#lewis pullman fluff

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

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

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

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

“Atta girl...”

LORD TAKE M--

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Bullshit.

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

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

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

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

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

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

‎“Oh~ you wanna breed me, Bob Floyd?”

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

‎“Mm, needy husband now?”

‎“Only for you. I'm so lucky.”

‎“You gonna fill me up, Bob?”

‎“Every last drop if you let me.”

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

‎“Yes ma'am.”

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

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

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

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

---

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

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

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

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

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

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

"SHUT UP JAK--"

"MY HAND--"

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

"MY HANDDDD--"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Fuck… you… Robert Floyd.”

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

---

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

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

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

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

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

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

-Bob Floyd

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

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

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

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

‎“…My love.”

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

‎Bob nodded very slowly. “Uh-huh.”

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

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

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

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

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

‎“And?”

‎“It kept dripping.”

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

‎“…I ripped it off.”

‎“With tools?”

‎You shook your head.

‎“With your hands?”

‎You whispered, “…maybe.”

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

‎“I’m not laughing at you,” he tried.

‎“You’re literally smiling, Robert.”

‎“Smiling isn’t laughing.”

‎“It’s betrayal.”

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

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

‎Bob’s entire heart folded up like origami.

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

‎“No one does that.”

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

‎You sniffed. “I’m hazardous.”

‎“You’re adorable.”

‎“I’m a loser.”

‎“You’re my wife.”

‎“I broke a sink.”

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

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

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

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

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

‎“We?”

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

‎You narrowed your eyes. “Fair.”

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

‎“And if you’re not home?”

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

‎You groaned dramatically. “That’s torture.”

‎“Better than replacing the entire plumbing system.”

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

‎Bob smiled and wrapped his arm around your waist.

‎“One time. And you did it adorably.”

‎---

‎Second was… another thing that made him pause.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‎You nodded, grateful and exhausted.

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

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

‎Sniffing his shoes.

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

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

‎“…By smelling my shoes?”

‎You nodded, looking embarrassingly earnest.

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

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

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

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

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

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

‎You came back with tortillas, yogurt, and pickles.

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

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

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

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

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

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

‎Bob kissed the crown of your head.

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

‎Even if you sniffed his shoes again tomorrow.

‎---

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‎He blinked. “…For…?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Out!”

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

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

‎And he knew it.

‎---

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

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

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

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

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

‎“So that’s a yes,” he mutters.

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

‎He winces.

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

‎"Why are you panicking?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‎She blinks once. “Calm down.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‎“Breathe,” she says.

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

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

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

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

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

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

‎“You don’t have dignity.”

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

‎---

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

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

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

‎Just existing. Haunting him. Mocking him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‎He looks at you. Really looks.

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

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

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

‎He thought it might be a baby.

‎He thought you might be pregnant.

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

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

‎You continue glaring.

‎He sinks two centimeters into the couch cushions.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‎Silence.

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

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

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

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

‎When the door finally opened, you stepped out.

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

‎His whole body went still.

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

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

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

‎Bob blinked. Once. Twice.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‎---

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

Unfortunately, they forgot who their friends were.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‎The rest of the squad?

‎Fanboy: scrolling on his phone.

‎Payback: trying to untangle something from his shoelace.

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

Coyote slipped into the bathroom yawning.

‎None of them have the faintest clue.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‎The room freezes.

‎".....Bob Floyd you did the do?!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‎---

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

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

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

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

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

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

‎Bob blinked. “What?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‎---

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

‎Then Bob says, “What about… Mabel?”

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

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

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

‎“Vintage names, baby. Not… dust.”

‎And just like that, war begins.

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

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

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

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

‎“Absolutely not,” Bob says.

‎“You didn’t even hear my suggestion.”

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

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

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

‎“No.”

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

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

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

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

‎The cat hisses. Probably in agreement.

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

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

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

‎“She’s not being born in June.”

‎“It’s a name, Natasha.”

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

‎“No.”

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

‎Everyone starts shouting suggestions.

‎Rooster: “Blaze.”

‎Fanboy: “Starfire.”

‎Phoenix: “Please stop.”

‎Hangman: “Denim. Or Wrangler.”

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

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

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

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

‎The cat swipes at him.

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

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

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

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

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

‎They’re wrong. Obviously.

‎---

‎Midnight cravings were a whole other disaster.

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

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

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

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

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

‎“I’m just saying--”

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

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

‎---

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

‎It’s 3:07 a.m.

‎The world is quiet. Peaceful.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‎Fanboy nods solemnly. “I get it.”

“You knocked-up too?”

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

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

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

‎“Feels like one,” he mutters.

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

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

‎Phoenix gestures at the pan. “Cravings.”

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

‎The cat hisses.

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

‎You glare at him. “I won’t.”

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

‎Fanboy claps softly like Bob just performed a magic trick.

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

‎The entire room watches.

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

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

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

‎“No.” You smile smugly. “Just Bob.”

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

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

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

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

‎The cat hisses at him.

‎Accurate.

‎---

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

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

‎Finally, you gave up.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

---

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

All three girls exploded like feral parrots.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Also, baby brain.

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

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

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

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

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

Cue eyes rolling back to their brains.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Absolutely unfair.”

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

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

---

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Bob blinks once. Twice. His ears go pink.

“Sweetheart… you can’t just--”

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

And you look terrifyingly committed.

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

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

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

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

“Then fuck m--”

“Nope.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Twins.

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

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

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

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

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

You gave a half-laugh, almost bashful.

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

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

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

You blinked at him.

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

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

Bob thought his heart might just stop.

“I’d actually really appreciate that.”

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

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

And then he touched you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Thanks, Bob. Seriously.”

He nodded, voice almost gone. “Anytime.”

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

He froze. “I—I wasn’t—”

You raised a brow, teasing. “Bob.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He chuckled, soft. “Touché.”

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

Bob hesitated.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Sorry,” he mumbled.

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

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

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

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

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

You held his gaze.

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

Bob blinked.

Then blinked again.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You okay?” you asked.

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

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

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

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

He blinked. “Am I nervous?”

You tilted your head. “You tell me.”

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

You drifted a little closer. “Bob?”

“Yeah?”

“You can kiss me, if you want.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You’re a good kisser,” you murmured.

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

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

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

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

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

It all began on the set of Thunderbolts—a charged and chaotic place, alive with the hum of lights, the grind of long hours, and the quiet thrill of creating something bigger than yourselves. The kind of place where reality blurred just enough to let something unexpected sneak in.

You and Lewis had both been cast in major roles, names slotted neatly into call sheets and schedules, costumes and scripts handed over like destiny on paper. But from the very beginning, there was something more. Something unspoken. An undercurrent. The kind of chemistry that didn’t need rehearsal. It was there in the first shared glance across the set, the way your scenes together always felt just a little more electric—like the world paused to watch.

At first, it was easy to pretend it was just the job. Just friendly banter between takes—trading war stories from past shoots, laughing over the ridiculousness of tight superhero suits and late-night rewrites, finding comfort in the shared absurdity of your upcoming press tours.

But slowly, quietly, that banter began to soften into something sweeter. The kind of moments that didn’t call attention to themselves but lingered all the same. You started seeking each other out in the in-between spaces: in the hush between scenes, in the quiet hum of early mornings on set, in the golden lull of twilight when the crew was packing up.

Lewis was quiet, in that way that made you want to lean in just a little closer to catch every word. Thoughtful. Steady. He didn’t waste words—but when he spoke, you listened. And when he looked at you, really looked, it was like being seen for the first time in a way that made your heart forget how to beat normally.

There were stolen coffees, fingers brushing accidentally over sugar packets, shared headphones playing old songs on low volume. There were private jokes whispered with eyes instead of words, small touches that lingered just a second too long. Neither of you said it out loud, not at first, but something had shifted. Grown. Bloomed in the shadow of bright lights and booming action scenes.

The rest of the cast noticed, of course. Teasing smirks. Nudges in the ribs. The kind of glances people give when they see a secret blooming in plain sight. But still, you and Lewis kept it quiet, choosing the quiet over the loud, the sacred over the spectacle. Letting it unfold slowly, naturally, like the story you hadn’t known you were telling.

By the time filming wrapped, everything felt different. Not just because the work was done, but because somewhere in the midst of explosions and call times, you had found something rare. Someone real. The press tour was a blur of flashing cameras, endless flights, rehearsed anecdotes—but through it all, he was your constant. A hand at your back. A look across a crowded room that said, I’ve got you.

Even though you never confirmed anything publicly, fans noticed. They always do. The way you glanced at him when you laughed, how he waited for you to finish your sentences, the soft way your hands would find each other’s just off camera. Social media lit up with speculation. “Pullman/Y/N” trended more times than you could count. Edits, fanfiction, endless gifs of you leaning into each other mid-interview like gravity couldn’t help itself.

That’s why you were brought in—because your managers knew exactly what the fans were dying for: more of you and Lewis, more of that chemistry the fans can’t stop talking about.

The bright studio lights cast a warm glow over the BuzzFeed Celeb set, illuminating the colorful backdrop and making the director’s chairs you sat in look more inviting than nerve-wracking. The energy was light, playful, and buzzing with anticipation. You both settled into the chairs, the kind made for casual interviews but perfectly suited for the kind of banter about to unfold.

Lewis cleared his throat, fingers brushing nervously over his collar again. You’d learned to read these little ticks, the signs that told you he was more shy than confident, more thoughtful than outspoken.

He glanced at the camera, then at you, flashing a small, genuine smile. “Hey, everyone. I’m Lewis Pullman, and I’m here with…” He looked your way, his smile widening just a little. “…Y/N.”

Your heart skipped at the sound of your name from his lips in front of the camera, and you returned the grin easily. “And today, we’re doing something a little different—we’re reading thirst tweets about ourselves with buzzfeed.” You gave Lewis a playful, worried look. “Brace yourselves.”

Lewis chuckled softly, the nervous edge still there. “I’ve heard these can get wild. Like… real wild.”

“I’m worried for you,” you teased, nudging him gently. “You’re like—the white boy of the month or whatever that even means.” You shrugged, letting your voice trail uncertainly as you tried to understand the phrase yourself.

Lewis caught your eyes, lips twitching into that shy, almost imperceptible smile only you had seen before.

The host handed you a small bucket filled with folded tweets. You pulled one out and scanned it aloud, a teasing grin spreading across your face.

“If you ever do a reading thirst tweets video with Lewis Pullman I just want him to know that he can run me over with a bull and spit on my face while I cowgirl him and I’d still thank him for coming to my TED talk.”

Lewis blinked, surprise flashing in his eyes. “That’s… intense.” His voice dropped low, amused and incredulous. “That’s so incredibly specific.” Then he raised his eyebrows, looking straight into the camera. “I mean, if we can make that happen?”

You shrugged and crumpled the tiny piece of paper with a laugh. “Hey— the fans know what they want.”

Lewis nodded playfully before picking up the next tweet.

“Y/N is so hot I’d let her choke me, no joke.”

Lewis blinked at the tweet, then read it aloud in the most deadpan, mildly horrified tone imaginable—like the words themselves had personally offended him.

“Legally, I don’t think I can do that,” you teased, flashing him a small smile. “But if you pay me enough?...Anything's possible.” You trailed off, laughing.

Lewis gave you a sidelong glance, lips twitching despite himself. “Noted,” he muttered, “Guess I’ll check my savings account.” He said low enough for only you to hear.

The air between you shifted—no longer light, exactly, but heavier in the best kind of way. Charged.

You tilted your head at him. “Big spender, huh?”

Lewis didn’t back down. “Wouldn’t waste it.”

The moment stretched—just long enough to make the production assistant behind the camera clear their throat a little too pointedly.

"I'd jump on the chance to fuck Lewis Pullman and Danny Ramirez #threesome #atdifferenttimes #eitheror #idc"

You could barely keep it together, giggling your way through the hashtags as you read the tweet aloud. “Okay—wow,” you laughed, eyes wide. “That was... thorough.”

Lewis raised his eyebrows, rubbing at the stubble along his chin like he was buying time. “Shout out to Danny,” he said with a tight smile.

Lewis leaned forward just a little, elbows on his knees as he tapped the last tweet paper against his palm. “I’m texting this to Dan later,” he added, eyes still on you. Lewis reached for the next tweet. “Okay, moving on.”

"i never thought i'd find a evangelical youth pastor hot, but I do."

Lewis gave a tight-lipped smile as he folded the paper carefully. "Short and simple," He tipped his head to the camera with a shy smile. "Aww Lew," You teased.

"That one was quite nice when you forgot Owen is the devil incarnate," You added before grabbing another tweet, keeping the momentum.

"Y/N L/N I just wanna let you know that I'm free this Sunday to go on a date just let me know if you're free this Sunday, cause I'm free and would like to take you out on a date."

You couldn’t help the amused hum that slipped past your lips. The tweet was bold, sure—but the real irony? You already had a date that Sunday. A very intentional, very planned-out one. With Lewis.

He'd been going on about it for days—something about an early breakfast at that cozy spot in West L.A. he’d driven past last week, followed by a low-key picnic in Brentwood. Thoughtful. Quiet. Just the two of you.

You leaned back slightly, letting your shoulder brush his. “Well,” you murmured, eyes skimming the tweet again. “I actually do have plans this Sunday… but, you know,” you added, dragging the words just enough to leave room for mischief, “plans can change.”

From your peripheral vision, you caught the shift in Lewis’s posture. A small tilt of his head. His smile didn’t waver, but there was something different behind it now—tight around the edges. “Not these plans,” he said quietly, almost more to himself than to the camera.

You turned to look at him fully, lifting a brow. “Oh really?” you teased, voice low.

Lewis didn’t answer right away. Instead, his hand found the small of your back—steady, warm, and just out of frame. Barely there, but unmistakable to you.

“Really,” he murmured, not quite smiling now.

There was a pause—charged and fleeting—before you looked back at the screen, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear to hide the smirk pulling at your lips. “Guess I’m booked then.”

"I want Lewis Pullman to explore my hole until he finds another dimension and sends me to it."

You barely made it through the tweet without bursting into laughter. You pressed a hand to your chest, breath hitching in between giggles. “Oh my God. Who—who writes this?”

Lewis let out a low whistle, already laughing beside you. “That’s not even thirst. That’s an entire spiritual journey.”

Still laughing, you instinctively reached out to steady yourself, resting your hand on his knee. “I mean, at least they’re imaginative?”

He looked down at your hand on his leg—his lips curled into a slow, knowing smile. “Yea. Very... Marvel,” he said, eyes still on you. “Quantum theory. Multiverse. I’m just trying to do my part for science.”

You giggled again, this time leaning slightly closer. “Yeah, you’re a real humanitarian.”

Lewis gestured with his hands, miming a portal opening. “You don’t accidentally fall into another dimension. You gotta go deep.”

Your laugh broke into a snort, and you felt his hand casually settle on top of yours, still resting on his knee. Not tight, not forceful—just resting. Warm. Comfortable. A beat too long to be innocent.

You raised your eyebrows at him, a tiny smirk tugging at your lips. "You know deep right?" You asked, leaning toward him.

He just blinked at you, mock-innocent before leaning back in his chair. “I mean. The fans demand exploration.”

You gave his hand a quick squeeze, your thumb brushing against the inside of his wrist before you slowly slid your hand back to your lap—fingertips grazing his thigh just a little too deliberately.

Lewis cleared his throat and adjusted slightly in his seat.

You smiled, grabbing another tweet with exaggerated casualness. “These are so creative.”

“I think I’m learning a lot about physics today,” he muttered, eyes not quite meeting yours.

You bit back a grin. This interview was going downhill fast—in the best possible way.

You pick up the next card, eyebrows already raised at the way Lewis is watching you—arms crossed, eyes low-lidded with that quietly amused look he’s worn all interview.

"I watch films Y/N L/N is in because she reminds me where my ovaries are when she smirks."

Your mouth drops open slightly as you read it, then curls into a slow grin.

“Wow,” you say, blinking at the camera. “I mean, I always thought my work spoke to the soul, but—ovaries?” You glance over at Lewis, who still hasn’t said a word. He’s just watching you, expression unreadable… but there’s a flicker of something in his eyes.

You smirk—just a little—and cross your legs. “I’m happy to be of service,” you continue, “I’m all about that mind and body connection.”

Still no comment from Lewis. But then—you catch it.

A slight twitch at the corner of his mouth. The most subtle smirk. Just for you.

You stare at him, one brow arching like you’re challenging him to say something. Anything.

He doesn’t.

But he doesn’t need to.

That look? Says plenty.

You turn back to the camera, smoothing the card against your thigh. “That one’s going on my wall,” you deadpan, lips twitching.

"Religion? Lewis Pullman with a nipple piercing"

You felt a jolt of heat coil low in your stomach, instinctively pressing your thighs together as your mind ran wild with the image the tweet conjured. God. That visual alone could start a cult.

Without missing a beat, you tilted your head toward the camera with a wicked little grin. “Me too, girl. Me too,” you said, your voice laced with desire.

You didn’t need to look at Lewis to know he was glancing at you—his shy chuckle was telling enough. But you kept your gaze forward, pretending to stay composed, even as the temperature between you seemed to shift.

The next tweet was already waiting, but neither of you reached for it right away. The moment lingered—not loud, not overt, just there. Quiet and unspoken. The kind of moment you’d learned to let live between you.

Finally, you leaned forward, fingers brushing the rim of the bucket. “Ready for another?” you asked, not quite looking at him.

Lewis’s voice was soft when he answered. “Yeah,” he said. “I’m ready.”

"Lewis Pullman defintely exudes big dick energy and to make it even better im 99% sure he's actually big, I'm weak just thinking about it."

Lewis laughed at the tweet, that soft, genuine laugh that always seemed to catch you off guard. You watched him as he reacted—his hands moving just as much as his mouth. They flailed a little at first, then found rhythm: palms up like he was weighing the words, then a quick motion to his chest as if to say me? really?

