was fast…You put that I like to spend my time eating old gingerbread houses?”

Yelena cackles, peering over your shoulder at her terribly made bio for you as you open the messages. You both cringe in unison almost instantly.

The first message reads: u look like trouble in a fun way. wanna ruin my life.

You gag. “Absolutely not.”

Another one pops up: do u like older men. im 43 but young at heart.

You groan. “I already hate this app.”

Yelena is laughing so hard she is wheezing.

Then a new notification slides down from the top of the screen. A message from somebody named Bob. You open the profile.

The photos load one by one. Dark hair. Soft eyes. Broad shoulders that fill out a sweater unfairly well. Like…How is it possible for a human to be built in such a way? A smile that looks like it might actually mean something. Yelena makes a noise somewhere between a shout and a prayer.

“Holy shit,” she yells. “He is hot as fuck.”

You swallow. “Yeah.”

His first message comes through almost immediately.

Bob: So you decorated a gingerbread house and then emotionally destroyed it days later. Bold. Unhinged. I respect it.

You laugh out loud at the message.

“Oh,” you say. “That is good.”

You type back.

You: It had weak structural integrity to begin with. I was just speeding up the inevitable.

Three dots appear almost instantly.

Bob: Fair. Tragic but fair. Also you fully just admitted to eating old gingerbread, which is either brave or a cry for help.

You bite your lip, smiling.

You: A little of both, probably.

Yelena squeezes your arm in victory. “See. Working.”

The front door opens again and Bucky, your other roommate and Yelena’s long time boyfriend, steps inside, keys in hand, eyes flicking between the two of you immediately.

“What are you doing,” he asks cautiously. He swears almost every time he comes in the door you both look like you’re cooking up an evil plan.

Yelena does not even look up. “Fixing her life.”

You are still smiling at the screen when crosses the room and leans over your shoulder. He laughs at some of the comments this Bob guy is making, and gets excited when he sees your face.

He squints. “Oh my god. She is blushing.”

You groan. “I am not.”

“She is,” Yelena sings. “My plan is flawless.”

Bob sends another message.

Bob: So. What does one do after surviving both heartbreak and expired baked goods.

You hesitate for only a second before replying.

You: Apparently gets bullied into online dating by her roommate.

A pause. Then.

Bob: Your roommate is a hero.

Yelena slams her hands on the cushion in triumph.

Then she leans closer to you, voice dropping into something serious. “Remember. This is not to date. This is to get laid.”

You swallow. “…Okay.”

Your fingers hover over the keyboard. You take a breath and type.

You: So i’m trying to figure out a way to invite myself over to your place. This is the best I could come up with.

Three dots appear immediately.

An address follows.

Bob: 742 Willow Street.

Then another message.

Bob: Please pretend I took longer to send that.

You laugh so hard it almost hurts. Within minutes you are on your feet, pulling on clothes that make Yelena whistle when you step back into the living room. Comfy, but sexy. She adjusts your collar with a proud little nod.

“You look sexy as hell,” she says. “Go ruin his life.”

Bucky lifts a hand in a lazy wave. “Good luck.”

Your phone vibrates in your palm.

You do not look back as you head for the door.

————

The hallway outside his apartment is too quiet, the kind of quiet that makes every sound in your own body feel too loud. Your pulse thuds in your ears, your stomach twists, and for a very real moment you are convinced you might actually throw up right here on the carpet. Your phone is still warm in your hand, his address glowing faintly on the screen as if it might vanish if you look away for too long.

You have not done this before. Not this. Not anything like this. What if he was a murderer? What if he was some really old guy and not the guy in the pictures? You are not even fully sure why you came. To get over your ex? To prove something to yourself? A petty part of you wonders if it is to make him jealous, and you immediately feel ridiculous for the thought because he would never even know. He is probably at home with his new girlfriend right now, living a life that does not include you anymore.

You swallow and lift your hand. It hesitates just long enough to be humiliating before your knuckles finally meet the door.

You barely manage three knocks before it swings open. He is standing there in black and grey plaid pajama pants and a black t shirt that fits him unfairly well, the fabric stretched over a solid chest and arms that definitely look stronger than you were expecting. His hair is still slightly damp and pushed back, like he showered and rushed, and the nerves in his posture are obvious immediately. His eyes flick over you and widen just a little.

“Hi,” he says.

It is only one word and your knees still almost give out. From his side of the doorway, you look even better than your pictures. You look real. Brave. Close enough to touch. Sexy even though you were wearing comfy clothes, like you always looked this good without even trying. His heart trips over itself in his chest before he can stop it.

“Wow,” he breathes before visibly realizing he said it out loud. “Uh. Come in.”

He reaches for your hand and when his fingers wrap around yours, the contact is warm and unexpectedly grounding. He leads you inside and the door clicks shut behind you, sealing the moment in.

The apartment is softly lit with candles scattered along the counter and coffee table. It smells good, like clean cologne mixed with the smell of a freshly lit joint. It feels comfortable in a way that instantly lowers your guard. There is a blanket on the couch, a hoodie slung over a chair, shoes kicked off by the door. Definitely a guy’s place, but a cozy one. You shrug off your coat and he takes it from you automatically, hanging it up like his hands know what they are doing even though his nerves are visibly unraveling. You slide off your shoes and line them up neatly, suddenly hyper aware of how loud the room feels without the hallway between you.

“So,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck as his eyes drift back to you again. He’s stood a few steps away from you, a safe distance as to not intimidate you too much “Your profile said you are brave enough to eat what i’m assuming is days old gingerbread since christmas is over. I feel like that tells me a lot about you as a person.”

