#kmcbirthdaybash

Bill and Ted University, San Dimas, California 2691 A.D.

2:35 a.m.

Pulling all-nighters is not a smart decision. But neither is waiting until the morning of your assignment due date to start working on it. The assignment in itself was fairly simple: take notes on any progress happening with the machine. But, you were a dead-inside college student that procrastinated on everything. Oh well, the telephone booth was off-limits for deadline extensions, so this was your only option. Just go in, check on the head, and record your notes. Easy.

Call it a spontaneous learning opportunity for the engineering students: Rufus commissioned the department to reprogram the Evil Robot versions of the university's most excellent namesakes—Bill S. Preston, Esquire and Ted Theodore Logan. As of right now, the coding and robotics lab only had access to the heads—something about the bodies getting blown up in the past by the "Good Robots Bill and Ted"—you don't know, you were sick that day when class was interrupted by the robots and Rufus's former mentor.

The pristine state-of-the-art engineering architecture comes into view, you pull out your access keycard and unlock the glass doors. Nobody would be in the lab this early in the morning. For the next few hours, you could finish your work without random professors or other students barging in.

The only thing you needed to worry about was the lone robot head on the worktable—which currently had a thick strip of black electrical tape placed over its mouth. You roll your eyes at the sight. Was it harsh? Yes. But if other people spent even half an hour listening to the most heinous words that leave the robot's mouth, they too would reach for the tape. Not having a body may have eliminated any risk of physical harm, but that didn't stop the head from verbally abusing or the straight up annoying the poor souls that dared to set foot in the lab.

Your lab was assigned the Evil Robot Ted head. The resemblance to the real Ted was uncanny. The artificial fleshy material covering his metallic cranium was tanned and had a perfect replica of Ted's faint freckles, dimples, and smile lines. The eyes, which the team quickly found out could be removed easily, were a deep brown that somehow captured the warmth felt in the images and monuments of the real Ted. How could a face so handsome belong to such a bogus robot?

Shrugging off your bright neon coat, you feel those same dark eyes burning holes in your backside. For the past week since the lab obtained the Ted head, he kept making passes at everybody—didn't matter the title or gender. If it had a pulse, Evil Ted was shooting his shot…badly. Thankfully he didn't say anything too lewd to you—probably because you threatened to use him as a makeup and hairstyling head the first day he attempted complimenting your rack. Since then, your friendship—if you could call it that—with the Ted head consisted of verbal sparring and light bullying with one another. Your project group members usually left the communications and relationship building activities to you—taking one for the team lessened the probability of the others making factory reset threats and claims of throwing the head in the trash—though Evil Ted didn't care, saying he and Evil Bill would play basketball with the other's head all the time.

Finally standing in front of the Ted head, you ripped the tape off his mouth. The synthetic skin around his lips turned pink from the irritation.

"Thanks, babe. You know…a most bodacious kiss would make it better." He wiggles his eyebrows.

"In your dreams, you cheap knockoff," you quip, grabbing a small bottle of soothing lotion and dabbing the affected area. With your fingers gently treating the faux skin, you can't help but muse on how soft his lips look—how life-like they are.

"You're drooling, babe."

Snapping out if it, you straighten back up and pull out your notebook. "Time for another round of Twenty Questions."

Miraculously, Evil Ted managed to answer your questions with only the occasional bad pick up lines—"when we finally take over the world, I'll make sure you're last on the kill list" was a standout one.

"How romantic," you respond sarcastically. But, you would be lying if the unorthodox bantering was bothering you. It's not everyday you manage having a robot develop a playful rapport with you.

"You know babe, if I had my body back, I'd have a full-on robot chubby," he says out of nowhere while shamelessly looking you up and down. "Of all the engineering dudes and babes that work on me, you are the most non-heinous one. You handle my head with the most delicate touch—"

"Don't ever say that ever again," you glare at him, trying to focus on her assignment. "Be thankful Rufus doesn't want your voice box removed."

"Don't need my voice to cause trouble, babe," he says matter-of-factly, his goofy expression contrasting with his teasing.

"Not in the mood, E.T." you rub the lingering grit from your eyes, your hand cramping from writing.

"You look like you got run over by the phone booth," he for once says something genuine, his face taking on the kicked puppy expression the real Ted Logan was famous for. "You need to take better care of yourself."