“Why the 1%?” he asked, eyes wide with mock disbelief before chuckling again. “Flattery is the way to my heart, so I’m really trying to just—” he gestured, swooping one hand over his head, “—take these and bow so the compliments just fly right over me.”

He looked at you then, still mid-gesture, his expression somewhere between amused and adorably flustered—like he’d just realized how ridiculous he sounded and hoped you didn’t mind.

"I can't confirm nor deny but.." You smiled at the camera, "You're on the right track."

You pulled the next paper from the bowl and glanced at it—then instantly pressed it to your chest, biting back a laugh.

Lewis raised an eyebrow, already smiling. “What? That bad?”

You peeked over the edge of the card at him, eyes wide and mischievous. “It’s not bad. It’s… bold.”

He leaned in a little, intrigued. “Now you have to read it.”

You cleared your throat with theatrical flair, trying not to blush. “‘Y/N L/N is a living, breathing, wet dream.’”

Lewis froze mid-smile, blinking as a flush crept up his neck. “Wow,” he said slowly, then gave a snicker.

You turned toward him, grinning. “You okay over there?”

“I mean,” he said, recovering with a soft chuckle, “should I be worried?” He shifted slightly, his hand settling gently but firmly on the small of your back—a casual move, but grounding. Protective. Like he wanted whoever wrote that tweet to know exactly where you stood.

You felt the warmth of his touch through the fabric of your shirt and nearly forgot how to breathe.

“I think I’ve been objectified,” you said, mock-offended.

He leaned in closer, voice lower now, just for you. “You think you’ve been objectified?”

Your laugh came out in a flustered burst. “Touché.”

Lewis glanced toward the camera, shaking his head with a shy smile, then muttered, “It's better in person.”

Lewis quickly picked up the next card, a mischievous glint in his eye. “Alright, let’s see what we’ve got here.” He cleared his throat and read, trying to keep a straight face:

“I’m ashamed that I want Lewis Pullman 7 inches in these guts, but it is what it is.”

Lewis turned bright red in an instant, his hand flying to his mouth like that might somehow undo what he’d just heard. “Oh my God,” he muttered, voice cracking with laughter.

You bit your lip, adding slyly under your breath. “How’d they know?” you teased, leaning a little closer, voice dropping just enough to suggest you weren’t entirely innocent.

Lewis’s laugh caught in his throat, and before you could react, he reached out and rested his hand lightly on your lower back. “Okay, okay—”

You grinned and fanned yourself dramatically. “It’s getting hot in here?”

Lewis shook his head, still smiling, then looked back at the camera and said with mock seriousness, “Alright, I think that’s our cue to wrap this up.”

You looked into the camera, eyes wide and innocent. “Thank you so much for having us buzzed. This has been a very professional, very wholesome experience.”

"This was really fun... and slightly disturbing... and... uh... occasionally arousing" Lewis added with a faint smile.

As the cameras cut, Lewis kept his hand on your back for a beat longer, a quiet reminder that, no matter what was said out loud, you were his.

INT. HOTEL SUITE – LATE NIGHT

The door closed behind you with a soft snick, muffling the outside world until all that remained was the hush of the hotel suite and the quiet press of presence between you. The air was still laced with leftover laughter—those buzzy, breathless remnants of the BuzzFeed shoot—but now, in the silence, it felt different. Heavier. Like something just beneath the surface was waiting to surface.

You tossed your jacket over the chair by the small dining table, pacing toward the window. The city shimmered beneath you, all glass and gold reflections. You didn’t even pretend to busy yourself—you just stood there for a moment, arms loosely crossed, feeling his gaze settle on your back like a second skin.

Lewis was behind you, slower to move, still standing by the door. Watching. He always watched you like that—not performative, never possessive. Just aware. Like he was memorizing. Like he didn’t want to blink.

“The whole world is after my boyfriend,” you said softly, half-laughing as you looked out at the skyline. “The seven inches one?”

You heard him exhale, that huff of breath that was more bashful than amused.

“That tweet’s going to haunt me,” he muttered, a smile in his voice.

You turned toward him just enough to meet his eyes over your shoulder. “You were very red.”

He shrugged a little, stepping deeper into the room. “You didn’t help.”

You grinned. “I was just doing my part.”

That made him laugh again—a quiet, warm sound that rolled out of him like it had weight. He walked past you, settling into the corner of the bed like it was muscle memory. He leaned back on his palms, eyes still locked on yours.

You followed, slow and careful, and sat beside him. Close enough to feel the body heat radiating off his side, but not touching. Not yet.

For a moment, neither of you spoke.

The silence wasn’t awkward—it was expectant. Filled to the brim with the unsaid.

You glanced at him, your voice quieter now. “I think the ‘wet dream’ one broke you a little.”

Lewis tilted his head toward you, his smile soft but shadowed. “No,” he said honestly. “That one was just… accurate.”

You laughed at first—until you realized he wasn’t joking.

He was looking at you differently now.

His posture hadn’t changed, but something had. His eyes had gone darker, more focused, more present. He wasn’t teasing anymore.

The laughter caught in your throat.

He reached out, slow as dusk, and gently took a loose strand of your hair between two fingers. Brushed it back behind your ear with a softness that nearly unraveled you.

“You don’t even know,” he murmured, almost to himself.

Your voice was barely there. “Don’t know what?”

His fingers lingered for a breath too long at your jaw. “How hard it was not to touch you every time you leaned in today,” he said, his voice hushed and cracked open at the edges. “I kept thinking—just one second longer. Just… a little closer.”

Your throat went dry. “And now?”

He swallowed, his thumb brushing along the edge of your cheek, reverent. “Now you’re right here. And I still feel like if I touch you, you’ll vanish.”

You turned fully toward him then—slowly, deliberately. Meeting him in the thick silence.

“I’m not going anywhere,” you whispered.

He looked at you for a long moment—his eyes searching, serious, full of restraint—but you could see it unraveling at the seams. That need he always tucked away so neatly was starting to spill out. It was in the tremble of his breath, the press of his knuckles against the mattress to keep himself grounded.

His eyes dropped to your mouth.

The air shifted again.

Slower this time. Charged. Heavy with intention.

He reached for your hand—quietly, carefully—and laced his fingers through yours like he was asking permission to keep you. His palm was warm. Rough at the edges. Familiar.

And then, finally, he leaned in.

Not with force.

But with care.

His lips met yours like a question. Like a promise wrapped in silence.

The kiss was slow. Not tentative, but unhurried—like he wanted to savor every part of it, every second that had led here. His hand cupped your jaw, thumb brushing against your cheek as if memorizing the texture of your skin.

You sighed into him, melting forward until your chest brushed his. One of your hands slid along his neck, into the soft hair at his nape, tugging gently—just enough to make him exhale into your mouth.

The kiss deepened. Grew more sure. Not rushed—never rushed—but hungrier now. More grounded. Like he was finally letting himself feel.

You broke the kiss only when you absolutely had to breathe. And even then, you didn’t pull away. Your forehead rested against his, both of you breathless, eyes still closed.

His voice was a rasp. “That okay?”

You nodded. “More than okay.”

You kissed again.

Slower this time. Messier. Hands exploring in the safest, softest ways. Touches that weren’t about lust, but familiarity. Knowing. Want wrapped in tenderness.

You shifted onto his lap, your knees straddling his thighs as you sank into him. His arms curled around your waist, holding you there, grounding you like he never wanted to let go.

You shifted your weight—slowly grinding your hips forward, just once—and felt it: the heavy curve of his buckle pressed perfectly between your thighs. The cool metal kissed through your skirt and into the warmth building at your center, and the friction dragged a quiet gasp from your lips before you could help it.

Lewis’s hand clamped down on your waist.

His voice dropped. “Jesus.”

You did it again—slow, deliberate, hips rocking just enough to drag across the leather and brass. The contrast of rough denim, warm skin, cold metal—it hit all at once, and your head dropped against his shoulder with a breathy sound that made his grip on you tighten.

“Is that okay?” you asked, feigning innocence, your breath ghosting over his neck.

He groaned softly. “You’re gonna be the death of me.”

You smiled, mouth curving against his skin. “You keep saying that.”

His hands slid down to your thighs, grounding you as you moved again—rocking gently, finding a rhythm that had nothing to do with teasing anymore. You weren’t trying to provoke. You were trying to feel. Him. This.

Every shift dragged that damn belt buckle against you again, that sharp, sinful press of sensation that made you shudder against his chest.

Lewis’s breath hitched, his hand threading up into your hair as you kissed along his jaw. Not rushed. Just heat. Building. Slow and quiet and steady.

When your hips rolled again—just a little harder this time—he muttered your name like a confession.

His grip tightened, his breath shaky.

“Don’t,” he said, almost instantly. “Don’t stop.”

And so you didn’t.

You let yourself move like the moment asked you to—slow and aching, your body aligned perfectly with the heat and weight of his. His hands never roamed far. They stayed at your waist, your back, your thighs—like he was trying to memorize the shape of restraint.

You kissed him again, and again, and again—until your lips were swollen and your breath was shaky and the edge between playful and serious had completely vanished..

Extended warnings: no foreplay, kinda!public sex, unprotected piv (stay safe), creampie, no aftercare—Rhett is very sweet to reader though

The dust hadn’t even settled in the arena when the crowd erupted. The clang of the gate still rang in the air, and Rhett Abbott tugged off his gloves, chest rising hard with the aftermath of the ride. He tipped his hat to the stands, that easy half-smile of his, sweat and grit catching the light, muscles flexing as he shook out his arms. Another ride, another win, another reminder that he still had the fire.

But then he saw you.

At first, he thought he was imagining it—like the heat or the roar of the crowd had tricked his eyes. You were leaning casually against the fence, arms folded just so, the faintest smirk tugging at your lips. Your hair caught the late-afternoon sun, glinting gold, and your eyes sparkled with that same mischievous glint he remembered from his childhood.

Fifteen years. Fifteen long, slow years since you’d left Wabang, your family moving away just before you both hit that awkward stretch of adolescence. He’d thought he’d gotten over it—or at least tucked it away—but seeing you now, fifteen years older, impossibly radiant… it felt like someone had yanked a thread he hadn’t realized was still hanging loose.

He blinked, nearly did a double take. Fifteen years since you’d left Wabang. Fifteen years since the two of you had been kids chasing each other barefoot through the fields, dust kicking up behind you as you raced toward the creek, both swearing you’d touched the fence post first. Afternoons had been measured in grass-stained jeans, dares to climb higher into the cottonwood tree, scraped knees and shouted laughter echoing over the wide Wyoming land.

He could still see you perched on the wooden fence with a Popsicle melting down your wrist, daring him to catch a frog with his bare hands, both of you shrieking when it jumped higher than expected. Summer nights had ended with fireflies in mason jars and whispered promises under the stars—childish, unsteady vows that you’d never let life pull you apart.

And then came the day you moved away. You were only ten, him barely eleven, but he remembered it with a clarity that still ached. The packed boxes in the back of your dad’s truck. The way your mom’s smile trembled as she waved goodbye. You’d stood there, chin wobbling but determined, promising to write letters, to keep calling, to never forget.

He hadn’t said much—words never came easy to him, even then—but the moment the truck pulled away, he’d felt it. Like something had been carved out of his chest and carried off down the road with you. That dull ache had followed him for weeks, months, until time smoothed it into a quieter kind of missing. And yet, standing here now, staring at you after all these years, it came rushing back, sharp and alive as if no time had passed at all.

Here you were. Not a memory. Not a screen pixel. Real. Right in front of him.

And God help him—you were stunning.

The kind of stunning that made his mouth go dry, his pulse spike, and his carefully guarded composure teeter on the edge. You’d grown up in ways he hadn’t imagined, yet there was that spark of the kid he’d known, flashing in the curve of your smile, the tilt of your head, the subtle laugh that hit him straight in the chest.

“When did you get hot?” he muttered under his breath, shaking his head as if that alone could make the sight disappear.

By the time he’d hopped the fence and walked toward you, you were laughing—bright, warm, the same sound that used to undo him back when you were kids.

“Nice ride,” you teased, tilting your head at him, that hint of mockery making his chest tighten. “Didn’t get thrown once.”

“Guess I had to impress the hometown vet,” he shot back, the words slipping out quicker than he meant them to. His tone was teasing, sure, but his eyes gave him away—lingering just a little too long, running over you like he was trying to match the memory of the kid he’d known with the woman standing in front of him now.

As soon as it left his mouth, he tugged at the brim of his hat, half-hiding the grin that threatened to give him up entirely. He hadn’t planned on saying it, hadn’t planned on letting you see even a flicker of the pull you had on him already. But the truth was, you’d knocked the wind right out of him just by being here, and for the first time in years, the rodeo wasn’t what had his pulse racing.

Your brows lifted, amused, and your eyes danced with that old teasing light. “So you heard.”

“Small town,” he muttered, tugging at the brim of his hat, suddenly restless. “Word gets around fast.”

And his eyes couldn’t stop tracing you—like he was trying to memorize you all over again, only this time with no kid’s naivety to soften the edges. The sunlight kissed your skin in a way that made you glow, a warm gold that clung to your shoulders and neck, catching in your hair like fire. There was a rhythm to the way you moved now, an effortless sway, every step measured and sure, nothing like the gangly kid he used to chase through fields. You carried yourself with the kind of confidence that only came from years of living, of becoming, and it tugged at something deep in him.

Then there was your mouth—God help him, your mouth. He remembered it laughing wide at some dumb joke he’d told when you were ten, grinning around a Popsicle stick, muttering secrets that weren’t supposed to matter but somehow did. Now, though? That same curve was sharper, fuller, shaped by time in ways that made his chest go tight. Every thought he’d been suppressing since you left, every pang of what-if and maybe-someday, rose to the surface with a heat that made his pulse stumble.

He’d had a crush on you back then—sweet, harmless, the kind of affection that belonged to childhood. But this? This was nothing like that. This was deeper, sharper, hotter, threaded with an ache that felt like hunger. You weren’t just the memory of scraped knees and fireflies anymore. You were standing in front of him, grown, breathtaking, and more than he’d ever let himself imagine. And it hit him all at once: he’d never really stopped wanting you. He’d just been waiting without realizing it.

“I figured I’d surprise you,” you said softly, a little shy now, the easy confidence of the vet he’d heard about mingling with something vulnerable in your voice. Your voice had changed, the faint lilt of your old Southern drawl has significantly softened over the years, yet he could still hear it threading through your words in the most captivating way.

“You sure as hell did,” he said, voice low, his gaze dropping just briefly to your lips before snapping back to your eyes.

The words weren’t about the rodeo. They weren’t about the win. They were about right now. About the electricity crackling in the air between you, the tension that had been simmering for years, the unspoken pull that made his heart hammer in ways that had nothing to do with riding bulls.

You stepped closer, and Rhett’s breath hitched—just slightly, just enough. He could feel the heat radiating off you, the magnetic draw that had been building silently through your texts and online chats, through old memories he’d tried not to dwell on. He remembered every detail of you—your laugh, your stubborn streak, the way your hair would fall into your eyes when you were concentrating—and now, standing here, fifteen years older, impossibly beautiful, the old crush had ignited into a wildfire.

“I… wow,” he finally said, voice rough, catching on the weight of the moment. “You look… you’ve always been… damn.”

You laughed softly, brushing a loose strand of hair behind your ear, that self-conscious little gesture that had never changed. “Still stuttering, Abbott?”

He smirked, though it faltered as he tried to focus. “Guess some things never change,” he murmured, stepping just a fraction closer. The smell of sweat, and leather clung to him, making the tension between you all the more palpable.

“I’ve… I’ve been meaning to come to a game,” you admitted, voice softer now, vulnerable in a way that sent a jolt straight to his chest. “Wanted to see you ride. And… maybe see you.”

“See me?” His chest rose a little faster. “You’ve been seein’ me plenty online.”

“Not like this,” you said, eyes locking on his. “Not in person.”

The old childhood familiarity, the comfort, the teasing—it all tangled with this new current, the yearning, the fire. Rhett felt it deep in his chest, a pull he couldn’t resist. His hands flexed at his sides, wanting to reach for you, to hold you, to bridge the fifteen-year gap in one impulsive motion.

He wasn’t letting you slip away again. Not now. Not ever.

“You’ve… you’ve changed,” he murmured, voice low, filled with something raw, something he hadn’t meant to let surface. “But… in all the right ways.”

You stepped closer, and the space between you shrank until the world narrowed to the two of you, the dusty arena, and the sound of your hearts pounding in sync. That smirk, that mischievous glint in your eye, made him inhale sharply. “I could say the same about you,” you teased, though your pulse betrayed you, quick and wild.

The sun dipped lower, shadows stretching long across the arena, but neither of you noticed. Years of waiting, of memories, of half-formed crushes and missed opportunities, condensed into this one electrifying moment. Rhett’s hand twitched, yearning to brush your cheek, to take your hand, to pull you close.

“You know,” he finally said, voice low and rough, “I never forgot you.”

“I didn’t either,” you admitted, a whisper, and the heat in your chest flared, unstoppable.

And in that dusty arena, with the crowd dispersing and the roar of the rodeo fading into the evening air, Rhett realized—this wasn’t just a reunion. This was the start of something impossible to ignore, a pull fifteen years in the making.

And it set his intention in stone, he wasn’t letting you slip away again.

The thought stayed with him long after the rodeo dust settled—after he brought you home. He brought it to his own home, to the shower, where the sting of hot water did nothing to quiet the memory of your smile, the way your eyes had lingered on him. Fifteen years of distance couldn’t undo what had been there, not for him. Seeing you again only set it all ablaze.

He found excuses to stop by the vet clinic. Pretended his mare needed a checkup more often than she did, or that one of the cattle had a limp. You didn’t call him out on it—not directly—but he caught the amused little glances you tossed his way. And every time your hands brushed his, every time you leaned close to check a bandage or hand him paperwork, Rhett felt his resolve slip a little further.