You laugh softly. “It was structurally doomed. I simply put it out of its misery.”

He smiles, shoulders relaxing just a little. “That is noble. Tragic. Slightly alarming.”

You glance around. “Your place is nice. It feels… safe.”

“Thank you?” he says, then immediately blinks. “That’s good right?”

“Well, yes.” You laugh lightly at how nervous he was. “Congratulations. I do not currently think you are going to murder me.”

His eyes widen in mock alarm. “Incredible news. That was my big goal for the night.”

“Do not prove me wrong,” you say lightly.

He laughs, real and unguarded this time, and the sound does something warm to your chest.

“I was nervous you were going to open the door, see me, and immediately turn around,” he admits. “Or that I was going to open the door and find a very determined sixty year old man standing there instead of you.”

Your laughter bursts out of you, loud and helpless. “That is exactly what I was scared of too. I was fully prepared to politely sprint away.”

The tension breaks just enough to feel survivable. You look at him. He looks at you. The air shifts.

“Small talk is kind of stupid though,” you say after a moment, nerves buzzing under your skin again. “We both know why I came here.”

His cheeks turn red instantly. He laughs, breath hitching. “Wow. You really are just getting right to business, aren’t you?”

You answer by pulling your shirt over your head. “I mean…” You cut yourself off to look down at yourself, shrugging. You had no idea where this surge of boldness came from. Maybe it was the couple of shots you downed before catching your cab here, or maybe it was because you were so eager to get in somebody’s bed after months of just you and a vibrator. “We could make more awkward small talk or you could fuck me. It’s your choice.”

For a suspended second, the room feels like it stops moving, and he chokes on his own breath at your words. Just an hour ago he was lounging on his couch wondering what he would do with his night, and now there was possibly the hottest girl he’d ever seen half naked in his living room. He stares.

Then, he steps forward and lifts you so easily you swear your heart stopped for a moment. You weren’t expecting him to move so quick, your eyes widening with shock for just a few seconds before you got used to being in the air. Your hands catch on his shoulders, legs wrapping around him without conscious thought as his mouth finds yours with a hunger that mirrors your own. All of the awkwardness transforms into electricity as he carries you down the short hallway, your kiss deepening with every step.

He tastes like toothpaste and a night of bad decisions. You can’t get enough, to the point where both of you were basically gasping for air every time you broke the kiss for a small moment. He gently tosses you onto the bed with surprising ease and follows immediately, bracing himself over you as the mattress shifts beneath his weight. You break apart from the kiss again just long enough for him to grin down at you, breath uneven and eyes bright.

“I really thought I was going to open the door and find a fat old man pretending to be you,” he says.

You laugh so hard it almost knocks the breath out of you even more. “And I really thought I was going to get murdered tonight. I am so glad we were both wrong.”

He laughs with you, forehead dropping against yours for a moment before he kisses you again, slower and deeper this time. You shudder at his hands, which are cold to the touch, drag down your bare sides, feeling any part of exposed skin he could.

“I won’t murder you till after sex, obviously…”

———-

You wake slowly, warmth heavy around you and unfamiliar sheets tangled at your legs. For a few seconds your brain refuses to cooperate, caught somewhere between sleep and reality, until the scent of clean soap and faint cologne drags everything back into focus far too clearly. You are not in your bed. Your eyes widen as memory floods in all at once. His room. His house. Last night. The fact that you stayed. A rush of embarrassment burns through you as you realize pale winter light is already filtering in through the curtains. You groan softly, your body already feeling the exhaustion of the long night you just spent. You don’t even remember falling asleep, mostly because you were never meant to wake up here.

You turn your head without meaning to and immediately regret it. He is still asleep, sprawled loosely on his back with his hair a complete mess and his shirt nowhere in sight. The sheets have slipped low on his waist, just enough to reveal the dark waistband of his boxers and the warm skin above it. His arm is stretch across the bed with his hand holding your thigh firmly, even in his sleep. You feel an ache in your core at the sight of his hand holding onto you. Everything this man does is ridiculously hot. His chest rises and falls slowly, peacefully, like he does not have a care in the world.

You stare far longer than you should.

Snap out of it.

You slide from the bed carefully, cringing at every soft shift of the mattress, and gather your clothes from the floor with clumsy hands. You pull everything back on as quietly as possible, heart racing like you are committing some kind of crime. Every second you expect him to stir, but he does not. In the kitchen, you find a scrap of paper and a pen. Your handwriting wobbles as you write a brief thank you, polite and distant enough to feel like a clean ending. You leave it on the fridge beneath a crooked magnet and turn toward the front door, already bracing yourself for the cold outside.

The handle turns. The apartment erupts into shrill beeping. You freeze in pure horror as the sound slices through the quiet. Panic hits instantly, sharp and disorienting. Before you can even think, footsteps rush down the hallway behind you.

“What the hell,” he mutters, half asleep as he appears beside you, rubbing his eyes and squinting at the alarm panel. He shuts it off quickly and finally looks at you. You are standing there fully dressed with your shoes on. His expression shifts immediately.

“Oh,” he scoffs lightly, exhaustion thick in his voice. “You were going.”

The comment lands somewhere uncomfortable, not cruel but not kind either. He does not wait for your response. He just turns and starts back down the hall. For a second, you stand there alone in the quiet again with the weight of it sitting heavy in your chest. Then you follow him back to the bedroom, irritation already beginning to spark. He drops onto the bed and tries to sink straight back into sleep like nothing happened. You sit on the edge beside him, arms crossed. He knows you can’t leave unless he lets you put, right? He shifts and instinctively drapes an arm around your waist again, trying to pull you back down into bed without even opening his eyes.