"Since when do you care, Evil Ted?" suspicion creeps up on you. Where was he going with this?

"Can't have you burn out. I don't have another favorite college babe."

Oh. All cutting remarks leave your mind the instant Evil Ted says something sweet. "What do you want?"

"Just saying," He pauses, biting his lip before continuing. "You know, I am a carbon copy of the real Ted Logan in everyway…even his skills. Did you know he was very popular with the ladies because he would do this wicked move with his tongue where—"

You slam your notebook shut, "Stop."

"Hey, come on," he plays innocent. "You look like you could use a pick-me-up. I may be evil but there is one thing I'm good at."

"Absolutely not. It's unprofessional and you don't know me like that," you from one side of the worktable to the other, contemplating the ethics of having relations with your college project.

"Relax, they say orgasms help with stress. And don't worry about 'knowing you like that', you've seen my exposed wires without the skin mask. That's basically robo nudity, babe!" Dimples appear on his face as he argues for making you de-stress.

"You are so crude!" you exclaim, turning to face him fully. "You push all my buttons and manage to flip switches in me I didn't even know I had!"

"Pushing buttons? Flipping switches? That's kinky, babe! I didn't know you could speak robot dirty talk."

"Ugh! I can't stand you anymore." you throw your hands up in frustration.

"Okay then sit on me." he says in his most serious voice you've ever heard.

Shocked, your jaw dropped. "What?"

"You can't stand? Then take a seat…on my face."

Your face heats up in embarrassment—and something else. "I…"

"Head from Evil Ted will put your dread to bed." he says with the proudest smile on his dumb face.

"That was awful." The spell of shock was broken.

"It'll make you feel better. Besides your a hot babe that deserves to feel good," his artificial pupils dilate, overshadowing the brown irises. "I want you."

The thrill of pleasure cancels out any shred of logic in you. "There's cameras in here."

"Not in the farthest corner where the beanbag chairs are," a determined look crosses his face. "You'd be surprised how many students and professors do X rated activities over there thinking I can't see it."

Your fingers twitch in anticipation, carefully lifting his head from the table. "I don't have much time—"

"I know. Just let me make you come, then you will put me back on the table. I'll see you later today during your actual class time."

You nod, your feet carrying you and the Ted head to the biggest, most comfy beanbag chair in the corner. You nestle Evil Ted's head securely in the chair, his eyes never leaving your face as hesitate.

"I don't want to accidentally crush you—"

"You won't." he reassures.

With that, you hastily kick off your oversized neon boots, hot pink skirt, and highlighter turquoise tights, leaving you in just your top and underwear.

"Take them off." his normally lighthearted voice now deep with raw lust.

A wave of desire soaks your panties as you slip them off. With your lower half completely naked, you approach the head on the cushion. You make sure your thighs frame his face, hovering above him as you position yourself.

"Don't hover, babe. I want that cunt smashed against my face. You won't hurt me, I can't feel pain. Sit on me so I can kiss your lips." he begs.

Eagerly, you completely lower yourself. His tongue immediately sliding out and tasting you. A gasp leaves your mouth as his own deep groan vibrates against your most sensitive area. His nose swipes back and forth against your clit.

Already trembling, you want to grind against him but the mental block of fully letting go stops you. Sensing your uncertainty, his muffled voice manages, "Grind on me. Fuck my face. Fuck my face, please."

It sounded like he was whimpering, creating a spark of confidence within you. You reach down and grip his soft black hair, anchoring his head to your core. You hump his face like an animal in heat, riding his tongue with wild abandon. He was good with his mouth, alternating between patterned licks on your clit and deep fucks from his long tongue.

Thinking you had enough, you attempt to get off of him. He was having none of that, his lips suddenly wrap around your clit and suck harshly. You whine softly as he keeps you on his face.

"Don't go anywhere," he rasps. "You're coming in my mouth."

True to his word, he soon has you screaming in pleasure, the sound of your orgasm reverberating against the walls. Hips buck uncontrollably as you ride out your climax. Once your pleasure dampened, you slowly calm down. Raising up, you grab his head and hold it in front of you.

His looks at you like you were the sun, the moon, and all the stars in the galaxy, lips still parted in awe.

"Thank you, Evil Ted," you whisper, kissing him on the lips and tasting yourself before putting him back on the worktable. As you reach for the electrical tape, he gives you pause.