He didn’t need an excuse to linger nearby, but somehow he always found himself there. You were rearranging the books in the veterinarian section in Wabang’s little library, fingers brushing over spines, hair falling into your eyes as you leaned forward.

You, absorbed in the quiet task, unaware of him tracing every line of your profile. You, laughing softly at a silly passage you’d read aloud, cheeks flushed. You, tilting your head as sunlight spilled across your face, that spark he remembered from childhood now blazing in a whole new, devastating way.

He stayed back, pretending to browse the shelves, but every so often his gaze drifted to you, heart thudding, pulse rising. Every subtle movement of yours—the way you tucked a loose strand of hair behind your ear, the curve of your smile—made him ache in ways he couldn’t ignore. Fifteen years of waiting, fifteen years of distance, and it all came rushing back, hotter than ever.

He never spoke, not yet. Watching you like this, feeling the pull between you, was torture—and bliss.

Every damn thing about you made his chest ache. Made his body burn.

At night, he couldn’t stop thinking about you. The way your hand had felt when you shook his—warm, steady, lingering just long enough to make him feel it in his chest. The way you’d tilted your head when you teased him, that soft curve of your smile that had never really left his memory.

He’d lie awake in the dark, staring at the ceiling, your laugh echoing in his head until his body ached with it. He’d picture you close—your breath against his cheek, your lips parting as he kissed you slow, deep, the kind of kiss that unraveled him. His sheets tangled around his legs as he shifted restlessly, every nerve alive with wanting.

Most nights, he’d give in, closing his eyes, letting his hand move as he imagined the weight of you straddling him, your body pressed flush to his. He’d picture the way you’d sound whispering his name, breathless and broken against his ear, and it made his chest tighten, his heart race. His release always came hard, leaving him trembling, but even then it never felt like enough.

Because it wasn’t just your body he wanted. It was you. Your laugh against his skin, your hands tangled in his hair, your eyes meeting his in that unguarded way that had always undone him. No matter how many nights he reached for you in the dark, it only ever left him more certain—he needed the real thing. He needed you.

But Rhett wasn’t reckless with you. Not this time.

He wanted more than just a quick fling. He wanted years—hell, forever. Which meant he waited. Smoldered. Yearned in silence, letting his touches stay fleeting, his looks go unanswered. Letting the tension coil tighter and tighter, until one day, it would have to snap.

And you felt it too. You couldn’t deny it—not when the air around him seemed to hum, pulling you closer without effort. Your laugh softened whenever he was near, warmer, quieter, like it was meant only for him. Your hand would linger on his arm when you passed by, fingertips brushing against muscle in a way that lasted a second too long, just enough for the contact to leave an echo.

And sometimes, when you thought he wasn’t looking, your eyes would drift. To the line of his jaw, the curve of his throat, and, more often than not, to his mouth. You’d catch yourself staring, heartbeat tripping, and quickly glance away as though the heat of the thought hadn’t already given you away.

It was subtle, unspoken, but it lived in every glance, every brush of skin, every second that stretched too long. A slow, smoldering pull you couldn’t resist—didn’t even want to.

You knew. And he knew you knew.

And still—he waited.

Because when he finally let himself have you, when he finally let all that pent-up hunger loose—he wanted it to be all-consuming. He wanted it to be something you’d never forget.

It happened on a night that wasn’t supposed to mean anything. You’d come by the ranch after a long day, saying you had paperwork for him about one of the horses. He’d invited you to stay for dinner—casual, nothing more—and you had.

But casual didn’t explain the way he couldn’t stop looking at you across the table. Or the way you licked a smear of sauce from your thumb, and his breath caught like he’d been sucker-punched.

After, you followed him out to the barn, both of you laughing about something Amy had said earlier that week. But when you reached the doorway, the laughter fell away, leaving only silence. The kind that buzzed with unspoken things.

You turned, caught him watching you with that unreadable expression. Except this time, it wasn’t unreadable at all. This time it was raw want, blazing clear in his eyes.

“Rhett,” you whispered, like you weren’t sure if you should.

And that was all it took. The leash snapped.

He had you against the wall in two strides, his mouth crashing down on yours like he’d been starving. And maybe he had been—fifteen years of it, all breaking loose at once. His hands cupped your face, then slid lower, gripping your hips, dragging you against him.

The kiss was hungry, messy, teeth clashing until it softened, deepened, his tongue sliding against yours in a way that stole your breath. You moaned into his mouth, and the sound nearly undid him.

“Been thinkin’ about this—fuck—since you came back,” he rasped against your lips, forehead pressed to yours. His voice was rough, wrecked with restraint. “Can’t stop wantin’ you.”

Your fingers fisted in his shirt, tugging, urging. “Then don’t.”

He groaned, like you’d given him permission to unravel, and his hands roamed—up your back, down to cup the curve of your ass, pulling you tight to the hard line of him. You gasped, heat flooding you, your own hands sliding under his shirt, greedy for the feel of warm skin stretched over muscle.

His breath stuttered when you touched him, and he kissed you harder, desperate. One hand tangled in your hair, tilting your head to his mouth, while the other slipped beneath your blouse, fingertips brushing bare skin.

“You’re drivin’ me crazy,” he murmured, teeth grazing your jaw, down your throat. “Fifteen damn years, and you come back lookin’ like this… how’m I supposed to keep my hands off you?”

You shivered, nails dragging across his chest. “Maybe you’re not.”

That broke him. His laugh was low, shaky, before it turned into another hungry kiss, heat rolling between you like wildfire.

He lifted you effortlessly, your legs wrapping around his waist as he pressed you back against the wooden beam. His hat fell to the dirt, forgotten, his mouth never leaving yours. Every grind of his hips left you both trembling, breathless, desperate for more.

“Tell me to stop,” he groaned, voice rough in your ear, though his body made it clear he didn’t want to. “Tell me—or I’m not stoppin’.”

But the way you kissed him back, the way your nails dug into his shoulders, the way your hips rolled against him—it wasn’t stop you wanted. It was everything.

His warning fell apart in your mouth the second you pulled him closer. No hesitation, no pause—your kiss was your answer.

And Rhett lost whatever hold he’d had left.

He hauled you tighter against him, one hand braced against the beam, the other sliding under your blouse until it palmed bare skin. His thumb dragged over the curve of your breast, tentative for half a second, and then you arched into his touch with a gasp. That was all the permission he needed.

“Christ,” he muttered, kissing down your throat, sucking at the soft skin until you whimpered. “You’re gonna kill me.”

Your hands scrabbled at his shirt until he yanked it over his head, tossing it aside. Heat radiated off him—every inch of him solid muscle under rough skin, his chest rising hard and fast against you. You touched him like you had a right to, nails scraping lightly over his stomach, and his hips jerked into you, grinding you against the thick press straining his jeans.

“Feel what you do to me?” His voice was broken glass, rough and desperate. “My whole life of wantin’ you, and now—fuck, darlin’, I can’t stop.”

“Then don’t, please don’t,” you whispered again, breath hot against his ear.

He groaned, low and guttural, before his hands went to your thighs, hitching your skirt higher as he lifted you. Your legs locked around him instinctively, and he pinned you against the beam, rutting against you hard enough to make you both cry out.

You fumbled at his belt, clumsy with need, and he cursed, helping you until the buckle clattered loose. The sound of his zipper lowering was drowned by his mouth finding yours again, hungry, consuming, while his fingers shoved your underwear aside.

The first slide of him against you tore a moan from your throat—wet heat against aching hardness. His forehead dropped to yours, his breath ragged, holding back even now. “Tell me you need it.”

“I need it,” you gasped, grinding against him shamelessly. “Need you, Rhett—please.”

That was it. That was the last tether snapping.

With one rough thrust, he pushed into you, stretching you, filling you until your nails bit into his shoulders. You cried out, head falling back against the beam, and he groaned, the sound raw, like he’d been starving and finally got a taste.

“Fuck—you feel so good,” he panted, hips pulling back only to slam forward again, harder, deeper. Each thrust knocked the air out of you, heat pooling low and tight until you thought you might shatter.

The barn smelled of hay and sweat, but all you could taste, all you could feel, was him. His mouth on your neck, your shoulder, his teeth catching on your skin as he drove into you with a rhythm that left you trembling.

Your moans echoed in the rafters, mixing with his rough curses, his voice breaking every time he whispered your name. His hand slid between you, finding that bundle of nerves with calloused fingers, circling until your whole body arched.

“That’s it,” he urged, breath hot against your jaw. “Come on, darlin’—wanna feel you lose it for me.”

And you did. The wave hit hard, crashing through you, your cry muffled against his shoulder as you clenched tight around him. That almost ended him.

“Where, baby, where can I—”

“Inside, Rhett baby, please, inside.” At the desperation in your voice, Rhett felt his thrusts faltering, stuttering, until he buried himself deep with a groan that shook through both of you. His release tore from him, hot and heavy, his forehead pressed to yours as if anchoring himself in you.

The first few minutes are just breathing—chest to chest, foreheads pressed together, feeling the tremor of each other’s heartbeat settle. Rhett doesn’t let go. His hands stay on you, cradling your back, brushing your hair from your damp face, as if he wants to memorize every inch of you in this moment.

“You good?” His voice is rough, low, almost a whisper, but every syllable carries weight.

“I’m… yeah,” you murmur, still trembling, knees weak, fingers clutching his shoulders.

He chuckles softly, shaking his head, a sound full of disbelief and something softer—wonder, maybe. “Damn. Thought I might’ve broken you.”

“Just… stunned,” you breathe, letting a laugh slip through despite yourself. “In the best way.”

Rhett dips down, lips brushing your temple in a gentle kiss, then your forehead. His fingers trace down your spine slowly, deliberately, grounding you. “C’mon,” he murmurs. “Gotta get you sorted before we end up like this forever.”

You stumble slightly, half from weakness, half from the lingering tension in your body. He catches you instantly, arms wrapping around your waist, holding you tight enough that you’re supported but not trapped. The heat between you hasn’t vanished—it hums, quiet now, like embers in the hay—but his touch is calming, steady, making the barn feel less cavernous, more intimate, more yours.

He guides you toward a stack of hay bales, gently helping you sit. He sits beside you, close enough that your thighs touch, your hands finding his again naturally. He brushes his thumb over the back of your hand, slow, deliberate.

“You okay?” he asks again, softer this time, almost shy. His earlier hunger has melted into something warm and real.

“I am,” you whisper, leaning into his shoulder. “Thanks… for… everythin’.”

“Always,” he murmurs, a low chuckle slipping past his lips before he can stop it. You lift your eyes to him, curious, and he just shrugs.

“Your accent,” he says, voice husky, teasing, his fingers brushing lightly over yours.

One brow quirks, playful but curious. “My accent? What about it?”

“When I first saw you at the rodeo… it had softened over the years. But now…” His gaze drops to your mouth for a heartbeat before returning to your eyes. “…it’s slipping back, little by little. And it’s driving me crazy.”

You bite your lip, a shiver running through you at the husky tone, and grin, a flush rising to your cheeks. “Guess… you’re bringin’ out the best in me.”

He smirks, leaning closer, the warmth of his chest brushing yours. “The absolute best,” he murmurs, fingers curling around your wrist, tugging you just slightly nearer, like he can’t resist it.

One of his hands cups your cheek, tilting your head toward him for a slow, lingering kiss that tastes of sweat, hay, and desire—but now it’s sweet, intimate. A quiet affirmation that you’re here, together, and this… whatever this is… isn’t going anywhere.

Minutes pass in silence. Your breathing slows, the tremors fade, and you finally allow yourself to sink into the comfort of his arms. Rhett’s hand slides around your waist, holding you like he’s afraid to let go, and you press closer, realizing for the first time that the fire between you isn’t just physical—it’s something deeper, something that’s always been there, waiting.

After you’ve both calmed down and gathered everything again, the two of you make your way out. The barn door creaks as Rhett pushes it open, letting in the cool night air. Stars sprinkle the sky, endless and bright above the prairie. You squint for a moment, adjusting to the light, but it hardly matters—the world feels smaller, more private, because his hand is still wrapped around yours.

He leads you down the dirt path toward the farmhouse, boots crunching against the gravel. Every step feels deliberate, measured, as if he’s memorizing the moment, the way your fingers curl into his, the way your shoulder brushes against his chest. You can feel the warmth radiating from him, steady and grounding, like you’ve been carried on a current that’s finally reached shore.

“Do you know,” he murmurs, voice low and husky, “I never stopped thinkin’ about you? Never stopped wonderin’ if… if you’d come back, if you’d still be you, if you’d still make my chest ache just by smilin’ at me?”

You squeeze his hand, unable to speak for the lump in your throat. “I came back,” you whisper, “I’m here.”

He stops, pulling you closer, thumbs brushing over your knuckles. The way he looks at you—it’s not lustful anymore, not just that fire from earlier—it’s something deeper, something permanent. Like he’s looking at the one person he was always meant to find. “Here you are,” he repeats, like a prayer. “And I… I’m never lettin’ you go.”

You smile, a little breathless, a little dizzy from the years of waiting compressed into this single night. “Never,” you echo.

He chuckles softly, tilting your face up to his, lips brushing yours in a kiss that’s gentle now, tender, full of promise. Not hurried. Not desperate. Just… sure. Anchored in everything that’s come before and everything that’s yet to be.

“Tomorrow,” he says against your lips, pulling back just enough to look at you fully, “I’m takin’ you on a proper first date. No rushin’. No distractions. Just you and me. Startin’ the life we’ve been waiting for.”

You laugh softly, and it’s the happiest sound he’s ever heard. “I’d like that,” you murmur, still pressed against him, feeling the steady rhythm of his heartbeat beneath your chest.

He dips his head, resting his forehead against yours, holding you there for a long, quiet moment. The prairie stretches out around you, but for the first time in fifteen years, it feels like home. Not the house you grew up in, not the town you left behind—but here, with him, right now.

“Forever, then?” he whispers, voice rough with emotion and certainty.

“Forever,” you confirm, and it feels like the simplest, truest answer you’ve ever given.

A billowing wisp of smoke filtered the air in a sudden burst as you broke into a smile at the comforting pressure of arms wrapping around your waist, tugging you backwards. Then the familiar sensation of lips pressing against the plush curve of your left asscheek; seeking out the small tattoo of his name in his handwriting. Your head turned to the side, peering over at him with a fond smile as he trailed open-mouthed kisses upon your skin, slowly moving towards the middle of your back where a great decorative piece only just touched. One hand unwound from your waist, curling his fingers around the hem of the t-shirt you were wearing and bunching it up further to seek out the entirety of your tattoo. “You’re gonna be late,” you whispered teasingly, reaching back to stroke his hair for a brief moment before leaning on the windowsill again. “I’ll be here when you get back.”

You felt him sigh deeply against your lower back, a puff of warm breath as he clung to to you with childish reluctance. “Yeah?” Bob murmured, shifting so his cheek was flush against your lower back. “You’re not doing anything today?”

You thought for a moment, staring out at the soft swaying trees that lined the courtyard of the apartment complex. A slender cat was making its way through the floral decoration; that dark coated one that sunbathed all day in the same place. On more than one occasion you had bent down to scratch under its chin while on your way towards the stairs that led up to the apartment. Even plucked some stray pieces of grass from its fur that grew to have a golden-brown hue. “I have some parcels to pick up,” you shrugged, thinking about the supplies that had been ordered a few weeks ago; anything of good quality had always been a hassle to track down and order. “And I still have that commission to get started.”

“Hmm,” the soft vibrations of that acknowledgement was a subtle tickling sensation. It made you smile a little, bringing the cigarette back up to your mouth. The glowing ember brightened with the deep inhale that pulled a flush of smoke into your mouth. You stubbed the cigarette into the ceramic bowl sitting on the windowsill; a small amount of rainwater had settled into a puddle inside. You exhaled the soft cloud and turned around in his embrace, slinging your arms around the back of his neck as he stood up straighter and leaned in.

"C'mere,” Bob was smiling, an endearing little thing that brought up his cheeks as he started dragging the hem of your t-shirt up further. Your stomach tensed at the careful drag of his fingers that brushed along faintly. “I need my t-shirt.” And filled you with disappointment. You exhaled dramatically, tilting your head back with a languid drop off your shoulders. He chuckled at the display and tugged it over your head, exposing your breasts.

It was hard to fight the smile that tightened the corner of your mouth once you had caught the longing expression in his eyes. You wondered how he would react when you got them pierced, something you had been debating for a while after coming across some jewellery at the tattoo parlour. “Are you going to start drooling?” You murmured, staring up at him and enjoying how captured he was by the sight of your bare body. His thumb caressed the gentle curve of your breast, meticulously paying attention to the blotches of sensitive skin that he had mouthed at with undeniable desire the night before. “I think the guys want to go to the Hard Deck later,” he murmured, shifting his hand from the side of your breast to rest against your lower back as he lent in and kissed your brow gently; just brushing against the piercing, and lingering for a beat. “If that’s alright.”

“Yeah, of course,” you tilted your head back a little to look up at him, back arching slightly against the pressure of his hand, and smiled at his desire for reassurance; as if you had ever denied him the well-deserved time with his newfound friends.

“Oh, I- I meant you could come with me. I-if… uh, you want to?” He looked suddenly unsure of the invitation as he dragged his wedding band along his necklace, back and forth in a repetitive motion, as if suddenly realising that you might prefer to stay out of that side of his life. You stared at it, that glint of gold that was resting upon his finger earlier. His hand jolted down suddenly. “Shit,” he muttered. It was broken. A link had come loose.