That is when you shake his shoulder. “Hey.”

He groans, rolling over onto his back as he rubs the sleep from his eyes. “Why are we awake.”

“I was trying to leave politely,” you say. “Your house screamed at me instead.”

He squints up at you. “You could have just slept and done your leave the guy behind routine later.”

You inhale sharply. “I was being respectful. What is that even supposed to mean?”

His brows pull together as he wakes up a little more. “I did not mean it like that,” he says slowly. “I was just saying. Everybody pretends the one night stand is always their first one. I am not judging you.”

The silence that follows is heavy and immediate. Your jaw tightens. “Wow. I told you last night i’ve never done this before. You don’t believe me? That is a really gross thing to say to someone you just slept with.”

He sits up, blinking. “That is not what I meant.”

“You basically just told me I do this all the time.”

“I said people lie about it, not that you are some kind of professional.”

“Oh that is so much better,” you snap.

He exhales in frustration. “You are twisting what I said.”

“And you are making assumptions about me.” You stand abruptly, the sudden movement rattling the bed. “You know what. This was a mistake.”

He jumps up behind you and follows you down the hallway as you storm toward the door, voices overlapping.

“I was not trying to insult you,” he says.

“You absolutely did.”

“You were walking out without even saying bye.”

“Last night was nothing but casual. I left a note!”

“Oh yeah that’s much better than actually saying goodbye.”

You fling the door open and spin back toward him. “Maybe if you actually made me cum last night i would’ve been more inclined to stay for breakfast!”

His mouth tightens, but his face is full of shock. You definitely fooled him, he thought you had a great time last night. He shook his head, not able to come up with much of an insult on the spot. “Hey. You go fuck yourself!” Bob flashes the fakest smile possible.”

You throw it right back without hesitation. “No, Bob. You go fuck yourself. Have a nice life.”

The door slams behind you. Anger carries you down the stairs so fast you barely feel your legs moving, and you grab the exit door and yank. Nothing happens. You try again, harder this time. Still nothing. Confused, you lean forward and look through the glass.

Snow is packed halfway up the door. Your chest tightens and panic spikes as you fumble for your phone, calling Yelena, then Bucky, then Yelena again. No answer. You pace in tight circles, breath shaky, helplessness creeping in fast. Footsteps sound behind you. You turn just in time to hear Bob’s voice coming down the stairs, phone pressed to his ear, laundry basket balanced against his hip.

“I mean the sex was incredible,” he says easily. “Like, kind of mind blowing. She was really nice last night but absolutely brutal this morning. I do not even know what I did.”

Your blood boils instantly.

He looks up and freezes when he sees you.

“Uh Mom I have to call you back,” he says quickly, horribly trying to cover up who he was talking to. He hangs up.

You cross your arms. “I am not brutal. You are just a dick.”

He closes his eyes briefly, exhausted. “You know what. I need you out of my life. I will call you a cab.” He sets the basket down and tries the door himself.

It does not move. You roll ur eyes so hard you’re afraid they might pop out of your head as tries again. Nothing. Right, like you didn’t already try that. Slowly, he turns back to you. For a long second, neither of you speaks.

Then he picks up the basket and starts back up the stairs. “Well,” he calls over his shoulder, “you coming?”

You hesitate, pride warring with reality, and then follow because there is nothing else you can do.

Back in the living room, the television is already on. The news anchor announces that the storm is the worst New York has seen in decades and urges residents to stay indoors until crews can safely clear exits and streets.

You drop onto the far end of the couch with a long, miserable sigh. “I regret every single choice I have ever made.”

He leans over the back of the couch toward you, close enough to feel his breath on your cheek without wanting to. You shiver at the thought of him being this close to you again, but you brush it off. You look at him slightly, and immediately wish you could smack that stupid smirk right off his face.

“Looks like we are stuck with each other now, huh.”

————

You do not speak to him for the first twenty minutes.

You sit stiffly on one end of the couch while he occupies the other, laundry basket abandoned near the hallway like it never even mattered anymore. The news cycles through storm updates and street closures on a relentless loop while the snow outside the windows continues to fall in thick, merciless sheets. Every so often you can feel his presence shift, the subtle sound of fabric moving, the quiet drag of breath, and it makes your skin prickle with unwanted awareness. You pull out your phone and immediately dial Yelena.

She answers on the fourth ring, breathless.

“What,” she pants.

“Come get me right now,” you whisper sharply. “Please. I am trapped in a snow apocalypse with a man I just had sex with and then screamed at.”

There is a pause. Then an unmistakable sound of movement behind her. A deep laugh. Another voice entirely too close to the phone.

“Tell her she is on her own,” Bucky murmurs, thoroughly unbothered, also out of breath.

Yelena snorts. “We are busy. You will survive.”

“I will not,” you hiss. “I am going to perish here out of spite while you guys are busy having sex!”

“You are stuck anyway,” she says cheerfully. “Nobody is going anywhere until the city clears. Make friends with your captor.”

You open your mouth to continue your dramatic pleading when a soft laugh drifts from the other end of the couch. You glance over and find Bob watching you with open amusement. Your face burns.

“Your roommate sounds mean,” he says mildly.

“I hope you both lose power,” you mutter into the phone.

Yelena laughs even harder and hangs up on you. You lower the phone slowly and glare at the wall like it personally betrayed you.