"Put the tape back over my mouth, then I can keep the taste of you on my tongue longer."

You had to get out of here or else you will use his head all over again. Obeying him, you tape his mouth again and comb through his shaggy locks, arranging him like how you found him. Satisfied, you put your coat back on and walk to the door.

"I'll see you during class, Evil Ted."

Project Notes:

September 2nd, 2691 A.D. 5:41 a.m.

Project Most Excellent Reprogramming continues with project team member engaging in a relationship building activity with the machine subject with satisfactory results.

Constantine took a drag on his cigarette, the setting sun illuminating his pale face with a golden hue as he sat on his bed. His expression was closed off. His hazel eyes were devoid of emotion, even though his mind was drowning in a torrent of guilt he struggled to ignore and push away.

He remembered Beeman’s last words to him through the phone:

“I know you’ve never had much faith, you’ve never had much reason to… But that doesn’t mean we don’t have faith… in you.”

All of that left another scar on him. A heavy burden he carried, marked by the sacrifice of those innocent souls. Alone. Once again. By his own actions. Nicotine and alcohol were his only refuge in that crushing loneliness. He eventually got back to smoking, though he had tried to stop. He needed it, to survive.

It was how he coped.

He had defied Hell, rejected Lucifer himself. Yet his ticket to heaven remained unattainable. Each victory, a step closer to his own damnation.

This victory was particularly bittersweet.

You saved Angela, John. What next? You’re still someone’s pawn in this war between heaven and hell.

The smoke from his cigarette rose in spirals, like the souls he hadn’t been able to save.

Now, he had to push Angela away so she wouldn’t become another victim because of him. If she ever came back to him, he would. For good. Or she would end up dying because of him.

Constantine had loved her. Like a man would fall for a woman. Her vulnerability had touched him and sent him back to his younger self. He had been her anchor in her sister’s death. But he couldn’t allow himself to accept any kind of long-term relationship nor any kind of friendship into his life. Despite the loneliness gnawing at him, he kept his walls high.

They kept his emotions in check and helped him stay detached from things. It had been how he always managed. But those walls had started to crumble with the deaths of his friends, giving way to anger. An anger so dark that it even surprised him. He couldn’t push it away, and it was consuming him entirely.

He bore a cross he could never escape, no matter how much he wished otherwise.

Constantine took another drag on his cigarette. He knew he didn’t deserve redemption. Yet there was someone who crossed his mind from time to time, a glimmer of hope in his bleak existence.

You.

You had to show up, didn’t you?

He hadn’t meant for you to see it. A nameless street, a broken neon cross buzzing in the dark, and him wrestling a figure that wasn’t supposed to exist in this world. You froze, breath caught, too human for the things clawing their way out of the shadows.

Wrong place. Wrong time

He should’ve sent you running.

Instead, you saw him.

He told himself he didn’t care. Told himself he’d already forgotten your face. But in the silence between drags from his cigarette, you were there watching him fight something that should never exist. A reminder he couldn’t shake.

A reminder he didn’t want to.

He couldn’t stop thinking about you, even though he knew it was a bad idea.He’d barely known you, but already you lingered in his head like smoke, refusing to clear.

He couldn’t allow himself to involve you in his cursed life. Not after what had happened to Angela, Beeman, Hennessy, Chaz.

He stubbed out his cigarette, the smoke rising like a ghost of what could have been. He had to push you away, just like he had to push Angela away.

Because if you ever got too close, you’d be in danger.

And he couldn’t bear the thought of losing someone else.

The sound of jazz echoed through the vast room of his studio. He heard the distant crash of pins from the bowling alley below. He buried himself in relic-hunting, trying to forget what had happened with Angela.

Constantine had seen death in the face again, and yet Satan still wanted to collect his soul, even after giving him a second chance at life.

He wanted to keep seeing you—alive—but wouldn’t even admit it to himself. He was a torrent of contradictions, and he knew it.

Then a knock came on his door.

The knock was persistent. Three sharp, then silence, then three more. Constantine didn’t move from where he sat on the edge of his bed, cigarette dangling from his lips.

“Go away,” he called out, not bothering to raise his voice much above the jazz record spinning in the corner.

The knocking came again. More insistent this time.

Constantine sighed, stubbed out his cigarette, and walked to the door. He opened it—and there you were. You stood in the dim hallway, your eyes wide, carrying a weight he recognized too well. Someone who’d seen something they couldn’t unsee. Your breath hitched as you met his gaze.