“Hey, hey,” you held your hand out for it, clicking your fingers to gain his attention when he removed his hand from your back and further attempted to fix the link. “Give it here, sweetheart. I’ll see if I can fix it later. Go on, you don’t want to be late.” He sighed heavily, reluctantly placing the thin chain into your palm where it curled up, along with the wedding band. “Go. I’ll see you later, lieutenant.”

“Uh- yeah,” Bob flushed at the easy and fluid way it fell from your mouth, his eyes flickering down towards the smile playing across your face; how it brought so much teasing joy onto your features. “Yeah, alright. See you at…” he pulled his t-shirt on and picked his bag up before pausing in the doorway as he thought it over. “Um… at eight. At the Hard Deck. I’ll see you there.” He turned around, closing the door. It wouldn’t stay closed long. You smiled knowingly, bending down and picking a t-shirt and some underwear from the folded laundry at the foot of the bed. As expected, the door swung open again and he stood there with a flustered smile. “Love you.”

And you were unbelievably late. Bob was sure that you had a good reason for such a thing; another creativity session that brought in a sense of time obliviousness. It happened sometimes, when you got so caught up that the hours would burn too quickly for you to catch. It was fine. He held a plastic cup in one hand, half filled with water while the others all nurse their beer with more eager approach. Occasionally, he’d look towards the entrance; seeking for some sighting of you. “No offence,” hangman continued as he tugged the pool cue out of Coyote’s hand, stepping backwards and moving around the table coated in blue felt and decorative designs befitting the clientele of aviators.

His brows furrowed a little at the response, confused by their lack of belief in his marriage status. “Oh, well- well, I am- married that is. I’m married.” Bob nodded, as if to confirm it further with the gesture.

“Yeah?” Hangman was smiling slyly as he leant over the table and lined up his shot; that slight expression that meant he was amused and seeking to further embarrass his friend. “Where’s your wedding band, Bob?”

Instinctively, Bob lifted his hand to grasp the chain that he had grown accustomed to wearing. His stomach fell into a great, empty pit. And he dropped his hand, instead rubbing his thumb against the vacant space on his left hand where it usually resided during leave. “Oh- I- Uh… it broke this morning.”

“Yeah?” Coyote murmured, eyes flickering to the movement before taking a gulp of his drink and passing it to Rooster as he rounded the table; trying to analyse his best chance at sinking a ball.

“Not the ring,” Bob flushed at the attention, realising how silly that sounded. “I uh- I keep it on a chain. The chain broke.”

“Uh huh…”

“That’s enough, Bagman,” a soft voice came to his defence, their shorter stature a reassuring presence at his side. “Leave it alone.”

“Hangman,” he corrected.

“Whatever,” Phoenix crossed her arms. “Enough.”

“What?” he shrugged with bemusement, passing the spare cue to the side and crossed his arms obnoxiously. “I’m just saying-”

“Don’t” Rooster cut in, the sharp snap of the cue coming in contact with the white ball echoing behind his voice. “Leave it.”

“I’m just saying,” Hangman repeated firmly, staring at her boldly as she sighed at his tone. “He’s lying. That’s all. That’s it. Alright? I mean, let’s look at this logically,” he continued, walking closer as if he were stalking his prey. “Bob, our baby on board, is married. We have never met this woman. We have never heard of her until now. He conveniently broke the chain his wedding band is on- do i have that right?” He stared questioningly at him and then shrugged. “Bob’s lying.”

“I’m not,” Bob told him calmly, narrowing his eyes behind aviator glasses at the accusational tone.

“So you’re saying the lovely wife of yours, this.. what? your old high school sweetheart, yeah? she stays home to cook and clean like a good housewife in a pink apron. She’s real?”

“W-what…” Bob stared at him in confusion. “No. I didn’t say that.”

“Look, I’m not trying to offend you-”

“Yet you managed to anyway,” Bob responded bluntly, holding his ground. “You’re being an asshole.”

“Whatever, man,” Hangman scoffed and started to walk away; dismissing the entire interaction. “I’m getting the next round.”

And then there was you. Across the bar with the door hanging open behind you like an emergency escape route. For just a moment, you stared out at the mass of people crowding the bar like flies on spoiled leftovers. It was surprisingly busy. Instantly, you recognised the figure that was lingering near a pool table in the far corner; cradling a clear cup of water. The sight alone brought a smile to your face, already setting off across the floor towards him; weaving through the crowd with a soft dismissal when someone tried to twirl you into dancing. “No, thank you,” you shouted over the reverberating music from the jukebox, adjusting your mini skirt with nimble fingers curling under the hem.

“What?” he shouted back, leaning in close.

Too close. “Hey!” You instinctively leaned away. “Back the fuck up.” You dropped the soft composure, placing your hand out as a barrier.

He raised his hands up with an amused expression while mouthing an apology. Douchebag. “Fucking hell,” you muttered to yourself while slipping through the crowd, burying yourself in the masses in an attempt to reach the other side. “Fucking, fuck, fuckface.” It was a relief when you passed the dartboard, hearing people cheer and another complain at whoever made the shot. And then your hand came in contact with the wooden beam that was decorated in stickers and other colourful things, clinging to it loosely for a second while watching with amusement. It was only when one of them dropped their glass and spilled their drink with an audible yelp that you turned away with a wince and headed up towards your husband.

“Hey, sweetheart,” your voice was a soft approach, going under his bicep and wrapping around him loosely. Your wrists knocking against each other as you slung them around the back of his neck. Instinctively he placed a hand upon your lower back, fingers splaying against the small space of bare skin that was made available from your sweater rising.

“Hey,” he brightened at the sight of you, as if you had become his only source of sunlight and it was a privilege to bask in the glow you provided. “Alright, guys,” he looked around at the others, tightening his hold on you for a moment of reassurance. “This is my wife.”

It was instantaneous, the raised eyebrows and questioning looks towards one another. And then they began to introduce themselves, raising a hand in some cases and shaking your hand in others. All grinning smiles that spoke of how proud they were of their friend, obviously fighting the urge to pat him on the back in congratulations. “Hey there, I’m Natasha,” the woman with a slicked back hairstyle spoke confidently, leaning on a pool cue as she propped herself up. She was beautiful; somewhat pixie-like with her short bridged nose and enchantingly dark eyes. But she appeared sharp in personality. “I’m just going to say it- you are not what anyone was expecting. Wanna hear what Hangman thought you’d be?”

Before you could respond, he had caught sight of you and the inevitable happened. Hangman opened his mouth. “What do we have here?” he looked between you both with such glee that it was almost unnerving, putting the tray of drinks on the edge of the table. “No,” he refused the sight with a laugh, gesturing to you both as if that was enough. “No. I cannot believe that baby on board- no offence- managed to get into your pants, let alone get you in a white dress.”

Your eyebrows knit together. The fuck? It must have been enough of an expression to make him rethink his initial outburst, as he adjusted his stance and observed you critically; taking in the visible piercings and tattoos, the mini skirt split up one side and held together with thin links of chain; showing off the bold tattoos on your thighs, and the old, oversized sweater with graphic font of some band he didn’t recognise. It didn’t make sense. Not you. Not with straight-laced baby on board.

“Seriously?” He looked around at the others for some sign of fellowship in his disbelief. He received nothing in return. Nothing but the amused smile that was barely concealed on Phoenix’s face, her head tilting slightly with a mocking silence. “Goddamn, my man, you must be laying it down,” Hangman suddenly chuckled, and unfortunately caused a few others to smile at the comment, as he observed you both with mirth swirling in his eyes like some tornado building upon amusement. “Congratulations," he spoke while staring at the ring on your finger for a couple seconds, as if double-checking that one of you was wearing a wedding band.

“This is Jake,” Phoenix murmured from your side, leaning in slightly. “He has come to the assumption that he’s funny.”

“Huh, really? I know him as douchebag,” you shifted a little in your husbands arms while adjusting your attention on the smug inclined man.

“Hangman.”

“Gesundheit”

He smiled at that, crossing his arms as if to display them more promptly. A display that perfectly fitted his douchebag persona that had, so far, been the only memorable thing about him. “That’s cute,” he looked up towards your husband. “She’s cute. Bet you have your hands full with that.”

“Looks like it, yeah.” Bob sounded proud of it though, resting his chin upon the top of your head and swaying slightly with you in his arms. You couldn't resist the urge to preen brightly at that, grinning and melting into his embrace without shame.

“Hey, what’s that called?”

"Specify and i might have an answer for you." You raised an eyebrow at him, watching how that simple expression caught his attention as he stared at the glint of metal.

“The thing in your ear,” he continued. “I always wondered.”

“Did you?” You murmured with mocking disbelief. “Its a gauge,” you replied efficiently, leaning back against your husband as he curled his fingers around the waistband of your skirt, thumb brushing against the tattoo coating your hip. “Or you can call it an ear-stretcher.”

“Hmm… and how long does it take to get through a metal detector?”

“Why, are you thinking of getting one?” You grinned at the mere thought of someone like him getting a piercing. “I know a couple places.”

“Hmm, I bet. You got any tattoos or other piercings I could see?” He asked, leaning a bit closer and his eyes dropping low. “Maybe I’m thinking of getting a-”

“Jake,” your husband cut him off, his tone firm and leaving no distance with his displeasure at where the conversation was headed.

It was quiet for a moment as he grinned at the conversation, then he sighed and turned around to take the cue from another. “What are we play'n?” You shifted against Bob, holding onto his forearms and keeping them wrapped around your chest where you could press your chin upon them.

𝕋𝕒𝕘 𝕝𝕚𝕤𝕥

@wholerottentree

You’re sitting on the couch, your legs crossed, hoodie sleeves pulled halfway over your hands, and Lewis tucked beside you — hoodie on, socks mismatched, lazily curled up with a book and a bowl of sliced mango on his lap.

Your phone’s already recording. Propped up against a candle and a crumpled tissue, just for this little lip balm review.

“Okay,” you begin with a conspiratorial grin. “Mini review time. We’ve got the new Laneige Glowy Balm — Sweet Candy flavor.”

Lewis glances at you with a tiny amused noise, as if to say here we go again, but doesn’t look up from his book.

You lift the balm to the camera. “Smells like candy. Cute packaging. Pricey, because of course it is. My current boyfriend says I have five of these already, but he doesn’t understand skincare so we ignore him.”

You don’t even pause as you say it. You’re "too busy" evaluating texture and scent and whether the lighting’s good.

But Lewis does.

You don’t notice it right away, not until about ten seconds later — when your voice kind of echoes into a weird, uncomfortable quiet.

You glance sideways.

He hasn’t turned the page. His gaze is cast somewhere lower now, somewhere between the floor and the curve of his own wrist. The hand holding the mango bowl is suddenly still. The air feels like it’s holding its breath. One hand is clenched slightly around the edge. His jaw’s tight.

You pause your talking.

“…What?” you ask, still half-smiling.

He sets the book down.

Just gently closes it, like he suddenly doesn’t have the attention span to hold it open anymore. His body language has folded in on itself — book now shut, thumb pressed firm against its spine like he’s trying to steady something deeper than paper. His mouth is drawn, the muscle in his jaw shifting like he’s chewing on something he’s not ready to spit out.

He shifts the bowl of mango off his lap and leans forward slightly, elbows on his knees.

And he’s quiet.

“Lew?”

Still nothing.

You reach out and nudge his shoulder. “Hey. What’s wrong?”

He breathes in slowly and lets it out all in one go. “Nothing. I’m just…” He shrugs. “Tired, I guess.”

“Did you mean that?” he says quietly, and the softness in his voice is the kind that only comes with injury — not rage, not even anger. Just confusion and a little hurt. The kind of ache that sounds like someone trying to convince themselves they didn’t hear what they heard.

You blink. “Mean what?”

You study him. The way he won’t look at you. The little crease in his forehead. The tight set of his mouth. And suddenly your stomach drops.

He gestures vaguely, like it physically stings to repeat it. “The… ‘current boyfriend’ thing.”

You laugh. Light, automatic. “Oh my God, no, babe — it’s a TikTok trend. People do it as a joke. It’s not serious.”

He doesn’t answer.

You sit up straighter, your heart in your throat.

He runs a hand through his hair. “It’s fine. You were probably joking. Doesn’t matter.”

“No, hold on—” You stop recording. “Babe. Seriously. I didn’t mean it like that. It’s just a trend. People say it to be sarcastic.”

“Yeah,” he says, voice quiet, almost flat. “I get it.”

You stare quietly at him for a second. “Then why do you look like you just got gut-punched?”

That’s when he finally turns to you — eyes rimmed slightly red, not teary, just… hurt.

“Because it’s you,” he says. “And when it’s you, I take stuff seriously. Even the jokes. Especially the ones I’m not expecting.”

The room is too quiet now. The balm feels heavy in your hand.

“I didn’t mean it,” you whisper.

“I know you didn’t. But hearing you say that — like I’m just temporary — it felt real. Just for a second. And I hated it.”

He leans back again, blinking hard like he’s trying to swallow it down, not make a big deal out of it — but it is a big deal. You can see it in the way he’s holding his shoulders, like he’s trying to take up less space.

You toss the lip balm onto the couch and climb into his lap, into the space that’s always been yours, and rest your forehead against his like you’re trying to will your sincerity into his bones.

He doesn’t resist. But his arms don’t come up right away either.

“No. No, I don’t. think you're temporary Lewis, I swear to God. That was just me being stupid. I didn’t think. I saw the trend, and I — look at me. Please,” you say softly.

He does. Barely.

“You are not my ‘current boyfriend.’ You are my person. You’re it. You’ve always been it. You’re my everything. I didn’t mean it. I didn’t even think — I was just trying to be funny. It wasn’t about us.”

He finally lets his arms wrap around you, slowly, like his body’s been waiting for permission.

“You promise?”

You cradle his face between your palms. “I promise.”

You feel his breath against your shoulder. “I just… I think I feel stuff too much when it’s you.”

“Good. I want you to feel it. I never want to hurt you with something that dumb again.”

His smile is small. Barely there. But it’s a start.

“Delete it?” he asks, voice muffled.

“Gone,” you say. “And next time I’ll call you what you really are.”

He raises a brow, still sad-eyed but curious. “Which is?”

You lean in. “Endgame.”

That gets the tiniest exhale of a laugh.

And then your lips are brushing, kissing — mouth to mouth, wordless, steady. It’s slower now, unhurried, as if the apology is still unfolding through the softness of your lips. He tastes faintly of mango, sweet and ripe from the bowl he’d abandoned earlier. And you, with your ridiculous Laneige balm — you taste like fruit and candy and something that should make no sense at all but somehow does, because it’s you.

He lingers in it. Kisses you like he’s trying to memorize the contrast, the saccharine sweet of mango against glaze, the warmth of your body against the ache he hadn’t even realized was still in his chest. One of his hands drifts to the side of your jaw, thumb brushing just under your cheekbone like he’s still grounding himself in your presence.

You sigh into his mouth, quiet and open, pressing yourself closer, and that’s when his grip shifts.

Without warning, his hands slide firmly to your hips and he rises in one fluid motion, lifting you effortlessly with him, arms strong and sure beneath your thighs as you instinctively hook your legs around him.

Your breath stutters. “Lew—”

He doesn’t answer right away. Just carries you down the hallway, eyes dark and steady, jaw tense — with something akin to possessed.

When he finally speaks, it’s low and certain, a murmur against your temple:

“I’ve got a lifetime’s worth of proof to leave on your skin. Don’t ever call me temporary again.”

You swallow, breath caught somewhere between your chest and your throat.

He kicks the bedroom door open gently with his foot, because this has all become muscle memory — you in his arms, lips kiss-drunk and trusting, his name echoing back against the soft hush of the walls.

By the time he lays you down, the hurt is long gone.

A/n: Hii pookies! <3 I've been thinking about this plot a lot and finally decided to write it! As always, it's basically a porn with a plot :) Anyway if you have any ideas, suggestions, or anything else, feel free to text me. Also, I apologize for any grammar mistakes or phrases that might not make sense—English isn’t my first language :3 But I hope you enjoy the story! <3

Masterlist

The evening was slowly settling in, the last traces of sunlight fading into shades of gold and violet as the summer sky surrendered to the night. The salty scent of the ocean drifted in each time the doors swung open, mixing with the heavy fragrance of beer, sweat, and laughter.

You felt the fourth margarita sliding into your hand with such ease that it was almost dangerous, the glass sweating in your fingers as the icy cubes clinked softly against the rim.

Beck had stopped counting her own drinks somewhere around the seventh, and by then neither of you cared anymore; after all, it had been far too long since you had last seen each other, and wasn’t this reunion worth a little celebration? At least, that’s what Beck kept insisting, and you had to admit she was right.

Your laughter had been echoing through the Hard Deck for hours, spilling louder than the jukebox and chasing after the music like waves colliding with the shore. At some point, you swore your stomach muscles began to ache so much that it almost felt like you were accidentally carving out a six-pack from nothing but relentless giggles.

Beck was always like that—an inexhaustible source of fun, mischief, and stories that carried just enough detail to make you question their authenticity, though she swore, with the seriousness of a priest, that every last one was true. You had never believed her, not entirely, but that was part of the charm.

You raised your drink, the strong but deceptively light taste swirling on your tongue, when you noticed the way Beck’s eyes suddenly caught fire, glowing with a mischievous spark that instantly made your stomach tighten with preemptive dread. Her lips curled into that devilish smile you knew too well, the one that usually meant trouble.

“Do you remember that one time you got so drunk you started doing a striptease on the ping-pong table?” she asked with a grin so wide it made your heart falter.

The memory slammed into you with the force of a brick wall, so sudden and merciless that you almost choked on your drink. You set the glass back on the table, coughing into your hand, your throat burning as tears blurred your eyes from the force of the fit.

“I thought you forgot about that,” you managed to rasp, your voice weak, your fingers gripping the glass with a desperation you hoped didn’t show.

“Oh, I’ll never forget,” Beck sang, her grin growing brighter, her whole face lighting up with the wicked satisfaction of someone who had just pulled the pin from a grenade.