“Unbelievable,” you mutter.

“I agree,” Bob says. “She seems like a menace.”

The day stretches forward like a challenge.

He eventually moves into the kitchen and you hear the familiar sounds of cabinets opening and closing. The smell of coffee begins to drift through the apartment against your will. Your stomach chooses that exact moment to growl loudly enough to feel humiliating. You stay put out of stubborn principle. A few minutes later he reappears and sets a mug down on the far end of the coffee table without a word.

You eye it suspiciously.

“It is just coffee,” he says. “Not poisoned. Two cream two sugar, same way I drink it. Hopefully you like it.”

“I do not trust you.”

“That is fair,” he admits.

Eventually, the thirst wins. You take the mug.

Your fingers brush for the briefest second.

Both of you notice. You take a sip and hold back a satisfied sigh. You hate that he made your coffee perfectly. The tension shifts again. The rest of the morning passes in clipped sentences and deliberate distance. You take turns in the bathroom. You sit on opposite ends of the couch. He scrolls through his phone. You pretend not to notice when his eyes lift to you in multiple brief, unguarded glances.

Every time you look up, he is quickly looking away. At some point, he tries to be helpful and offers you a change of clothes since you are still wearing last night’s clothes. You accept it without looking at him. He bumps your knee when he passes and mutters a distracted apology that sounds too sincere to stay mad at. You both avoid that realization aggressively.

By early afternoon, the snow outside has not let up even a little. The storm warning flashes again across the bottom of the television screen and you let out a slow sigh.

“You always this quiet,” he asks without looking at you.

“Only around people I don’t like.”

He snorts despite himself. “Not convincing.”

You glance at him, irritation flickering with something else entirely. “You are annoying.”

“You are the one still on my couch.”

“Against my will,” you remind him.

“Right,” he says dryly. “The snow is holding you hostage. I am simply the villain.”

Silence falls again, heavier now but not as sharp. A few minutes later he speaks again.

“You want food?”

You hesitate. “Maybe.”

He stands and you follow him into the kitchen even though your stubbornness was telling you not to. The space is too small for the amount of unresolved tension between you. Every time you reach for something at the same time, your hands nearly collide and both of you jerk back like it would shock you. You catch him watching the way your sleeves slide up your arms. He catches you staring at the way his shirt stretches when he reaches overhead. Neither of you comments on it.

By the time the snow begins to dim the daylight into a dull grey, the bickering has softened into something else. Still hostile. Still sharp. But threaded through with glances that linger too long and silence that hums instead of suffocates.

It took Bob awhile to find something actually edible to cook, but once he did you found yourselves sat on opposite ends of the couch again later with full plates balanced on your laps.

“This is still awkward,” you say quietly, poking at your food with your fork.

He exhales slowly. “Yeah.”

You glance at him. He is already looking at you. There is a small smirk on his face, like he just caught you doing something you shouldn’t. You feel like you’re dying inside. Could the world be punishing you for doing something as simple as getting off your living room couch?

————

The food on the coffee table has gone lukewarm, forgotten in favor of the quiet stretch of conversation that slowly settles between you. The storm keeps howling outside, wind rattling faintly against the windows as the city disappears beneath layers of white. The television murmurs in the background, but neither of you are really listening anymore. After a while, Bob tilts his head slightly, studying you with an expression that feels curious.

“So,” he says carefully, “why were you actually on the app.”

You lift a brow. “Is this the part where you psychoanalyze me?”

“No,” he says easily. “This is the part where I figure out why a beautiful stranger showed up at my door in a snowstorm and then screamed at me twelve hours later.”

You snort out a laugh and quickly cover your mouth, hoping he didn’t notice. “Fair.” You hesitate, then sigh. “I just got out of a relationship. It was long enough to really mess me up. I think I wanted to feel wanted again without having to deal with feelings. And apparently I picked chaos instead.”

He nods slowly, absorbing that. “Yeah. That makes sense.”

You glance at him. “Your turn. Who were you talking to on the phone earlier. And do not insult me by saying your mother again.”

He groans. “It was my friend John. He is emotionally nosy and has no boundaries.”

“And you were telling him in detail how amazing the sex was,” you tease.

His ears go red instantly. “That was taken out of context.”

“You were on the stairs talking about me like I was a Yelp review.”

He drags a hand over his face. “I panicked.”

“That tracks.”

Silence falls again, but it is a gentler one now. You pray the awkwardness doesn’t come back. You’d do anything to find something else to talk about. After a moment or two passes, Bob shoots off the couch onto his feet and disappears briefly into the bedroom. When he comes back, he is holding two neatly rolled joints between his fingers, looking like he just won the lottery.

“Wanna get high?” he asks casually.

You stare at them for a moment, then take another slow bite of your food and chew like you are considering the fate of the universe.

“That is the worst idea ever.” He already looks pleased, like you already agreed.

“Yes,” you add, “of course I want to smoke.”

He grins and drops back onto the couch beside you, lighting one with a flick of his wrist. He takes the first drag with ease, then passes it to you. You inhale with far too much confidence and immediately regret it as smoke floods your lungs. You bend forward coughing hard enough that your whole body shakes.

He watches you with open delight. “You look like you just challenged oxygen to a fistfight and lost.”

You wheeze and shove the joint back at him. “You absolutely did not warn me it would feel like betrayal.”

“That was the warning,” he laughs.

When it comes back to you, you take the smallest possible drag. He squints at you. “That was such a lame hit!”

“I am protecting my fragile mortal body.”

“You are a coward.”

“I am a survivor.”