“I’ve been looking for you,” you said. “The priests gave me your address.”

He leaned against the doorframe, his expression unreadable.

“Nice. Now you can stop looking.” He started to close the door.

Your hand shot out, pressing against it. “Wait. I need to know what I saw that night.”

“No, you don’t.” His voice was flat, final. “Trust me.”

“The thing you were fighting… it wasn’t human.”

His jaw tightened and he scoffed. “You’re imagining things. Too much TV. Real life’s worse."

“I know what I saw.” Your voice was steady, but he could hear the tremor underneath. “And I know you saw me watching.”

“You shouldn’t be here,” he said, but the words lacked the bite he intended. He wanted to slam the door, to send you running before you became another name on his list of regrets. Just like Angela.

“You saw it too, didn’t you?” you pressed, stepping closer, close enough for him to catch the faint scent of rain on your skin.

“That thing in the alley. It wasn’t… normal. And now I keep seeing it. In my dreams. On the street. Everywhere.”

Your voice cracked, but you held his gaze despite the fear.

Constantine wanted to tell you to forget it, to go back to your life and pretend the world wasn’t rotting at the edges. But he knew better. Once you’d seen the truth, there was no going back.

“You’re in over your head,” he said dismissively, forcing distance between you. “Go home. Don’t come looking for me again.”

But you didn’t move.

“I just need to know I’m not crazy.” Your words hit him like a punch, echoing the vulnerability he’d seen in Angela, the same vulnerability that had cracked his walls before. He hated it. Hated you for standing there, for making him feel something when he’d sworn he wouldn’t again.

He stepped back, letting the door swing wider—not an invitation but a concession. “One conversation,” he said, voice flat. “Then you’re gone. For good.”

You nodded, stepping inside, your presence igniting the studio like a spark. He didn’t offer you a seat, didn’t offer you a drink. Instead, he leaned against the wall, arms crossed, watching you as you took in the cluttered space: books on demonology, half-burned candles, a bottle of whiskey on the table.

The jazz record hit a high note, sharp.

You spoke first, recounting the alley, the figure that wasn’t human, the way it looked at you like it knew you. He listened, jaw tight, recognizing the signs of a mark; a subtle one, not like Angela’s, but enough to draw attention from things that slithered in the dark. He didn’t tell you that. Didn’t tell you that your showing up here, now, was proof the war between heaven and hell had already noticed you.

“You need to stay away from me,” he suddenly said when you finished, his voice low, final. “People who get close to me don’t last long.” He thought of Beeman’s last words, of Chaz’s broken body, of Hennessy’s lifeless eyes. He wouldn’t add you to that list.

You stepped closer, confused, your eyes searching his. “But I’m not afraid of you. I’m afraid of what’s out there.”

Your words cut deeper than he expected, stirring something he’d buried under nicotine and guilt. For a moment, he saw you not as a liability, but as a mirror—someone else caught in the crossfire, just like him.

It was too soon to care, too stupid to get attached—but Constantine never got to choose the people who haunted him.

He turned away, lighting another cigarette to keep his hands busy. “You’re wrong about me,” he said, exhaling smoke. “I’m not your hero. I’m the guy who gets people killed.” He faced you again, his hazel eyes hard, but there was a flicker in them.

“Get out,” he said, pointing to the door. “Don’t come back.” His voice was cold, but his hand trembled slightly as he pointed, betraying the lie he told himself—that he could let you go without a second thought.

You lingered, your gaze holding his for a moment longer than it should have. “I’ll go,” you said softly.

You turned, stepping into the hallway, the sound of your footsteps fading into the distant clatter of bowling pins.

He slammed the door shut, harder than he meant to, the jazz record skipping as if in protest. He stubbed out his cigarette, the smoke rising like a ghost of what could have been.

The sound of jazz echoed again through the vast room of his studio, mingling with the echo of pins crashing below. He buried himself in relic-hunting, trying to drown the memory of Angela, of you, of everything.

He had seen death in the face again, and yet Satan still wanted to collect his soul, even after granting him a second chance at life.

And deep down, he knew you would be back.

The same pattern.

All over again.

I really had so much fun putting this whole thing together. From getting to code a new section of my personal site, to staying up until 7AM searching for the perfect song; I enjoyed the entire process.