“Actually…” She drew out the word like it was honey, already digging into her purse, “…I still have the video.”

Your entire body froze. It felt as though your heart dropped straight into the soles of your shoes, heavy and hollow at once, leaving you breathless.

“W-what video?” you asked carefully, each syllable cracking under the weight of panic. Your pulse sped up so rapidly you thought it might leap out of your chest.

Her fingers tapped across her phone with practiced ease, her eyes sparkling, her grin refusing to falter for even a second. Then her expression shifted, eyes widening with triumphant delight, a small chuckle escaping her lips as if she had just uncovered treasure. You knew instantly she had found it.

“Look!” she said, turning the screen toward you.

The moment your eyes caught the familiar but horrifying image of yourself, your face heated so fast you thought you might combust. Your cheeks flushed crimson, your breath stuttered, and your stomach twisted as though you had swallowed glass.

“Oh no…” The words slipped out of your mouth, more like a prayer to yourself than an actual protest.

On the screen, there you were: clearly drunk, swaying clumsily on top of the ping-pong table, dancing with a ridiculous amount of confidence that only pure alcohol could have granted you. The crowd around you cheered, clapping and whistling, while you grinned like an idiot and began tugging off your shoes as though it were some kind of grand reveal.

Beck’s giggles filled the air beside you, but you couldn’t tear your gaze from the horror unfolding on that tiny display.

“Oh God…” you breathed, covering your mouth with your hand as the video continued to play.

You watched in absolute mortification as your tipsy self bounced around, stripping layers off piece by piece, until you were left in nothing but your underwear, beaming at the audience like it was the most natural thing in the world. But the worst part was seeing that the video still had time left to go.

You saw yourself grabbing the strap of your bra, and that was it. You couldn’t take another second. Snapping into action, you grabbed the phone out of Beck’s hand and flipped it face down on the table, shutting your eyes tightly as if darkness could erase the shame curling inside you.

“Delete it. Now.” Your voice was low, sharp, strained through clenched teeth. The anger in your veins pulsed just as strongly as the humiliation, the cocktail of emotions almost unbearable.

But Beck was far too amused to care. Her giggling spilled out in a cascade, bubbling and relentless, like she was high on nothing but your embarrassment. She reached for the phone, swiping it back into her own hands before you could snatch it again, her eyes wide with glee as she kept watching the video alone.

You dragged your hands down your face, pressing your palms into your eyes, exhaling a deep groan that was half despair, half desperate wish to disappear for at least a decade.

“There’s no fucking way I’m deleting this,” she said with a grin so smug it made your blood boil even hotter. Her eyes stayed glued to the screen, her laughter breaking every few seconds as she replayed the most humiliating moments over and over.

“Beck, please,” you whispered, your voice stripped of its sharpness now, breaking into something softer, almost pleading. You lifted your head, eyes wet with both frustration and shame, locking onto her as if begging her to understand that this wasn’t funny anymore.

Finally, after a long, agonizing moment, she closed the video and tossed the phone onto the table with a careless flick of her wrist. Her smile remained, but her eyes met yours, sparkling with secrets and unspoken promises of more trouble to come.

“Please, delete it,” you begged, your eyes wide and pleading, the kind of desperate look a puppy might give when it knows it has no other chance. You locked your gaze on Beck’s eyes, silently begging her to understand that you were serious this time. But Beck, being Beck, only tilted her head back and laughed, the sound bright and merciless, cutting through your growing shame.

“There’s no way I’m deleting such a treasure!” she declared, her grin stretched wide as if she had just uncovered a priceless artifact.

You growled low in your throat, frustration simmering beneath your skin, and dropped your head into your palms. The warmth of your hands pressed against your cheeks, your mind spiraling as you tried to think of anything that might persuade her.

“Beck, come on, that video could ruin my entire life,” you said finally, your voice sharp and laced with panic.

Beck’s expression shifted into a mock pout, her lips pursed like a sulking child. “Oh, don’t be so dramatic. It’s just a memory,” she said airily, before winking at you in a way that only made your blood boil hotter. She grabbed her glass, sipping slowly, her eyes never leaving yours, the mischievous spark in them only growing stronger.

You exhaled, long and weary, the kind of sigh that seemed to deflate your whole body. “A memory I’d really rather forget,” you muttered under your breath, loud enough for her to catch it anyway.

For a moment, silence stretched between you, interrupted only by the clinking of glasses and bursts of laughter from nearby tables. You reached for your drink, finishing off the last sip of your fourth margarita with determination. The liquid burned on its way down, and you already knew you would need another—something stronger, perhaps—to carry you through the rest of this night.

Just as you set your empty glass on the table, Beck suddenly gasped, the sound sharp and dramatic, her entire body snapping to attention as her gaze locked onto something behind you. Confusion flickered through your chest, and you turned to glance over your shoulder, only to immediately understand her overreaction.

The Navy men had just arrived.

They entered the Hard Deck like they owned the place, their crisp uniforms catching the glow of neon lights, making them look impossibly sharp and untouchable. Each of them carried a different kind of allure—some tall and broad-shouldered, others lean with sharp edges in their posture—but all of them shared the same magnetic confidence that made it difficult to look away. A few women in uniform trailed among them, though there was no denying that the men dominated the room’s attention. The very air seemed to shift, the bar buzzing with new energy, a spark of excitement settling over every table.

You let your eyes linger for a moment, drinking in the sight as if you were one of the many already staring, then turned back to Beck.

She, of course, hadn’t blinked once. Her gaze was glued to the group like a moth to a flame, her lips parted in awe, and you knew exactly what was going through her mind.

“Hey. I’m right here,” you snapped your fingers in front of her face, trying to drag her back to reality.

“Yes, but they’re over there,” she answered dreamily, her voice slow, her pupils practically sparkling as if she was hypnotized.

You let out a soft laugh, shaking your head in disbelief. Whenever Beck saw an attractive man, she transformed into a giddy teenager, utterly shameless about her interest.

But then her expression shifted again. Her eyes narrowed slightly, her lips twitching into a mischievous curve, and you instantly recognized the look. A spark of dread shot through you, cold and heavy, because you knew that whenever Beck’s face lit up like that, it meant only one thing: she had an idea. And Beck’s ideas were never harmless. They came with consequences, usually for you.

“What is it?” you asked warily, your brows furrowed as suspicion curled in your stomach.

“Let’s make a bet,” she whispered, leaning closer across the table, her elbows pressing against the wood as though she were about to reveal some priceless secret.

The very word bet made your body tense. You didn’t even let her finish before you shook your head violently.

“No. Absolutely not,” you said firmly, waving a hand as if that could brush away the thought itself. Your eyes dropped to the table, as if refusing to acknowledge her would somehow end the conversation.

“Wait, you don’t even know what the bet is about yet!” she protested, her voice high and eager, practically vibrating with excitement.

“I don’t want to,” you muttered, shaking your head again, tipping back the last drop from your glass. As the cool liquid burned its way down your throat, you were already debating what your next drink would be. Tequila. Whiskey. Anything to drown out whatever madness Beck was about to propose.

“What if,” she said slowly, dragging the words out with deliberate cruelty, “the bet was about that video?”

Your head turned sharply, your eyes snapping to hers. That wicked grin was back, curling on her face like smoke, and your heart sank into your stomach.

“I’m listening,” you admitted reluctantly, your curiosity pried open against your will.

Beck practically glowed with victory. Her smile widened, her eyes sparkling like a cat who had just cornered its prey. Her heart, you could tell, was practically leaping with joy at finally pulling you into her trap.

“Alright then,” she said, drawing closer, her voice lowering like she was letting you in on a dangerous secret. “I’ll delete the video.”

You nodded immediately, leaning forward, desperate to seal the deal before she could change her mind.

“Only if you sleep with one of them,” she added casually, her finger lifting to point over your shoulder at the Navy men. You didn’t even need to look to know exactly who she meant.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” The hope drained from your face instantly, replaced by irritation, your excitement crashing down like glass shattering on the floor.

Beck just shook her head slowly, deliberately, her smug grin refusing to budge. You groaned, shaking your head in disbelief, but before you could form another protest, she cut you off.

“Oh, come on! We’re both single, we don’t owe anyone anything. Why not have a little fun?” she said with a shrug, her tone infuriatingly casual. And though her words carried a hint of truth, the idea still didn’t sit right with you.

“I’m not a whore,” you snapped, your words sharper than you intended, slicing through the air between you. Beck actually blinked, momentarily surprised by the intensity in your voice.

“Nobody said you were,” she countered quickly, her tone lighter, almost casual, though her eyes never left yours. You stared back at her without expression, your face stone-like, while she finished off her drink and set the empty glass down with a dull thud, the sound carrying just enough finality to irritate you further.

“I’m not going to sleep with someone just because of a stupid video,” you declared, your voice firm, every syllable pressed with the weight of certainty, as if the very act of speaking the words made the truth of them undeniable.

Beck exhaled slowly, her eyelids drifting shut for a brief moment as though she were calming herself, and then she shrugged with exaggerated indifference. When she finally spoke, her voice was quieter, lower, carrying an edge of something darker that made the hair rise on the back of your neck.

“Fine… but just so you know,” she murmured, leaning closer as her lips curled into a cruel smile, “if you ever piss me off, or if we get into a fight, I wouldn’t hesitate to post it online.”

Her smirk widened as her eyes flicked up to meet yours, clearly savoring the way your expression faltered, drinking in the storm of shock and fear that rippled across your face.

“You wouldn’t do that,” you whispered, your voice trembling despite your best effort to keep it steady, your head shaking in disbelief, your wide eyes locked on hers as if you could force her to deny it.

“Oh, but I would,” she replied without hesitation, nodding with deliberate slowness, her smug expression never changing.

“And sending that video to your boss? No problem to me,” she added, her voice dropping into something even colder.

That was the breaking point. You slammed both palms against the table, the wood vibrating under the sudden force, and leaned dramatically toward her. “No!” The word tore out of you, raw and desperate.

Beck only tilted her head, her grin stretching wider, and for a moment her tongue flicked over her lips as though she was savoring every ounce of control she had over you.

There were moments when you regretted ever letting Beck so close into your life, and this was one of them. She always needed to stir the pot, to add chaos where peace might have existed, because to Beck, a life without drama wasn’t a life worth living. Deleting the video would have been the simplest, kindest solution, one that would have spared you the agony, but Beck never chose the easy path. She chose the path that burned.

You pressed your fingertips against your temple, your mind racing for alternatives, desperate for any possible loophole that could free you from her absurd conditions. But the alcohol in your system was clouding your thoughts, slowing them down, tangling them in knots, and around you the noise of the bar seemed to grow louder, the laughter of strangers and the deep rumble of Navy men’s voices filling your ears until it was impossible to think clearly.

You sighed heavily, the sound escaping your lips like defeat, and lowered your head. Beck didn’t need words to know, she saw it instantly, the moment your resolve cracked. Her grin sharpened, triumphant, because she knew she had won.

“Fine,” you muttered, your voice heavy, almost resigned. Then you straightened, jabbing a finger at her with sharp warning. “But only if you promise me you’ll delete that video.”

Beck nodded eagerly, her grin never wavering for even a heartbeat. “Deal,” she said brightly, as if this were nothing more than a harmless game.

You gave her one last warning glare, narrowing your eyes as if your stare alone could burn her smugness away, before turning to glance back over your shoulder. Your gaze swept across the cluster of men, quickly assessing them, mentally calculating who would be the easiest victim of this ridiculous bet.

But Beck’s voice cut through your thoughts. “I get to choose the guy,” she announced proudly, lifting her chin as if she was claiming a crown.

You spun back to face her, scowling, your brows drawn together in sharp disapproval. Beck only lifted her hands in mock defense, her face painted with exaggerated innocence. “Hey, I don’t make the rules.”

You rolled your eyes so hard it almost hurt, because you both knew damn well that she did make the rules. Arguing with her was useless, so you turned back toward the Navy men instead, your eyes scanning the group once more. Beck followed your gaze, the two of you staring openly now, without a shred of subtlety, but neither of you seemed to care.

“What about him?” you suggested, nodding toward one of the men who clearly stood out. He looked every bit the leader—tall, confident, his posture commanding and his chest puffed proudly like a peacock. His brown hair was neatly combed to the side, his smile blinding, teeth so white they could have been weaponized.

Beck wrinkled her nose immediately, shaking her head. “No. He looks like he lives for sex.”

You bit back the retort bubbling on your tongue, because, damn it, she had a point. So instead you just tilted your head in reluctant agreement and kept scanning.

“What about him?” you asked after a beat, pointing toward another man who was harder to ignore—his wavy brown hair and distinctive mustache already making him stand out from the rest. From a distance, he looked kind, approachable even, though something about the set of his jaw suggested he could easily turn sharp if provoked.

Beck hummed, dragging out the sound, then shook her head again. “Too charming.”

You narrowed your eyes at her, suspicion prickling down your spine. It was becoming clearer with every rejection: Beck wasn’t looking for someone easy. She was deliberately hunting for someone who would make your night infinitely harder.

So you stopped. You crossed your arms and refused to point anyone else out, letting the silence stretch while you stared at the men and she scanned with her hawk-like precision. You knew she’d pick eventually, and you knew you wouldn’t like it.

And sure enough, it happened. Beck suddenly lit up, snapping her fingers like she’d just discovered the holy grail.

“Got him!” she announced loudly, her voice carrying halfway across the bar, drawing more than a few glances. She didn’t care. She pointed boldly, her finger cutting through the crowd.

You followed the line of her hand, squinting against the dim light until your eyes landed on the man she meant.

“The one with the glasses?” you asked carefully, already dreading the answer. Beck’s satisfied hum was all the confirmation you needed. Of course she had chosen him.

He was the kind of young man who, even from a distance, radiated shyness. The way he sat a little back from the group, listening far more than he spoke, laughing quietly now and then at something the others said—it was obvious he wasn’t the center of attention, nor did he want to be.

His hair was a soft, sandy blond that caught the light and seemed to shimmer as it fell neatly to the side, every strand perfectly in place.

The glasses perched on his small, slightly unusual nose had delicate silver frames that seemed to belong to him as naturally as a smile, shaping his face in a way that only emphasized the gentle innocence about him.

He looked like the kind of boy who would apologize if his shoulder so much as brushed against yours, the kind who would hold a door open every time without fail, not because it was expected, but because he couldn’t imagine not doing it. The kind who hesitated to start a conversation, not out of arrogance but out of fear of saying something wrong, of making the wrong impression. Nervous, shy, probably virgin, hiding behind the louder personalities of the men around him.

“Why him?” you turned toward Beck, though deep down you already knew the answer before the words even left your lips.

“He’s flawless,” she said with a grin so wide it made your own cheeks ache in sympathy. “If you can get him, you can get anyone.”

You glanced back over your shoulder, your gaze falling on him again, and your chest tightened.

“He looks so innocent. I don’t want to… take advantage of him,” you murmured, your voice quieter, almost guilty, because you meant it. He looked like the type who would only ever fall in love once in his life, and when he did, it would be forever. The kind of man who would build a family and live a simple, happy life with the girl he loved. You didn’t want to be the one to shatter that fragile, unspoiled image.

“Take advantage?” Beck scoffed, rolling her eyes. “Please. You’d be doing him a favor. Imagine it—an unforgettable night with an incredible woman. Who would ever complain about that?”

Her words, laced with unexpected flattery, warmed you despite yourself, but the guilt still pressed heavy on your chest. And yet, as you studied him again, taking in the sparkle of his eyes when he laughed at something one of his friends said, the boyish curve of his lips, the faint nervousness in the way his hands fidgeted, your heart gave an involuntary thud, harder and faster. You swallowed, torn in two directions.

But really, it wasn’t a choice. It was him, or the ruin of everything you had worked for. Your career, the years of blood and sweat, the fragile dream you’d built with such discipline, it would all collapse if you didn’t bend now.

“God,” you exhaled, the word carrying the weight of surrender, and turned back to Beck.

Her face lit up like she’d been waiting for this moment all along, her eyes wide, her grin stretching with the same giddy impatience of a child waiting for a promised candy.

You scowled. “What?”

“Are you going over there or not?” she asked eagerly, her tone so casual it almost knocked the air from your lungs.

“Wait—now?!” You nearly choked on your own breath, your heart hammering in your chest.

Beck nodded, her smile widening to reveal every tooth, her whole face alive with anticipation. She was practically bouncing in her seat, her excitement sharp and undeniable. You felt like the damn candy she was drooling over.

“But he’s with the others, I can’t just—” You glanced nervously over your shoulder, the sight of so many uniforms in one place making your stomach tighten. The testosterone-filled atmosphere pressed against you like a heavy wall, amplifying your own social anxiety.

“Don’t be a pussy. Go,” Beck hissed, her voice sharp but encouraging, her eyes sparkling with wicked glee.

You closed your eyes for half a second, forcing yourself to inhale deeply, to gather every scrap of courage hiding in the corners of your trembling body. Then you rose, adjusting the strap of your black handbag over your shoulder, the wine-red fabric of your dress hugging you as though to remind you of the confidence you were supposed to be wearing along with it.

Beck clasped her hands together, miming a cheer, silently squealing her support like a schoolgirl at a pep rally. You shook your head at her, smiling weakly despite yourself, before turning toward your target.

He was still sitting at the bar, his posture a little slouched, his hands resting awkwardly on the counter, and, whether it was fate or cruel coincidence, the stool beside him was empty, waiting like an open invitation.

Your mind instantly began scripting scenarios, rehearsing the words, the smile, the rhythm of your breath. Every step toward him felt too loud, your heels striking against the floor like drumbeats in your ears, but no one seemed to notice. The bar was crowded with men in uniform, the air buzzing with laughter, bravado, and the occasional deep burst of masculine shouting.

And then there was you—out of place, in a fitted wine-colored dress that clung to your figure, carrying a black purse like armor.