He laughs again as the joint passes between you. The tension in the room loosens into something light and stupid and warm. You talk about your worst jobs. He tells you about a roommate who once tried to microwave a fork. You tell him about Yelena almost starting a kitchen fire with ramen. At one point you laugh so hard you slide down against the couch cushions, clutching your stomach while he watches you with soft amusement.

“This is your fault,” you tell him breathlessly.

“I accept responsibility for your joy. Least you aren’t so uptight now.”

The joint burns down slowly as the afternoon fades into evening, and when it finally goes out, the room feels hazy in the best way. You eventually wander toward the window without really thinking about it. Night has fully settled now, snow glowing faintly under the streetlights.

You rest your forehead against the cold glass and sigh. “Why did it decide to storm on the one night I went out and got laid. The ONE night.”

Behind you, the couch creaks as he stands. He stops a comfortable distance away, but he’s close enough that you can feel the warmth off of him. You can smell his cologne, the same smell as when you walked in here last night. “Yeah. The universe definitely has it out for you.”

You hesitate. “Why did you actually get so mad earlier when I was leaving?”

He exhales. “Because I thought you were leaving because you regretted it. And that did something unfortunate to my ego. You got mad too, though.”

You nod slowly. “I got mad because I thought you thought I was a slut. And I am not.”

His posture shifts immediately. “I never thought that.”

“I have not been with anyone since my ex,” you admit quietly. “I did not want you to think I was just…like this.”

He studies you for a moment. “For what it is worth. You were great.”

You smirk faintly. You don’t know whether or not you want to tell him this, or keep it to yourself as to not hurt his ego once more. You shrug, fuck it. “I wish I could say the same for you.”

He freezes. “What do you mean?”

You turn to face him fully now. “You were very confident for a man who did not actually make me finish.”

His face drains of color. “No. That is not possible. You were definitely having fun.”

“I was,” you agree. “You just did not get me there. Fun does not mean I crossed the finish line.”

He stares at you in pure disbelief. “That is bullshit. I am good at sex. I’ve been told i’m good!”

You shrug. “This doesn’t mean you’re bad! Just…You have things to work on.”

He paces across the living room away from you and back to the couch, clearly spiraling. “There is no way. You are lying.”

You calmly explain exactly why, what he missed, what you were waiting for that never quite happened. His frustration grows with every word until he stands and stomps over to stand in front of you, half wounded, half determined.

“I genuinely thought I was doing incredible,” he mutters, running a hand over his face.

You smile at him slowly. “You were very close.”

He’s really close to you. Neither of you want to move though. He’s staring at you, as if he has something to say, something he wants to ask. But he says nothing, and living apartment feels impossibly smaller. Not physically, but in the way the air presses in closer, heavier with everything that has just been said. The storm keeps roaring outside like it has no intention of stopping, but neither of you are paying any attention to it anymore. You are still standing near the window. He is still facing you, visibly spiraling in quiet disbelief.

“I genuinely thought I was doing incredible,” he finally says again, softer this time.

You bite back a smile, watching the way his frustration mixes with wounded pride. It is almost unfair how attractive he looks when he is flustered.

“You were close,” you repeat lightly.

He studies your face, searching for sarcasm, for mercy, for anything that tells him this is a joke. “Define close.”

You tilt your head, pretending to think. “Like…almost there. But not quite.”

He groans under his breath and drops onto the couch once more, elbows braced on his knees. “This is devastating information.”

You should let it go. That is the reasonable thing to do. You should keep the tension where it is, let it simmer uselessly between you until the storm breaks and you both escape back into separate lives, never to see each other again. But, why would you do that? Who knows how much longer you could be here. But then he runs a hand through his hair in frustration and looks back up at you with something like determination in his eyes. And suddenly that feels impossible. You watch the slow rise and fall of his chest. The way the lamplight catches the edges of his jaw. The fact that you are still here. That he is still here. That the tension has nowhere to go but forward.

You cross the room slowly and drop onto the opposite end of the couch, turning toward him with a lazy sort of confidence that makes his attention lock in immediately.

“Hypothetically,” you say, “what if I offered you a chance at redemption.”

His head lifts so fast it almost makes you laugh. “I am listening,” he says instantly. “Tell me how though.”

You smirk. “See. That right there. Eagerness is already a good start.”

He shifts closer without even realizing he is doing it. “Okay. I am focused. What else.”

You glance at him with deliberate slowness. “For one, don’t wait for me to undress you. I was basically fully naked before you even had your shirt off.”

“To be fair, you getting naked is the most distracting thing i’ve ever seen,” he argues weakly.

“Yes but then I feel exposed and then I have to wait on you.”

He nods slowly. “Mental note.”

“And take your time,” you continue. “You rush like you are trying to win a race.”

He frowns. “I got excited, but I do not rush.”

“You absolutely do.”

“Okay,” he concedes. “Fine. Mental note two.”

You shift slightly closer, lowering your voice just enough to make his shoulders tense. “Also maybe pay attention to what someone actually reacts to instead of what you think should work.”

He swallows. “That feels targeted.”

“It is.”

He exhales slowly, clearly trying to stay composed while his focus visibly narrows. “Anything else I am apparently terrible at.”

You pretend to consider it, enjoying this far too much. “You are not terrible. Just…overconfident.”

He lets out a breathy laugh. “That one hurt.”

“You asked.”

“I did,” he admits. “And I am taking this very seriously.”

The way he says it makes your stomach flip unexpectedly.