I was so inspired by the original plan of following the main story that I actually ended up starting several additional playlists. You'll see them if you check out my site! I definitely plan on finishing them up so keep an eye out for when I post an update.

This project is a part of the Keanu Movie Club Birthday Bash! An event I organized for our Discord server @keanumovieclubofficial.

Cash deposit, withdrawal, counting by tens or twenties, "Do you want this in fives or ones?", "Please put this much in my check and the rest in my savings."

This was your daily occurrence working as a teller at the local bank. It was monotonous and dull but at least it paid the bills and the hours were decent. Days were predictable as ever. Always a guarantee that the shift will be uneventful.

Today was not that day. Just before you could go on break, a deafening cock of a gun announced the presence of five burly men in dirty ski masks. These men were obviously not the Ex-Presidents, therefore neither you nor your coworkers knew what to expect with this robbery.

On instinct, everyone raised their hands up in surrender or hit the floor. Shouts and curses echoed in the spacious lobby before you're suddenly staring down the black barrel of the biggest robber's gun.

"The vault, gorgeous," the muffled gruff voice ordered you.

It was just your luck you were the teller closest to the vault. With the weapon pointed at your face, you told the stranger you do not have the key in the calmest tone your panicked self could muster. The clink of the master keys clatter at your feet, your oh so brave supervisor barking to do what the armed men say.

Humiliated, you squat down and pick up the keys, taunts and colorful expletives leaving the hulking man's covered mouth. Feeling your face heat up, you swore you were going to die of embarrassment before dying of a gunshot wound. With the main key pinched between shaky fingers, you manage getting to the back towards the vault—all while the bite of the metal barrel pressed against your skull. It wouldn't surprise you if you now had a circle shaped dent on the back of your head.

After multiple frantic attempts of sliding the key into the heavy lock, and continuous threats of violence from the robber, the vault swings open. You sidestep to avoid getting your face smashed by the cumbersome door before the sweaty man shoves you out of the way…and into the door anyway.

Pinching your nose, you felt it already bleeding. You make yourself as small as possible while the man tears through the stacks of money, throwing containers and papers on the floor haphazardly like a bull in a china shop. Once he seemed satisfied with his ill-gotten gains, his panting form turned back to you.

"Keys. Now." He grunts, his barely visible brow beaded with perspiration under the black wool cloth. A meaty palm extended before you.

In a split-second surge of brave stupidity, you chuck the keys towards the corner farthest away from you. You turn to escape the vault while he was occupied, but alas, you were not fast enough.

Pain shoots through your head as the butt of his gun makes contact with your temple. Crumpling to the linoleum floor, your body instinctively curls into the fetal position. Pitiful whimpers leave you as blood oozes from your nose and head, staining the tile and your outfit in dark crimson.

The last thing you saw before your vision went fuzzy was the robber picking up the keys and slamming the vault shut. The bang of the lock sliding into place echoed in your already throbbing mind. They locked you in. They took the key and locked you in and you don't know what's going to happen now. You would panic if your body wasn't so sore and exhausted from the unwarranted brutality. Resigned to your fate, your eyes fluttered shut and waited for the unknown.

The next moments are all a blur. You think you hear dampened yelling outside the vault, then a thunderous whirring of a saw cutting into the vault. Then, like a scene out of a movie, the vault door is kicked open with a reverberant crash.

Standing above you like a guardian angel was a tall young man with striking dark brown eyes, angular face, and lean build. The setting sun beyond the vault cast a warm orange glow behind this stranger, not helping with the angelic comparisons. When those same dark eyes lock onto you, instant butterflies flood your stomach, your face heating up. Good job, you're injured and you still manage to revert to teenage-level shyness in front of this beautiful man.

"Am I dying?" you ask in a daze, the pain in your head making your filter disappear.

The beautiful man flashes you a smile worthy of heartthrob magazines, a comforting chuckle greets you. "Not on my watch."

He approaches your vulnerable body like a lithe hunter locking its sights on their target. But instead of attacking you, he inched closer and took your chin in his hand. Tilting your face left and right, assessing your injuries. In doing so, you were able to get a better look at your rescuer.

He was a young man, maybe mid to late-twenties. His dark brown hair framed an angular face—the sharp features delicately softened with his still boyish appearance. A few defiant strands flopped over his forehead, almost too long. Long enough to pull on. You shake the intrusive thought from your head, happily focusing on his other attributes—not only for your enjoyment, but also to keep from passing out.