You felt like you didn’t belong, like the spotlight had been shoved on you without warning. But no one stopped you. No one even turned their head, at least, not yet.

You reached the bar. The stool beside him was waiting.

“Hi,” you said softly, your voice carrying just enough confidence to mask the chaos screaming inside you. You gestured to the empty seat with your finger. “Is this seat taken?”

He looked up at you, startled, his surprise written across every feature of his boyish face. And then you saw his eyes. From a distance you hadn’t noticed, but up close, they were impossibly blue, a deep ocean that you could drown in without regret.

For a moment, your knees nearly buckled, your body threatening to betray the calm façade you were desperately clinging to.

He blinked quickly, his throat working as he swallowed. His lips pressed into a thin line, his nerves bleeding into every motion. “N-no,” he stammered, the word catching awkwardly in his throat.

“Would you mind if I sat here?” you asked in a tone that was deliberately soft, warm, and polite, yet with just the faintest hint of seduction hidden beneath, a subtle attempt to score a few extra points right at the beginning.

He looked almost startled by your presence, as though the very fact that you were addressing him had knocked the ground from under his feet, and whatever little confidence he carried clearly wasn’t prepared for this kind of attention. He merely shook his head quickly, his gaze darting anywhere but directly at you, as if avoiding your eyes might keep him safe from drowning in them. You weren’t sure whether it was shyness that tied his tongue or if he simply found you intimidating, but either way, you weren’t about to back out now.

With a small, knowing smile, you slipped into the seat beside him, carefully smoothing the hem of your dress as you sat down, and placing your purse lightly on the bar counter just within reach.

You exhaled, slowly, keeping that charming smile alive on your lips as you tilted your head ever so slightly toward him, allowing your eyes to linger on the man who had just become your target. He didn’t look back at you; his attention seemed to cling to the half-empty glass of beer in his hand, his fingers fidgeting nervously with the rim, his posture giving him away as someone who wasn’t entirely at ease.

You decided, with a spark of playful determination, to help him out of his shell.

“So, you’re with the Navy, huh?” you began casually, letting your words carry a touch of curiosity.

He flicked his eyes toward you, just for the briefest second, as if to make sure you were indeed speaking to him, and when he realized that your question was directed at no one else, his expression shifted into surprise, almost like he couldn’t quite believe he was the one holding your focus. He blinked, glanced away, then back at you and for a heartbeat, his ocean-blue eyes locked on your face.

“Y-yeah,” he managed, his voice surprisingly deeper than you expected, though the restless play of his fingers betrayed the nerves thrumming beneath.

You felt a little thrill of satisfaction ripple through you; he was finally looking at you, acknowledging you, even if only for a fleeting moment. Before you could press further, however, his gaze darted back to the table, retreating again into that shy shell.

“And what exactly is it you do? Pilots or the naval side of things?” you pressed gently, eager to keep him talking, but before Bob could form an answer, a different voice, louder and brimming with arrogance, cut across the space from your other side.

“Air force, sweetheart.”

You turned sharply, as did your quiet target, to see the man who had spoken.

It was the very first man you had pointed out earlier, the one Beck had described as living and breathing sex, and now up close, you could almost smell it radiating off him in waves.

His cologne was strong, intoxicating, the kind that clung to skin and promised nothing but trouble, his smile dazzling in a way that seemed calculated, his entire aura oozing confidence, as though he had never once been denied what he wanted.

“Oh, I—” you started to reply, but before you could redirect your attention back to your boy, Mr. Sex-on-Legs was already leaning in.

“Hangman,” he interrupted smoothly, flashing his perfect grin as he extended a hand toward you in a way that screamed arrogance more than courtesy.

Your lips pressed into a thin line as you gave him only the barest glance out of sheer politeness. You didn’t take his hand, letting your eyes deliberately drop to it in visible distaste before drifting back up with a small, unimpressed smirk.

“Hangman?” you repeated, your voice laced with quiet amusement that you couldn’t quite hold back.

He nodded proudly, as if expecting admiration. You let your gaze linger on him, skeptical and bemused all at once.

“That’s your name?” you asked, unable to resist a soft chuckle.

“Nah, it’s my callsign. The name they use for me in the air force,” he explained, his grin never faltering.

You gave a slow, unbothered nod, before smoothly turning back to the one who actually interested you—the shy boy with sandy hair and gentle blue eyes.

“And do you have a callsign too?” you asked, your voice softer now, your smile genuine. The question seemed to catch him off guard, his eyes widening as though he hadn’t expected you to care, hadn’t expected you to look past the loud and flashy presence of Hangman.

“Yeah… Bob,” he answered finally, and this time a small, warm smile curved his lips.

“Bob?” you repeated, tilting your head, your own smile softening. “That’s… kind of adorable. Does it have a meaning?”

Your visible interest seemed to fluster him, equal parts unsettling and pleasing, but before he could even open his mouth, Hangman’s voice barged into the space again.

“Baby on board,” he quipped, clearly amused with himself.

You and Bob both turned to him, but when your eyes landed back on Bob, you caught the slight shift in his expression. He looked offended. Heat rose in your chest as you turned back to Hangman, irritation flashing in your gaze.

“Do you wanna know what my callsign means?” he asked, his bright smile still glowing on his perfectly smooth face.

“No,” you replied, bothered. Hangman was clearly caught off guard, because this wasn't an answer he was ready for.

“Well, if you’ll excuse me, I’m having a conversation with Bob now.” Your smile widened, ironic and cutting, and both men blinked in surprise.

Hangman froze for a second, looking between you and Bob as though he couldn’t quite believe he’d been dismissed, before his jaw flexed and he finally gave a tight nod.

“Fine. Have fun,” he muttered, lowering his head, his smirk faltering as he backed away, shoulders a little stiffer than before.

You shook your head slightly, still smiling, then quickly turned back to Bob, who was watching the whole exchange with cautious disbelief.

“Is he always like that?” you asked, amusement dancing in your voice.

Bob allowed a faint smile to slip across his lips as his fingers curled again around his beer.

“Just with pretty girls,” he said, quietly enough that you almost thought you’d imagined it.

Your breath caught, your pulse stumbling as a shiver ran down your spine. That single line left a warmth blooming in your chest, and your smile grew wider before you could stop it.

“So… you think I’m pretty?” you teased, turning your full attention back on him.

His eyes went wide in panic, his cheeks flushing as he stammered, “N-no! I mean—yes! I—uh…” His hand flew to the back of his neck, scratching nervously, his gaze darting everywhere except at you.

You let out a soft laugh, shaking your head with a gentleness that cut through his panic. “Thank you,” you said, and then leaned in just slightly, your voice dipping into a sweeter register. “What if I bought you a drink for that compliment?”

This time, his eyes actually lifted to yours, and you swore you saw them brighten ever so slightly.

“Shouldn’t I be the one paying, since I’m the man?” he asked cautiously.

You tilted one shoulder in a graceful shrug, letting your gaze linger on him with a playful spark.

“Sometimes roles can switch,” you whispered, your words sliding out smooth and silky.

He shifted in his seat, clearing his throat a little too loudly, and you noticed the faint blush creeping steadily across his cheeks. To your own surprise, the sight of him sent an ache of desire tightening low in your body.

Heat pulsed between your thighs and you had to cross one leg over the other beneath the bar, your breath catching as you silently asked yourself why Bob, of all people, managed to stir something this strong in you without even lifting a finger.

“Another margarita for the lady?”

Your attention immediately shifted to the bartender, who was wiping down a glass with a rag, his warm smile directed straight at you.

“Yes, please,” you replied with a polite nod, your voice light and almost innocent, before turning your head toward Bob, who, to your surprise, had already been watching you.

“And for the aviator?” the bartender asked with a hint of playful teasing in his tone.

Bob glanced up at him briefly, then lowered his gaze again, letting out a quiet chuckle at the nickname. “I still have mine, but thank you.” He gestured slightly with the glass in his hand, the one he had been absentmindedly toying with all this time. The bartender simply nodded in understanding and disappeared down the bar, leaving the two of you in your own little bubble.

“So, another one, huh?” Bob asked, his voice carrying a shade of confidence this time, though he still avoided looking directly at you. There was something in the way his tone lingered, as if he was slowly warming up, inch by inch letting his guard down. You could feel it, and that shift in his energy was thrilling.

“I might have let myself get a little carried away,” you admitted with a soft laugh, seizing the opportunity to catch his eyes before he could look away again.

“But I swear, I’m not an alcoholic,” you added quickly, a trace of playful sarcasm in your voice.

That comment made his whole face light up, his lips stretching into an unguarded smile, the kind that softened every sharp edge of his features.

“Sure,” he teased, narrowing his eyes as if assessing you, “and how many drinks does that make so far?” His gaze stayed fixed on you this time, patient, waiting, the faintest spark of mischief in his expression.

“Fifth. BUT! But—” The moment you said the number, the look of mock shock on his face forced you into immediate defense, your words tumbling out faster.

“Wow. I’m surprised you’re still standing,” he remarked, his tone amused. His eyes flickered over you briefly, gliding from your legs upward, but not in a leering or intrusive way. It was observational, casual—almost like he was simply acknowledging the feat of balance you were claiming to achieve.

“We’re celebrating,” you explained, though you knew you didn’t have to. Something about Bob’s presence made you want to share, to justify, even though he didn’t seem like the kind of man who would ever judge you. If anything, he seemed more inclined to listen. “My friend and I—we haven’t seen each other in a long time.”

“Oh, so you’re here with a friend?” His tone was soft, curious.

You nodded and turned slightly in your seat, about to gesture toward her, only to notice that she was no longer alone.

The charming man with the mustache had claimed the empty space beside her, and she was giggling at something he had said, clearly entertained and caught up in the moment. You didn’t blame her; she deserved her fun.

“That’s Rooster,” Bob murmured beside you, his voice carrying a quiet certainty, and you realized he had been watching the same scene unfold.

“Rooster?” you repeated, scoffing lightly, as if the nickname itself begged to be questioned. Bob gave a small hum of agreement, clearly unfazed by your amusement.

You turned back to him, shaking your head with a smile that you couldn’t quite hide. “So far, you’re the only one with a nickname that actually makes sense.”

Your words held a trace of playfulness, and Bob seemed to bask in them. He gave the smallest nod of pride before lifting his bottle to his lips, taking a slow sip. But this time, his eyes never left yours.

The intensity of that held gaze sent a shiver racing down your spine, raising goosebumps across your skin. And to your own surprise, you were the one who broke eye contact first, glancing away because the weight of his stare was simply too much.

Perhaps it was the alcohol loosening his restraint, perhaps it was just the way the moment unfolded, but for the first time tonight, Bob carried himself with a thread of confidence that matched the courage you had been forcing yourself to show.

And the truth was, if you hadn’t already been riding the warmth of four margaritas, you weren’t sure you would have dared to speak to him this way at all.

“And what’s your name?”

It was Bob’s question—the very first one he had asked you directly—and from that moment on, everything between you seemed to flow effortlessly, unfolding with an ease that felt entirely natural.

The two of you drifted through what felt like every possible subject, and you ended up learning far more about him than you had ever anticipated. You spoke of your childhoods and school years, of your jobs and what they demanded from each of you, and even of relationships, a topic you hadn’t expected to touch but somehow found yourself sinking into with surprising comfort.

By the time Bob held his third beer in hand, you were deep into a conversation about pets, and you had long since lost track of how many glasses you yourself had gone through.

The alcohol wasn’t the cause of the warmth in your body, though, it was Bob.

You could feel him loosening, emerging gradually from the shell in which he had seemed so carefully tucked away at the start of the evening. And you knew he was comfortable, because little by little, he began to touch you. Not in any overtly flirtatious or inappropriate way, but with soft gestures that carried more weight than they should have.

A gentle brush of his fingers when you said something funny, a reassuring squeeze of your hand when you opened up about something that clearly touched you deeply.

You no longer felt nervous the way you had when you first approached him. Instead, you felt at ease, and, in a way, you felt something far rarer: as though the two of you fit together. It was almost like Bob was that missing puzzle piece that had been hiding for years beneath the couch, the piece that finally made the entire picture whole.

Yet throughout your conversation, you couldn’t help but notice the way he occasionally looked at you—the weight of his gaze, heavy and lingering, that sent tremors down your spine. And, truthfully, you were guilty of looking at him the same way.

Never before had your knees trembled like this, never before had you felt that insistent, pulsing throb of your core, a heat that soaked into your panties until you found yourself sneaking off to the bathroom more than once just to collect yourself. That was what Bob did to you. And judging by the way he kept shifting uncomfortably in his seat, the subtle adjustments of his posture, the fleeting brush of his hand against his own pelvis as though it had simply fallen there by accident, you realized that you had the very same effect on him.

The truth was, the bet no longer mattered. In fact, you had forgotten about it entirely within the first three words Bob had spoken to you. All that mattered now was getting to know him more, peeling back the layers of the quiet, gentle man who sat beside you.

Compared to every man you had known before, he was utterly different, in the best way imaginable. Somewhere deep down, you couldn’t help but hope that maybe, just maybe, this could grow into something more, something deeper.

The video, the wager, the challenge—all of it had faded into insignificance. You no longer wanted to sleep with him because of a bet. He wasn’t just your target anymore, he was Bob. Sweet, shy, unexpectedly magnetic Bob, the man who made you ache with desire so strong that even the slightest friction against your panties threatened to tear a moan from your lips.

Even though Bob was already speaking with you far more openly than at the beginning of the night, there were still moments when his natural shyness surfaced, fleeting little gestures that betrayed just how bashful he truly was.

The way he would glance away mid-sentence, the subtle movement of his shoulders as if he were trying to fold into himself, or the awkward shuffle in his seat that revealed more than he would have ever admitted. And yet, despite all that, you couldn’t ignore the fact that he kept adjusting his pants in the very place you knew was betraying him most, his obvious arousal making your stomach twist with delight until you had to bite down on your lower lip to keep from smiling too much.

By now, the margaritas, perhaps your tenth, though who could say for sure, had loosened the last threads of your restraint, and your touches toward Bob grew bolder.

They were no longer the innocent, fleeting grazes disguised as accidents or excuses to laugh. This time, when your hand came to rest upon his thigh, it wasn’t just because he had said something amusing. It was intentional, heavy with meaning, deliberate in a way that made the air between you spark. Every time you allowed your hand to linger there, you felt his muscles tighten beneath your touch, saw the way his leg twitched involuntarily, and yet he never moved away, never pulled back. He didn’t flinch, didn’t stop you, even though the torment you were clearly causing him must have been unbearable. If anything, you could sense how much he savored it, how much he wanted you to continue.

The sexual tension between you was undeniable, woven into every glance, every brush of skin, every breath you exchanged. It was there, thick in the air, and nothing could erase it.

You were just finishing what you told yourself would be your last glass, sipping slowly as you listened to Bob recount a story from his time in the Navy, when suddenly someone shoved into you with such force that you nearly spilled your drink all over yourself.

By sheer luck you didn’t—though the heat between your thighs, which had everything to do with Bob, made you feel anything but dry—and you sat there in a daze, shocked by the abrupt interruption. You had half a mind to let it go, to dismiss it, because the man who had bumped into you was enormous, broad-shouldered and hulking, the kind of figure you instinctively avoided. You didn’t want drama. But Bob, clearly, wasn’t willing to let it slide.

His words faltered mid-sentence, and before you could process it, he pushed his chair back and rose to his feet, the determination in his movements striking you like a jolt of electricity. Fear instantly welled up inside you, your heart hammering in your chest as your eyes widened.

“Wait, Bob, you don’t have to—” you started, but he was already crossing the space toward the man who had collided with you.

He tapped him firmly on the shoulder, and when the stranger turned around, you nearly gasped.

He looked exactly like the kind of man you prayed you’d never cross paths with: a stereotypical biker, muscles carved from hours at the gym, veins bulging with what you suspected was more than just hard work—the kind of man who radiated aggression with every movement, the kind of man you knew could flatten someone in a single punch. Terror prickled over your skin, but Bob seemed utterly unfazed.

“Apologize,” he said, his voice surprisingly firm, carrying an edge of authority you hadn’t heard from him before. The sound of it made your pulse race faster, a wild blend of fear and disbelief rattling through you.

The bar went silent. Every eye was on Bob and the towering man now, the tension in the room sharp enough to slice through. The biker’s scowl deepened, his voice rumbling low, menacing, enough to send a shiver through you and anyone within earshot.

“Apologize to who, exactly?” he growled, his words dripping with threat. The audience that had gathered instinctively knew what was coming; they were waiting for the inevitable clash.

But Bob didn’t back down. Maybe it was the alcohol coursing through his veins, more than he had ever dared to drink before, but courage blazed in his eyes in a way you hadn’t expected to see.

“To the lady you just shoved into,” he declared, pointing directly at you.

Your breath caught in your throat. You instinctively hurried to his side, slipping your hand onto his shoulder as if you could anchor him, keep him safe.

“Bob, you don’t have to—” you whispered, your voice trembling.

“I don’t owe anyone an apology, you little shit!” the man growled, leaning closer to Bob until their faces were separated by mere inches, each word punctuated with venom.

The stench of alcohol poured off him, his breath soured by more than a few shots, and you instantly realized that dealing with a drunk biker like him was the very definition of a terrible idea.

“Bob, let it go, please,” you begged, tugging at his arm in a desperate attempt to draw him away, but Bob remained rooted to the spot, immovable, as if the very floor itself held him in place.

He stared into the man’s eyes for a long moment, silent, before calmly reaching up to remove his glasses. With a surprising gentleness, he folded them carefully, turned to you, and handed them over.

“Hold these for me, please,” he said in a tone so soft it felt almost out of place in that charged moment. The kindness of it clashed with the fury in the biker’s expression, which only darkened further the instant Bob faced him again.