Silence falls between you again, heavier this time. You can feel the shift. The teasing has stopped being purely playful. You watch his gaze switch from your lips to your eyes multiple times. He licked his own lips and swallowed as if his throat went completely dry in seconds.

You lean back into the cushions, studying him openly now. “You are being very intense about this.”

His mouth curves slowly. “You challenged my entire sense of self.”

You laugh softly. “That is dramatic.”

“You literally called my sexual competence into question,” he says. “That feels like grounds for a rematch.”

The word hangs between you.

Your heartbeat stutters.

You meet his gaze and hold it. “Careful.”

“I am being very careful,” he says quietly. “I am waiting for permission to rip your clothes off.”

Your breath catches just slightly. You notice it. So does he. The storm howls outside.

The couch suddenly feels too small for the distance between you, and the room goes quiet in a way that feels intentional. No one speaks. Not because there is nothing to say, but because everything has already been said. The storm begins to slow faintly through the walls. The television still hums in the background. None of it matters.

You stand from the couch without a word.

Bob watches you with clear confusion, his brows pulling together as you move past him and toward the hallway. “What are you doing,” he starts to ask, his voice catching halfway through the question.

You do not answer. You walk just far enough for him to see what you are about to do before you lift your arms and pull your shirt over your head in one slow, smooth motion. The fabric falls to the floor at your feet. You turn back to look at him, arms crossing lightly over your chest, just enough to be decent and just enough to be dangerous.

You meet his eyes, and a noise comes out of his mouth that he most definitely meant to keep inside. It sounded like a half moan or whimper.

“Are you coming,” you ask calmly, “or am I starting by myself.”

For a split second, he looks like he forgot how to breathe. Then he is on his feet. He follows you into the bedroom without another word.

The door shuts with a soft click, sealing out anything outside of this room. You barely know this man, yet here you are again, drawn back to him by the boredom of being trapped. The bedside lamp spills a golden light over the rumpled sheets, highlighting the stubble on his jaw and the way his shirt stretches across his chest.

You turn to him, pulse racing, and Bob closes the distance in two strides. His hands find your bare shoulders, thumbs tracing lazy circles that send shivers down your spine. He leans in, capturing your mouth in a kiss that's slow and searching, his lips firm yet yielding. You melt into it, tasting the faint salt of his skin, your fingers curling into his shirt as the world narrows to the press of his body against yours.

He pulls back just enough to murmur, “I've been thinking about this all morning.”

His breath fans hot against your neck as his hands slide down to the waistband of your pants. You nod, hips pressing into him instinctively as he tugs them down, the fabric whispering over your skin. They drop to the floor, leaving you in your underwear, the cool air contrasting the warmth building low in your belly. Bob's eyes darken as he takes you in, his gaze lingering on the curve of your hips, the flush creeping up your chest.

Your turn. You grab the hem of his shirt, peeling it up and off, revealing the lean lines of his torso once again, the trail of dark hair disappearing into his jeans. He kicks off his shoes while you work his belt, the metal clinking softly. Together, you ease his jeans down, boxers following, until his cock springs free, hard and thick, curving toward you. You wish you had actually admired the way he looked last night, but you truly did just get down to business. Today you were for sure going to take your time.

You wrap your hand around it, stroking from base to tip, feeling the velvet heat pulse under your fingers. Bob groans low, his head tipping back for a moment before his eyes lock on yours again, intense and unguarded.

“Come here.” he says, voice rough, guiding you toward the bed.

You push him down onto the mattress first, climbing over him to straddle his hips. The wind rattles against the window as you lean down to kiss him deeper, tongues sliding together in a wet, unhurried dance. His hands roam your back, fingers dipping under the straps of your underwear to trace your spine. You rock against him, the friction of his cock against your core making you slick through the thin fabric.

“Feels so good,” he breathes, nipping at your jaw.

You slip a hand between you, and he watches as you push your underwear aside to stroke yourself lightly. You whine as you grab his fingers and guide them there too. He takes the hint, parting your folds with two fingers, circling your clit in slow, teasing strokes that make your thighs tremble.

You mirror him, pumping his cock steadily, thumb swirling over the head to spread the precum beading there. His free hand cups your breast, rolling the nipple between his fingers until it's peaked and sensitive.

Kisses trail from your mouth to your throat, his teeth grazing just enough to sting sweetly. “Like that?” he asks, voice muffled against your skin.

“Yeah,”you gasp, grinding down harder. “Keep going.”

The pleasure simmers, coiling tight as you both explore, breaths ragged and syncing with the each other’s rhythm. When the ache becomes too insistent, you shift, lining him up and sinking down slowly. It all happened so fast as you sink down Inch by inch, he stretches you, filling you with a burn that borders on exquisite. Bob's hands grip your thighs, eyes half-lidded as he watches you take him in.

“So tight.” he mutters, hips twitching up to meet you. He so badly wants to fuck into you, but he holds it back. He wants to see you take control.

You start to move, rolling your hips in deep, languid circles, feeling him hit every sensitive spot inside. His cock throbs with each descent, the slick slide of your bodies echoing softly. Leaning forward, you brace on his chest, nails digging in lightly as you ride him, your breasts swaying with the motion. Bob's gaze devours you, tracing the way sweat glistens on your skin, how your lips part on quiet moans. The muscles on his arm flex as he holds himself back, gently guiding your body with each bounce.

“That's it,” he encourages, voice low and steady. “Ride me just like this.” You quicken slightly, the pressure building, your clit grinding against his pelvis with every thrust.

“Bob,” you whisper, voice breaking. “You feel so good.” His hands slide up to your hips, guiding without forcing, thumbs pressing into the soft flesh as you chase the rhythm.