A warm hand cups your face, his thumb gently rubbing back and forth against your cheekbone. "Stay with me, beautiful."

"I should be calling you that," you whisper.

The corner of his soft, kissable lips quirks up in a cocky smile. "You got a name, or do I keep calling you beautiful?"

Face getting hotter, you answer all the questions a person with a concussion is asked. Once his brief interrogation is complete, he gets off his haunches and slips his hands under your legs and back. Taut muscles emphasized by the snug gray t-shirt cradle you closer to him. Your own arms instinctively wrap around his broad shoulders, your face nuzzling into his neck shamelessly like a cat. This man was born to be a knight in shining armor in a fairytale—sweeping you off your feet and riding his horse off into the sunset. But, you'll settle for him carrying you out of the bank to the EMT.

Not caring about dignity, you hug him tighter, clumsily pressing your lips to his cheek while whispering. "My hero…"

The last thing you see before they load you into the ambulance is a pair of dark brown eyes flashing with raw determination.

The sterile hospital room and the occasional nurse taking your vitals became your companions. You didn't die from the head injury but you're now certain you'll die from boredom. Before you could continue pondering your boring demise, one of the nurses enters.

"Your boyfriend is here to see you," she says in her monotone professional voice.

Confused, you open your mouth to say you don't have a boyfriend—until your knight in tight jeans and gray t-shirt appeared in the doorway, holding a bouquet of your favorite flowers in his hand.

You don't need to be told to play along. You emphatically nod, allowing him to enter and the nurse to leave. He places the flowers in a nearby vase before pulling a chair closer to your bed with his foot.

So many questions bounce around in your healing head, but the only one you manage to ask is: "Boyfriend, huh?"

You've never been arrested before, but his bright smile just did. "When I've got a pretty person in my arms calling me their hero and kissing on me, that sounds boyfriend-worthy to me."

"Isn't lying about your relation to a patient a legal issue?" you raise an eyebrow at him.

"I'm not worried about that. I'm aware of the rules," he dismisses with such effortless nonchalance it's almost concerning.

"You are very sure of yourself," you observe, finding his confidence magnetic.

"Have to be," he shrugs, reclining in his chair with a thoughtful expression. "You have no criminal record. Not even a speeding ticket. You've been a good girl your whole life, haven't you?"

You would melt into the floor if you weren't already lying in bed. "I-I try…how did you know?"

"Background check," he says in that same laid-back manner. "Wanted to know more about you."

"You could have just asked me," you had the nagging suspicion his investigation on you went deeper than a nonexistent record.

"I like studying people. Finding out what I can and planning accordingly without outside influence. " He winked at you. What a cocky, cheeky cutie.

"So, what conclusion did you come to?" You ask.

"That you need a well-deserved date," he answers. "With your—and I quote: 'hero'."

"You're not going to let that go," you place your face in your hands.

"Nope."

Exhaling, you let one eye peek at him through a gap in your fingers. "I would introduce myself properly but you seem to know everything about me. Can I at least know the name of my rescuer or will I have to call you 'my hero' forever?"

He pretends to thoroughly ponder your question. "Now that you say that, it does have a nice ring to it."

The nurse came back to check up on you. You didn't miss the way she lustfully ogled the puppy dog-eyed man. A flair of jealousy crept up on you unexpectedly. You grab his hand, mentally noting the pleasant way his long fingers lace with yours, dwarfing them.

The smug glint in his eye told you your action was quite the ego boost. He slipped into his role as the perfect boyfriend, pulling your hand to his lips and pecking your knuckles with those plush lips. Warmth bloomed in your belly and traveled out towards the tips of your toes and fingertips.

"We'll be able to release you soon," the nurse said after taking your vitals.

"Good," he says and before you know it, he takes your chin between his thumb and forefinger and presses his mouth to yours in a generous smooch. The nurse gives an amused chuckle before leaving.

Once he relinquishes you, you sigh. "Laying it on thick, my courageous hero."

"Johnny," he rubs his nose against yours. "My name is Johnny Utah."

Johnny Utah, you liked it. It sounded like the name of an action hero. Your action hero now.

"Well, since we're together now, I guess that means we should go on a date." you smile up at him.