“Apologize. Now.” Bob’s voice rose, louder this time, carrying a weight and sharpness that cut through the bar’s tense silence. But his demand had the opposite effect—the man’s fury boiled over, and before anyone could react, his fist flew.

The sound of the impact echoed like a gunshot, his knuckles colliding hard against Bob’s face, sending him crashing to the floor. Gasps filled the room, several people recoiling, others covering their eyes as if unable to bear watching. Your body jolted forward instinctively, and you dropped to your knees beside Bob, panic coursing through you as you reached for him with trembling hands.

“Bob, oh my God—” your voice shook as your fingers brushed over his face. His cheek was already turning an angry red, the skin swelling in a way that made it clear a deep bruise would bloom by morning. Despite the obvious pain etched into his clenched expression, he stayed conscious, breathing heavily, determined to appear stronger than he truly felt.

“I’m fine. It’s nothing,” he muttered in a low, stubborn growl, though you knew that was far from the truth. You slipped his glasses carefully into your bag, slinging it back over your shoulder as you used your free arm to steady him.

Before you could say more, a familiar voice cut through the tension. “Hey, you okay, man?” Both you and Bob turned, and to your surprise, it was Hangman. His usual smirk was gone, replaced with genuine concern, his eyes narrowing as he studied Bob’s battered face. Bob only mumbled something incoherent and gave a small nod, but it was clear as day he wasn’t okay.

“He needs ice,” you said firmly, your tone sharper than you expected, as if the urgency inside you had no patience left. Hangman nodded without hesitation, signaling the bartender, and within moments you had a cold bag of ice pressed into your hands.

You guided Bob back into his chair, steadying him until he sat, and carefully placed the ice against his cheek. He hissed, teeth clenched tightly, the sound breaking your heart.

“I’m sorry…” you whispered, guilt heavy in your voice, but Bob’s lips curved into a faint smile despite the pain.

“You don’t have anything to apologize for,” he murmured with his eyes closed, and though his words were meant to comfort you, the weight of responsibility still pressed hard against your chest. If it weren’t for you, he wouldn’t be sitting here bruised and hurting.

“Do you need anything else?” Hangman asked, hovering nearby. A couple of other Navy guys approached, clapping Bob on the back, laughing a little despite the tension, proud of his stand as if he had just earned their silent respect.

“I think we’re good. I just want to take him home,” you admitted softly, glancing at Bob, whose shy smile peeked through even as his friends teased him.

“Actually, we’re all staying in dorm-style housing nearby for this season. It’s not far from here,” Hangman explained, and you nodded, grateful for the information.

You look at Bob again, still leaning into the ice pack, his embarrassment hidden beneath a bashful grin while the guys jostled him like a brother.

“Thank you,” you said sincerely, looking at Hangman, who for once gave you a smile free of arrogance. Maybe he wasn’t as shallow as you had assumed. Maybe, as the saying goes, you really shouldn’t judge a book by its cover.

Once the others finally drifted away, you stood, gently helping Bob slide off his chair. “I’m walking you home,” you announced firmly, not giving him any room to argue.

“Shouldn’t I be the one walking you home?” he murmured with a faint chuckle, still clinging to his sense of gentlemanly pride even with one side of his face battered.

“In this condition? Don’t be ridiculous,” you teased, slipping his arm over your shoulders while wrapping your hand securely around his waist.

Bob grunted in reluctant agreement, but his head dipped in a small nod, and soon enough both of you were laughing softly as you left the bar together, the noise fading behind you as the night swallowed you in its quiet.

Hangman was right, the dorms weren’t far from the bar, which turned out to be an enormous relief given Bob’s condition.

“So… where to now?” you asked as the two of you stepped into the small reception area, your voice light but edged with fatigue.

“Third floor,” Bob murmured.

“Third?!” you repeated in mock despair, staring at him wide-eyed. He only gave a small, quiet nod.

“Oh my God, you owe me three margaritas for this,” you exhaled dramatically, and the faint laugh that slipped from his lips told you he was more than willing to agree.

By the time you finally reached his floor after what felt like an exhausting climb, he gave you his room number, and together you made it to the door.

He fished around in the pocket of his pants, pulling out a set of keys, and though his hands trembled slightly, he managed to fit the key into the lock on his first try. That small victory alone made you breathe easier, he was clearly feeling a little steadier than before.

Once inside, you closed the door softly behind you and helped him toward the bed. “Hold this, alright? I’m calling an ambulance,” you said, pressing the ice more firmly against his bruised cheek.

Before you could pull away, his hand suddenly came up to catch yours, holding it in place, and with his other hand he wrapped around your wrist, keeping you from moving.

“You don’t have to. I’m fine,” he murmured, his voice low, rough, and devastatingly seductive in a way that almost made you forget the bruise marring his face.

“But what if you’ve got a concussion? Or something worse—” you began, worry sharpening your tone, but Bob’s grip tightened just enough to silence you, his head shaking faintly as he continued holding the ice himself.

“I don’t. Trust me. I’m fine,” he insisted, and though you weren’t entirely convinced, you could see that arguing would get you nowhere. You let out a breath, shoulders slumping, and sank down onto the edge of the bed beside him.

“Then promise me you’ll get checked out soon,” you said firmly, unwilling to let it go entirely.

“Yes, mom,” he teased with a crooked grin, and you gave him a light shove in response, rolling your eyes at his sarcasm, though the tension in the room finally softened.

For a moment you just sat there, looking at each other. Bob’s vision was still blurred—without his glasses, he could only make out the soft shape of you beside him—but his one uninjured eye lingered on you with a sweetness that made your chest ache. Even unable to see you clearly, he looked at you as though you were the only thing in focus. You returned his gaze, your heart racing under the weight of it.

“You should lie down,” you told him softly, gesturing toward the mattress. Without a word, Bob adjusted himself, leaning back against the headboard instead of lying flat.

“That’s not exactly lying down,” you teased gently.

“I don’t want to lie down,” he replied, and you simply shrugged, accepting his stubbornness. You reached into your bag and pulled out his glasses, holding them out toward him without saying a word.

His entire face lit up as if you had handed him the world. For a moment, he looked like he had been convinced he’d never see clearly again tonight. With a grateful smile, he placed the ice on the bed beside him and slid the glasses back onto his face, the world snapping into focus.

And when his eyes finally landed on you, truly seeing you for the first time since the fight, something inside him seemed to melt. His expression softened so completely it made your breath catch.

“What?” you asked with a playful smile, tilting your head.

Bob shook his head slightly, a laugh escaping with his words. “I just… I can’t believe you’re real,” he breathed, as if the very thought overwhelmed him.

You felt heat rush to your cheeks, and you couldn’t help the soft hum that slipped from your throat. “Well, if I weren’t real, I wouldn’t be able to do this…”

You leaned in, your lips brushing his in the lightest of touches, so fleeting it could have been mistaken for an accident. But the spark that erupted between you was undeniable, a current that surged through your veins as though your hearts had both ignited at once.

The kiss was brief, barely more than a whisper, yet it carried the weight of something infinitely bigger, a fire waiting to spread. For those few seconds, the world seemed to fall away, leaving only the heat of his mouth against yours.

For a moment, you pulled back just slightly, your lips hovering over his as though suspended in time, teasing him with the unbearable anticipation of what might come next.

You let yourself linger there, savoring the intoxicating sight of Bob’s parted lips and the way his hot, uneven breaths fanned across your skin, each exhale trembling with both desire and restraint.

You wanted him to feel the ache of waiting, to drown in the tension, and from the look on his face, he was already there—lost, undone, unable to function under the weight of it.

Finally, you retreated fully, the space between you only a few inches now, and you deliberately dragged your tongue over your lower lip, catching it between your teeth before releasing it slowly.

Your gaze locked onto him with a dangerous sweetness, a silent challenge. Bob, however, had stopped entirely. He wasn’t moving, wasn’t speaking, he was simply staring, frozen like a man who had just forgotten how to breathe. His cheeks burned crimson, and it was painfully obvious that the color had nothing to do with the bruise spreading across his face.

In the corner of your eye, you caught the faint outline of his arousal straining against the denim of his jeans, but you didn’t need to look down to know it was there, you could see it in the way his thighs shifted uncomfortably, in the nervous little adjustment he made to his seat, in the way he cleared his throat but failed to find any words.

His breathing came in shallow waves, shaky yet heavy, each one betraying just how badly he wanted more. His pulse was practically echoing in the air between you, rising faster with every second you held him in your gaze.

And in that suspended silence, you didn’t move, didn’t speak. You simply watched him, soaking in the way he unraveled, waiting to see what he would do.

At last, Bob broke. His voice cracked when he tried to speak, the sound more of a low, bashful growl than words. “M-maybe I need to… confirm it again,” he mumbled, his stutter betraying both his nerves and his desire.

The sound alone sent a shiver racing down your spine. You purred softly in reply, a low, approving sound that only seemed to drive him further to the edge. Tentatively, almost reverently, his hand came up to brush against your throat, his fingers trembling as they curved gently around your neck, guiding you closer, as though he needed permission with every movement. You allowed it, leaning into his touch as he finally pulled you into him again.

This time there was no hesitation, no softness, no fleeting whisper of a kiss. His lips crashed into yours with a hunger that stole the breath from both of you, deep and consuming, carrying with it every ounce of heat he had been holding back.

The kiss was messy, desperate, unrestrained, his mouth moving against yours with a need that was almost painful in its intensity. The sound of it filled the quiet room, a wet, needy pull of lips parting and pressing together again, leaving behind a shameless, audible smack that only made you crave more.

Your fingers tangled in the fabric of his shirt, clutching at it as though to anchor yourself against the dizzying pull of the kiss. Bob’s free hand slid tentatively up your arm, his knuckles brushing your skin as though he was memorizing every inch, until it finally rested against the curve of your waist. He squeezed lightly, testing, and when you didn’t pull away, he pulled you closer until you were nearly straddling his lap.

The air around you was thick, humming with heat, with the unspoken realization that neither of you wanted to stop. Bob let out a shaky groan against your mouth.

He pulled back for just a breath, his forehead resting against yours, his glasses slipping slightly down the bridge of his nose. His lips were swollen, his pupils blown wide, and his voice was almost pleading. “I guess I need more reassurance.”

The words were barely out of his mouth before you nodded fervently, your whole body already leaning forward as though pulled by a magnetic force you couldn’t resist.

This time there was no teasing, no carefully measured pause, you threw yourself at him with raw hunger, your lips crashing against his in a kiss that was hard, wild, and desperate.

Your body moved on instinct, climbing into his lap without waiting for permission, but Bob was already there to meet you halfway. His hand slipped up, curling warmly and firmly around your neck, not squeezing, just holding, grounding you with the sheer intimacy of it.

His other hand gripped your hip, guiding you, pulling you down onto him as though he had been waiting for this moment for years.

The second you settled onto him, you felt his erection, pressing hard against you through the frustrating barrier of clothing, pressing exactly where you needed it most. The contact was electric, a shockwave that made your breath catch in your throat.

You both groaned at the same time, the sound low, raw, and shameless, vibrating through the kiss.

The friction was barely there and already it was driving you mad. Your fingers dug into his shoulders, clutching at him as though he were the only thing keeping you grounded, and he let out a muffled, needy sound against your lips, as though the weight of having you on top of him was almost too much to bear.

You rocked against him once, an instinctive roll of your hips, and the reaction was instant.

Bob’s grip on your waist tightened, his groan breaking into a sharp gasp, and his head fell back against the wall with a thud, exposing his throat to you. The sight of him, flushed and panting beneath you, only pushed you further.

You ground against him again, slower this time, dragging yourself deliberately over the length of his arousal, and the friction sent a rush of pleasure sparking through your core.

The fabric-to-fabric contact was maddening, just enough to feel everything, yet not nearly enough to satisfy.

Bob’s breathing grew uneven, each inhale shaky, each exhale almost a whimper. “God—” he hissed, his voice strangled as though he couldn’t quite handle what you were doing to him.

His hand slid up your back, clutching the fabric of your dress, while the other remained tight on your throat, his thumb brushing up against your jaw as though to remind himself you were real.

You pressed harder, circling your hips against him, and this time his entire body tensed beneath you.

His thighs shifted, pressing up to meet your movements, grinding back against you with a rhythm that matched yours. The friction built between you, every movement hotter, needier, until there was no way to ignore the heat pooling low in your stomach.

Your moans tangled with his, filling the quiet room with the sound of ragged breathing, soft whimpers, and the occasional sharp, breathless curse.

The world outside didn’t exist anymore. There was only the two of you, lost in the rhythm of desperate friction, clothing damp with sweat, and the unbearable hunger that burned hotter with every passing second.

Your forehead finally dropped against his, as though the weight of desire and exhaustion had become too much to hold upright.

The small, trembling contact between your skin and his felt almost as intimate as the frantic grind of your bodies, and suddenly the room seemed smaller, quieter, as though the world had narrowed down to nothing but the ragged breaths that mingled between you.

You breathed him in with every exhale, your lips brushing against his mouth but not quite kissing, teasing the space where his warmth ended and yours began.

His eyes fluttered closed, opening only for fleeting moments, like he was trying desperately to stay present but failing, consumed by the overwhelming heat of it all.

Each time his lashes lowered and his head tilted just slightly, it was as though he surrendered another piece of himself to you, and the sight of him unraveling beneath you sent another rush of need spiraling through your chest.

Bob’s hand tightened suddenly on your hip, his fingers digging into you with almost bruising force as he pressed you down harder against him. For a second he held you like that, desperate, needy, but then, just as quickly, he let go, loosening his grip as though ashamed of losing control, his touch softening until it was barely there. You could feel the hesitation in his fingertips, the way he almost pulled back, almost denied himself the right to want you this much.

But you weren’t about to let him retreat. You moved against him harder, rolling your hips with deliberate pressure, forcing him to feel just how badly you wanted this, and his breath stuttered out of him in a broken moan that made your own pulse quicken.

His forehead pressed harder against yours, his lips brushing yours with every panting inhale, and when you opened your eyes you saw him—completely undone, flushed, trembling, his chest heaving as if even breathing had become a struggle.

“Jesus…” he whispered hoarsely, eyes fluttering shut again, his voice so rough it vibrated against your mouth.

You only hummed in response, low and needy, your own body aching with every grind. The heat between you was unbearable now, your clothes damp where they rubbed together, the friction sending sparks racing through your nerves with every movement.

One of your hands slid up his chest, curling into the fabric of his shirt as you clung to him, but the other drifted downward, brushing the edge of his shirt before finally resting at his waist.

You hesitated only for a heartbeat, feeling the tremble of his body beneath your touch, before slipping lower, tracing the line of his pants as though testing the boundaries of how much you were allowed to take.

Bob shuddered beneath you, his breath catching audibly, and his eyes opened just long enough to meet yours. The look he gave you was helpless, almost pleading, a mixture of hunger and disbelief, like he couldn’t quite fathom that this was really happening. His hand on your hip twitched, tightening again, and this time he didn’t let go.

You leaned in closer, your lips brushing his as you murmured softly, “It’s okay…” and with that reassurance you began to tug at the edge of his clothing, your fingers sliding with agonizing slowness toward the belt of his pants.

The cool metal of the buckle pressing lightly against your skin as you hovered there for just a moment, savoring the way Bob’s entire body tensed beneath you. His breath grew shallow, broken in quick bursts, his chest rising and falling as if each second of hesitation was its own form of exquisite torture.

You looked at him deliberately, letting your gaze lock with his while your fingers toyed with the leather, and you saw how his lips parted slightly, his throat working as he swallowed hard.

His eyes flickered down to your hands, then back up to you, and he looked almost dizzy from anticipation, as though the simple sound of the belt loosening might undo him entirely.

Slowly you tugged at the strap, pulling it free from the loop with a soft hiss of leather. Bob shivered violently at the sound, goosebumps rippling across his arms, his thighs tensing beneath you as if his body couldn’t contain the raw anticipation coursing through him.

His hands twitched where they rested, one still gripping your hip, the other clutching at the sheets, as though he wanted to help, to rush you, but couldn’t bring himself to interrupt the beautiful torture you were putting him through.

You unfastened the buckle with agonizing care, your fingers brushing against the heat of him through the fabric, and Bob let out a strangled groan, biting his lip hard as if trying to keep himself together.

You could see his knuckles whiten where he clutched at the bedsheet, his whole body trembling like a live wire, and when you finally moved to undo the button of his pants, he exhaled so shakily it was almost a whimper.

The zipper came next, and the faint rasp of metal sliding down was the loudest sound in the room.

Bob’s eyes never left your hands; he was transfixed, his gaze following every movement of your fingers like they were the only thing in the world that mattered. His breathing had turned ragged, uneven, and you could practically feel his heart hammering against your chest through the fragile space between you.

When you finally slipped your hand beneath the waistband and brushed against him, even through the thin fabric of his boxers, Bob’s head fell back against the wall with a low, guttural moan, his eyes squeezed shut as if the sensation was almost too much to endure.

His hips shifted upward instinctively, seeking more, but you slowed him down, your palm pressing lightly against him, controlling the pace.

You slid him free from the confines of his pants and boxers with deliberate tenderness, your touch careful and he instinctively lifted his hips to help you, his trembling hands hovering uselessly.

Once he was freed, hard and aching in your hand, Bob let out a shuddering breath that sounded almost like relief, his whole body sagging with the release of tension he’d been holding.

Your fingers curled lightly around him, not tight, not fast, just enough to tease, to make him writhe.

His entire body reacted—his shoulders arched back, his grip on your hip tightened desperately, and his thighs flexed beneath you as though he couldn’t decide whether to push into your hand or try to hold himself still.

The faintest whimper escaped his throat, broken and needy, and when you moved your hand just slightly, stroking him with a slow, deliberate glide, his lips parted around a gasp so raw it sent heat surging straight through your chest.