The intensity peaks, your movements growing more urgent, but he senses your shift. “Let me take over.” He says softly, rolling you both with careful strength, keeping himself inside you as he ends up above you. The switch is fluid, his body settling between your spread thighs in missionary, the weight of him grounding and thrilling.

He kisses you fiercely now, thrusting slow and deep, each roll of his hips dragging against your walls. Face to face, you see the raw want in his eyes, the way his hair sticks to his forehead. You hook your legs around his waist, pulling him closer, heels digging into his back. “Harder,” you urge, and he obliges, pace steady but forceful, his cock plunging in with wet sounds that mix with the downpour outside.

One hand braces beside your head, the other slips between you, fingers finding your clit to rub in firm circles. The dual sensation shatters you, orgasm ripping through in hot waves, your pussy clenching around him as you arch up, crying out. Bob follows with a guttural moan, burying himself to the hilt as he comes, pulsing hot inside you. The room fills with the sounds of your whining and his thrusts slowing, bed creaking loudly underneath the weight of you both.

He collapses gently onto you, both of you still panting, his forehead resting against yours. You hold each other in the quiet aftermath, gazes still locked as the aftershocks fade into a warm, giddy glow.

Neither of you moves for a while. Eventually, distant sound drifts in from the living room. The muted voice of the news anchor cuts through the haze, talking about plows moving through major streets, about crews finally beginning to clear the snow. The storm has stopped. The city is waking back up. You both listen.

Bob breaks the silence first, a faint smile in his voice. “So. Am I still horrible?”

You laugh weakly, still catching your breath. “You have definitely improved.”

“That feels like a win,” he murmurs.

You shift slightly in his arms, staring up at the ceiling. “Kind of wish the snow would stay for a bit longer.”

Almost on cue, your phone starts ringing from somewhere in the room.

You groan. “You have got to be kidding me.”

You reach for it and see Yelena’s name lighting up the screen. You hesitate, then answer. “Hello.”

Her voice is bright and entirely too energetic. “Good news. Roads are opening. It looks like you might actually be able to come home soon.”

Your heart drops just a little. You open your mouth to respond, but Bob moves first.

You feel the shift in his weight. The unmistakable mischievous pause. You glance at him in confusion just in time to catch the smirk tugging at his mouth before he lifts the blanket and disappears beneath it. Your brain completely short circuits. He pushes your legs apart, and you cover your mouth to stop the gasp from escaping as you feel his tongue drag up your clit, his arms wrapping around your thighs to pin you there.

You choke on a startled sound and pull the phone away from your ear. “I have to go.”

You end the call mid sentence and fling your phone blindly across the room, heartbeat exploding in your chest.

He hesitates because of your cat. You evil tortoise shell cat, Tonks.

You have told him enough horror stories that Tonks might as well be a cryptid. Scratched friends, ambushed ankles, guests held hostage on the couch. You always laugh when you talk about her, knowing to you she’s the sweetest cat ever, but he is not laughing now. He is allergic, badly enough that his eyes swell and his lungs tighten, and he has not worked up the nerve to tell you yet. The idea of admitting it feels like making a problem where there does not need to be one.

So instead Rhett pops an allergy pill and tells you he will be there soon, like this is no big deal at all. He even takes a second one after he’s managed to park his truck. Your house glows warm and soft when he pulls in, snow pushed aside in messy little heaps along the driveway. He makes a mental note to wake up early and shovel your driveway for you the next morning. You still have christmas lights strung along the porch even though the holiday has passed, and the sight of them makes something in his chest loosen. He knocks, then hears your voice through the screen door.

“Just come in, I’m in the bathroom!”

He pushes through the door and immediately scans the floor, eyes sharp and searching for any sign of movement. No Tonks. He exhales slowly, letting himself take in the rest of the place.

It smells like gingerbread from a candle burning somewhere deeper in the house, mixed with your laundry soap, the one that always makes him think of you. Lamps cast a low, golden light over the room, christmas decorations still scattered across shelves and side tables. He does not turn on the big lights because he knows how much you hate them.

He makes it to the couch, slips his hat off, and finally lets himself sit.

“Hey,” he calls out, trying to sound relaxed. “You better hurry up in there. I missed you.”

“I’m brushing my teeth,” you call back, playful and distant.

He smiles despite himself, then tenses again when he realizes how quiet it is. Too quiet. He has just started to think that maybe tonight he has somehow avoided the danger when he hears it.

A tiny purr.

Tonks hops up onto the cushion beside him like she has always been there. Rhett startles hard, nearly knocking his hat onto the floor. She sits with her tail wrapped neatly around her paws, green eyes fixed on him with open curiosity. She is much smaller than the monster he has built up in his head, soft and pretty, but his pulse still jumps.

They stare at each other. He slowly reaches out one finger, heart pounding like he is making the bravest move of his life.


“Ok,” he murmurs. “Nice kitty.”

She leans into his finger, purring louder, eyes drifting shut. Relief spreads through him in a rush. He cannot help the little smile tugging at his mouth. He knows he will regret even touching her later, his eyes already beginning to sting.

“Well I’ll be damned,” he whispers. He wonders if you exaggerated the ways he treats all your house guests.

Then she bites him.

It is not hard, just enough to make him flinch and pull back with a startled hiss, which immediately triggers a sneeze he barely manages to catch in his sleeve. Tonks stiffens, offended, then climbs onto his thigh and sits there like she owns it, staring up at him while purring even louder. Rhett completely stills, worrying that if he moves she will lose it and attack him.

“I’m not your enemy,” he whispers, trying to negotiate with a cat.

She answers by stepping onto his chest, then his shoulder, until she is standing on his stomach, perfectly balanced and completely in charge. His eyes water some more, his nose itching, breath shallow as he tries not to move.

“I don’t deserve this,” he mutters. He sneezes again.

Tonks flinches and lightly slaps his cheek with her paw, more insulted than angry, before settling down on him like she has won. That slap was a little warning, telling him he needs to watch it.

Rhett stares at her in disbelief, whispering, “You gotta be kidding me,” just as you walk out of the bathroom to find your cowboy boyfriend being fully conquered by your evil tabby in the middle of your softly lit living room.

You hover in the doorway for a second, toothbrush still in your mouth, watching Rhett stare down at Tonks like he has wandered into a hostage situation.

“You okay?” you ask, amusement laced through the words.

He glances up at you, eyes already a little watery. “Your cat just bit me and then sat on me like I owe her money. And then she slapped me!”

You laugh, crossing the room and crouching in front of the couch. Tonks is purring like she is on vacation, kneading his hoodie as if it is custom-made for her.

“She never does this,” you say, honestly surprised. “She hates everyone. I was going to lock her in the guest bedroom tonight so she wouldn’t attack you.”

“She has attacked me,” he says softly. His nose twitches again.

You finally notice how red his eyes look, how careful his breathing is. “Rhett… are you sick or something?”

He hesitates, then rubs the back of his neck. “I didn’t wanna make a thing out of it.”

“Make what a thing?”

“I’m allergic to cats,” he admits. “Not hospital allergic. Just… this.” He gestures vaguely at his face.

Your smile fades. “You’re kidding.”

He shakes his head. “Took a pill before I came over. I really wanted to see you. I took two, actually.”

Your chest tightens. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Because you’ve been gone all week and I didn’t wanna hear you say I shouldn’t come.”

You lean over the back of the couch and kiss him, minty and soft, your hand resting warm against his cheek. “You’re ridiculous,” you whisper. “And I missed you too.”

Tonks makes an offended noise and climbs back onto his lap like she is reclaiming territory.

After a few minutes of half-heartedly trying to shoo fur off his shirt, you remember you have something for him. You jump up excited from the couch, and disappear into your room and come back with a small bag. Rhett calls after you, wondering where you were going but you ignore him.

“I still wanted to give you your christmas present,” you say, suddenly shy. You crawl onto the couch next to him and place it in his lap, as Tonks makes it hard for him to move around much. You adjust so you’re cross legged, staring at him nervously.

He opens it slowly, pulling out the leather hatband you got him. You were worried it wasn’t enough, or he wouldn’t like it. His thumb traces the tooling along the edge as he admires it.

“You remembered,” he says.

“You complain about yours every time you take your hat off.”

He laughs. “I do not complain.”

“You absolutely do.”

He looks at you like you’ve given him something way bigger than a piece of leather. “Thank you. You’re so sweet.”

You clap in excitement as he hands you a tiny red velvet box. It was wrapped in a matching red bow, and you lightly shook it next to your ear trying to hear what it could be. Rhett laughs as you struggle to tug open the bow. He watches you open it, eyes fixed on your face as you pull a small dainty necklace from the box. There was a little black heart dangling at the bottom, and you felt your heart race. It was incredibly pretty, but so simple. Rhett knows exactly what you like.

“Oh my god,” you breathe, already lifting it up to your neck. “Rhett, it’s perfect!”

As he finishes clasping it around your neck, you fling yourself at him, kissing him properly this time, arms tight around his neck. Tonks finally hops off in disgust, no longer caring as the attention was no longer on her.

When you pull back he sniffles and smiles, his eyes lazily shut like he’s drunk from your kiss. “Thank god she left. I was really startin’ to suffer.”

It didn’t take you long to drag Rhett back to your bedroom. You wanted to watch one final Christmas movie before the holiday was truly over.

The movie drifts on in the background while you stay curled together, neither of you really watching anymore. You decided to turn on a movie called ‘While You Were Sleeping’, it was your favourite holiday movie. You point out little things despite not paying much attention, whispering about scenes you love, about how Bill Pullman was your celebrity crush when you were a kid.

Rhett hums like he is listening even though he is mostly just tracing lazy circles against your arm, clearly more interested in you than the screen.

When the credits finally roll, you reach over and shut the tv off, the room falling into a quiet broken only by the heater clicking on and the faint glow of christmas lights from the living room down the hall.

You slide under the blankets first, smoothing them out like you are making space for him in something that has always been yours alone. He hesitates for half a second before following, careful with his movements like he is a guest in a place that matters.

The mattress dips with his weight and the bed feels instantly different, warmer, fuller. He shifts closer, then closer again, until his chest fits against your back and his arm settles around your waist. It feels easy, like this is something your bodies already know how to do. He presses a kiss just below your ear, the kind that barely lands but still makes you smile.


“I like it here,” he murmurs.

You start to answer, but the mattress moves at your feet. Tonks hops onto the bed, padding up the length of it like she is on a mission. She pauses only to flick her tail in your direction before climbing straight onto Rhett’s pillow and circling until she is satisfied.

He watches her claim it in disbelief.
“Unbelievable,” he whispers.

You laugh softly, reaching back to lace your fingers with his. The room settles again, quiet and warm, and you drift off between the steady sound of his breathing and the soft, smug purr of your cat, already thinking about how you are never going to want to sleep alone again.

—————