“F-fuck…” Bob breathed, his voice cracking, and his eyes fluttered open for only a moment, glassy and overwhelmed, before sliding shut again as though surrendering to the sheer bliss of your touch.

Every nerve in his body seemed alive beneath your fingers, goosebumps racing down his arms and chest, his whole frame trembling as though you had stripped him bare in every possible way.

Your hand began to move with more purpose now, fingers curling tightly around his hard length, stroking him in a rhythm that was slow but firm, dragging every nerve-ending to life.

You bit your lip instinctively, trying to hold back the sound that rose in your throat at the sheer feeling of him pulsing in your hand, hot and heavy and so achingly alive beneath your touch.

The sight of him—his flushed cheeks, his lips parted around desperate little breaths, the way his lashes fluttered as he tried to keep his eyes open just to watch you—made your whole body throb with answering desire.

Your panties were already soaked, clinging to you with every tiny shift of your hips on his lap, and the friction only made you shiver harder, heat pooling deep in your core as if his pleasure alone was fueling your own.

Bob’s reactions were uncontrollable. Every time your wrist twisted just slightly, his hips jolted upward helplessly, chasing more, and a strangled groan would tear from his throat, deep and shaky.

His hand gripped your hip like an anchor, his thumb pressing hard into your skin as though he needed to remind himself that you were real, that this was happening. And then, just as quickly, he would loosen his hold, almost shy, almost guilty, as if afraid of overstepping even while his body betrayed him, trembling and arching into every movement you gave him.

His breathing was ragged, broken, and each exhale hit your cheek in short, hot bursts as you leaned closer, your forehead pressing gently against his. That closeness made it impossible to ignore how hard your own body was reacting, the subtle rocking of your hips against him, the way you instinctively pressed down, seeking friction, grinding just faintly with each stroke of your hand.

The more you moved your hand, the more undone he became. His thighs tensed under you, muscles flexing, his toes curling against the bed as if he was trying to ground himself, but then your thumb brushed lightly over his tip and his whole body shuddered violently, a deep, guttural moan escaping before he could bite it back.

The sound made you whimper softly in return, your own arousal spiking so fiercely that your walls clenched around nothing.

You could see the conflict in his face, his brows drawn tight as though he was fighting to keep control, his lips trembling with every breath, but his body… his body was already yours, surrendering to every glide of your fingers.

He opened his eyes just long enough to look at you, his gaze dark and glassy, and the way his pupils blew wide made your stomach twist in heat.

His whispered voice finally broke through, cracked and needy: “D-don’t stop… please don’t stop…”

Each drag of your fingers making him jolt harder beneath you. His chest rose and fell in frantic waves, his shirt clinging to his skin with sweat, every muscle in his body drawn tight as though he was holding onto a thread.

“God… I—I’m so close…” he stammered, his voice a ragged growl mixed with a plea, his hips bucking up into your hand. You could feel the tremors racing through him, the way his cock twitched violently in your grip, the way his thighs quivered under the weight of the pleasure about to consume him.

His head tipped back, his mouth open in a silent cry, his face flushed a deep crimson.

And just when you felt him reaching that edge, ready to spill, you stopped.

You loosened your hand and pulled away, biting your lip as you whispered against his ear, your voice dripping with wicked intent:

“No, Bob… I don’t want you to finish like this. I want you to come inside me.”

The words broke him. His entire body froze, as if time itself had stopped.

Then his head dropped forward, his forehead pressing hard against your shoulder, a strangled sound escaping his throat that was somewhere between a groan and a whimper.

He was trembling, every inch of him slick with sweat, his chest heaving as though he couldn’t get enough air into his lungs.

He looked at you with wide, dark eyes, glassy with need, his lips parted but no words coming out.

You were wet beyond reason, your panties clinging to you, the ache between your thighs screaming for release.

And before you could say another word, Bob snapped.

He surged forward, his lips crushing against yours in a kiss that was frantic, almost desperate, his hands fumbling clumsily at your waist as if he needed more of you, all of you, right now. The sudden intensity made you gasp into his mouth, surprised, but your body melted instantly against him, every nerve crying out in agreement.

One of his hands slid up along your side, trembling as he reached your shoulder strap, his fingers hesitating there, holding, waiting. His eyes darted up to yours, searching, silently asking a question he couldn’t voice. You knew exactly what he was asking—may I?

Your lips parted, your breathing uneven, and you gave him the smallest, trembling nod. That was all he needed.

His hands began to peel your dress down carefully, as if unwrapping something sacred. His knuckles brushed over your skin, sending sparks racing across your body, goosebumps rising in waves even as your own heat flared hotter.

Every inch he revealed, every sigh that slipped from your lips, made his chest shudder, made his eyes grow darker with hunger.

You could feel his cock still hard and throbbing beneath you, pressed tight against your soaked panties, reminding you both exactly what you had just promised him.

You shivered as cool air caressed your newly exposed skin. He moved slowly, his eyes locked onto yours as though he needed your permission with every inch he revealed. When the fabric finally slid down your body and pooled at your waist before you pushed it fully away, his lips parted and for a moment Bob simply stared at you like he had never seen anything more beautiful in his life.

“God… you’re beautiful,” he murmured, like gravel dragged over velvet.

His mouth descended again, this time not for your lips but for the delicate skin of your collarbone. He kissed there slowly, reverently, trailing further down to the swell of your chest, each touch soft but so passionate you felt your knees weaken even while seated.

Goosebumps rippled across your skin with every press of his lips, every drag of his breath, until you were trembling in his arms, whispering his name like a prayer.

Your fingers moved then, tugging at the edges of his uniform shirt. You pushed it off his shoulders, and Bob immediately helped, yanking it down his arms and tossing it aside with surprising urgency.

Next came his undershirt, thin and damp with sweat. When you pulled it over his head, your breath hitched, your eyes widening as his body was laid bare before you.

His chest was strong and broad, his muscles tense but perfectly defined, a canvas of strength that left you momentarily speechless. You let your hands trail across his chest, your fingertips grazing over every contour, every dip, feeling the heat radiating from him. Bob flushed red, his eyes darting away for a brief second before returning to you with a hunger that swallowed his shyness whole.

He kissed you again, deeper this time, with a fire that melted every trace of hesitation.

His hands slid along your waist, pulling you tighter against him, and you felt his erection pressing hard against you. The kiss turned messy, tongues tangling as you let instinct take over. And then, without a second thought, you shifted, straddling him completely.

The second your weight settled on him, you both gasped in unison, the contact electric. His hardness pressed directly against your soaked panties, grinding against the place where you ached the most. The friction made you moan into his mouth, your body already betraying you with how desperately it wanted more.

You leaned forward, pressing your forehead to his, your lips brushing against his as you whispered, “I can’t wait anymore, Bob.”

Bob, with a strangled groan, moved—urgent, desperate, but still gentle in the way only Bob could be.

His trembling hands slid down your body, gripping at the edge of your panties. You barely had time to register the motion before, with a swift tug, he pulled them down your thighs and tossed them aside carelessly, as if they were the last obstacle between him and salvation.

The sudden exposure made you gasp, the cool air kissing your soaked skin, Bob's gaze dropping down, his lips parting in awe. You could see the way his throat bobbed as he swallowed hard.

You reached down with shaking hands, wrapping your fingers around his aching length again, guiding him as you shifted your hips forward. Bob let out a broken moan, his eyes fluttered shut, his lips forming your name in a breathless whisper.

Slowly you lowered yourself onto him. The stretch was intense, almost too much at first, but it was exactly what you had been craving—what both of you had been craving all night.

Every inch filled you more completely, more perfectly than you could have imagined, until you were seated fully in his lap, your bodies locked together in a way that left no space, no distance.

You gasped at the fullness, your nails digging into his shoulders, while Bob groaned so deeply it vibrated through his chest into yours.

“Jesus… you feel… so good,” he rasped, his voice hoarse and broken, his hands clutching desperately at your hips.

For a moment, neither of you moved, both overwhelmed by the sheer intensity of finally being joined.

But then, instinctively, your hips rolled, a slow grind that made both of you shudder violently. His grip tightened, but then he gave in completely, guiding you, urging you, letting you set the pace.

And the rodeo began—your bodies moving in a raw, hungry rhythm, your moans mingling with his, the bed creaking beneath you as passion overtook everything else. Each thrust, each grind, each cry pulled you both higher, until nothing else in the world existed except this perfect connection between you and Bob.

Your hips swayed in tentative circles, the pressure and stretch sending jolts of pleasure coursing through your body. Bob’s head leaned forward until his forehead pressed against your collarbone, his lips brushing along your skin, whispering fragments of your name between ragged breaths. His hands gripped your waist as if afraid you might slip away.

But the longer you stayed joined, the more the restraint crumbled.

Your rhythm grew bolder, the grind of your hips deeper, and soon Bob was meeting you halfway, thrusting up into you with a desperation that pulled broken cries from both your throats.

Each snap of his hips forced you to clutch at his shoulders, your nails digging crescents into his skin while his groans grew louder.

“God—please—” Bob gasped, his voice so hoarse it nearly cracked. His chest was damp with sweat, every muscle in his body straining, his entire being consumed by the feeling of you wrapped around him so perfectly.

Your own body betrayed you just as much, your moans growing higher, your thighs shaking from the intensity, your wetness coating him with every wild grind. You could feel your climax building, coiling tighter with every thrust, every desperate movement, until it was almost unbearable.

Bob noticed; you could see it in the way his ocean eyes, now half-lidded and wild, locked on you as though he could feel every twitch of your body from the inside.

He groaned, his voice breaking as he buried his face against your neck, his teeth grazing your skin. “I’m so close… but I don’t want this to end,” he murmured, his words muffled but soaked in desperation, in need, in love and lust all tangled together. That single confession pushed you over the edge.

With a strangled cry, you clutched his hair and ground down hard, the wave crashing through you with blinding intensity. Your walls clenched around him in pulsing spasms, dragging him with you.

Bob’s eyes slammed shut, his entire body jerking violently as he lost control, groaning your name like a prayer as he spilled deep inside you. His hands clawed at your hips, holding you in place as if he needed to be as far inside you as humanly possible, riding the wave of his release with a desperation that left him shaking.

The two of you clung to each other through it, trembling, sweaty, your breaths mingling in uneven gasps and moans until finally the storm passed.

You collapsed against his chest, your body still shivering with aftershocks, while Bob wrapped his arms around you, holding you so tightly it almost hurt, as though you were the only thing keeping him tethered to earth.

For a long moment, there was nothing but the sound of your heartbeats thundering together, the heat of your bodies pressed so close.

Bob kissed your temple softly, still breathless, still trembling, and whispered against your skin, “Guess you are real.”

A sleepy smile tugged at your lips as you remained curled against his chest, listening to the rapid yet slowly calming rhythm of his heartbeat.

All that existed in this moment was the cocoon of warmth, the way his arms held you so tightly, and the comforting peace that slowly pulled you under.

At some point, with heavy eyelids and clumsy movements, Bob reached up to remove his glasses. He set them carefully on the nightstand, right beside the glass of water, as though even in his half-asleep haze he refused to risk them falling or breaking. Then he pulled you even closer, burying his face in your hair before letting himself drift off.

The night slipped away quickly, and morning crept in almost unnoticed.

Bob stirred first—not because he wanted to, but because his body was conditioned to wake early from years of morning flights.

He blinked groggily, rubbing his eyes, and then instinctively reached for his glasses. Only when the familiar weight settled on his nose and the world sharpened into focus did he allow himself a small, contented sigh.

He turned his head to look at you. You were still curled against him, your cheek pressed into his shoulder, breathing deep and even. A quiet smile softened his tired features.

For a moment, he just stayed like that, drinking in the sight of you, his chest tightening at how peaceful and achingly beautiful you looked.

Then, carefully, he leaned down and pressed a tender kiss against your forehead.

You responded only with a sleepy little murmur, your lips parting slightly as you instinctively pulled the blanket higher to your chin, tucking yourself deeper into the warmth.

Bob chuckled softly under his breath, the sound low and affectionate, and let you stay lost in your dreams a little longer.

He sat up on the edge of the bed, elbows resting on his knees, stretching his shoulders until they popped, then reached again for the bottle of water.

But just as the quiet wrapped itself around the room, soft and still, your purse on the chair gave a sudden, sharp buzz.

Bob glanced at your purse, then back at you. You were still asleep, face half-buried in the pillow, lips parted slightly, the blanket curled up around you like a shield.

He smiled, deciding it wasn’t worth disturbing such a peaceful sight.

He slipped out of bed as carefully as he could, moving slowly, inch by inch, so the mattress wouldn’t shift and wake you. His glasses slid a little down the bridge of his nose as he bent to grab his shirt from the floor, and he pushed them back up absently while padding barefoot toward the small kitchen.

He had already made up his mind—he’d surprise you with coffee, maybe even breakfast, the kind of simple gesture that felt strangely monumental after last night.

But then the buzzing came again.

And again.

And again.

The sound rattled against the silence, insistent, like it demanded attention. Bob stopped in the doorway, his jaw tightening. He wasn’t the type to intrude, wasn’t the type to pry. Respecting boundaries was second nature to him.

Yet as the notifications kept vibrating in quick succession, he frowned, his chest tightening with unease. Whoever it was, they clearly weren’t going to stop.

Finally, almost against his own principles, he sighed and stepped back to the chair. He hesitated, his hand hovering over of your purse for a long moment, before pulling it open carefully and retrieving the phone. The screen lit up instantly, the flood of messages impossible to ignore.

He saw the name Beck. He figured out she was just your friend, but then his eyes moved lower, scanning line after line, each one striking harder than the last.

Beck🐷: good morning, babe

Beck🐷: I’m guessing you had fun last night

Beck🐷: you’re welcome ;)

Beck🐷: anyway, you won the bet, the video’s deleted

Beck🐷: hope the sex was worth it

For a moment, Bob just stood there frozen, the phone heavy in his hand. His heart plummeted straight through his chest, a sharp ache ripping into his ribs as if the air itself had turned hostile.

His vision blurred slightly, but because everything inside him recoiled at once.

He swallowed hard, his throat dry, his pulse hammering against his temples.

The warmth from earlier—the quiet intimacy, the soft kiss on your forehead, the sense that maybe, just maybe, he could let himself fall—shattered in a second.

Bob carried your phone with him when he left the bedroom, setting it down carefully on the small dining table, as though the device itself had turned into something poisonous.

He moved into the kitchenette, his hands trembling so violently that when he reached for a mug from the cupboard, porcelain clinked against porcelain. His breath was uneven, chest rising and falling too fast for something as simple as making coffee.

Was it all fake? Every laugh, every kiss, every word? His mind spun in circles, the echo of last night now tainted, painted over with doubt and dread.

He pressed a hand to his forehead, glasses sliding slightly down his nose, and squeezed his eyes shut, fighting the nausea that came not only from his thoughts but from his body itself. His stomach churned. His legs felt weak.

Then he heard a faint creak of the floorboards. Bob’s head snapped up immediately, his whole body tightening at the sound, and there you were.

Still drowsy, hair a little messy, eyes half-closed as you stretched and yawned your way into the room. You

wore one of his t-shirts, loose on you, hanging past your thighs, and the sight, under any other circumstances, would have melted him. But now it only twisted the knife deeper.

“Good morning,” you murmured with a sleepy smile, padding toward him, rubbing your eyes. “You’re up early.”

He didn’t answer. His expression stopped you in your tracks before you could reach for him. His eyes were shadowed, his lips pressed into a thin line.

“Bob?” your voice was softer now, cautious. “What’s going on?”

He hesitated. His throat bobbed as he swallowed, staring down at the counter as though the words might arrange themselves for him. His knuckles whitened around the edge of the mug he still held.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, he set it down, his movements slow, deliberate, and lifted his gaze to yours.

“Tell me,” he began, his voice low, strained, almost breaking. “Last night… was it real?”

Your brows furrowed, confusion flashing across your face. “What do you mean?”

Bob’s jaw clenched, the muscles ticking as he forced the words out. “Don’t do that. Don’t pretend you don’t know what I’m talking about.” He gestured stiffly toward the table, where your phone lay.

Heart pounding, you walked over, the unease growing heavier with each step. The screen lit up with the unread notifications as soon as you touched it. And then you saw Beck's messages.

Your eyes widened, breath caught in your throat. For a long second, you just stared at the words, your pulse crashing in your ears. Then slowly, you lifted your gaze back to Bob. His face was pale, lips tight, eyes red around the edges like he’d been holding back too much all at once.

“Bob, no— it’s not what you think,” you blurted out immediately.

He let out a sharp, humorless laugh, his voice breaking. “Not what I think? Really? Because what I think is that I was just a bet. That everything you said, everything you did last night—” his voice cracked, his anger splintering into something rawer, something that cut even deeper. “—was just a game to you.”

“Bob, please—”

“No.” He shook his head, cutting you off, his hand coming up like a wall between you. “Don’t. Don’t try to spin it. You don’t know what that did to me—what you did to me. I—” He broke off, dragging both hands through his hair, glasses sliding crooked down his nose. His breath came fast, shoulders tense, his whole body taut with hurt.

“I thought you were different.”

Your chest tightened, tears already pricking at the corners of your eyes. You stepped closer, your voice trembling but insistent. “Listen, yeah, at first, it was a stupid bet. I’m not going to lie about that. But the second I started talking to you, I completely forgot about I didn’t sleep with you because of some dare, Bob—I slept with you because I wanted you.”

He turned his head sharply, jaw tight, but he didn’t interrupt this time. His silence felt like a test.

“I’m not that kind of girl,” you went on, voice shaking, but steadier with each word. “I don’t sleep with men on the first night just for fun. Do you think I would have stayed? Do you think I would have looked at you the way I did if it was just some joke? Everything I felt with you last night was real, Bob. All of it.”

For a long, heavy moment, Bob just stared at you, his chest rising and falling as if he’d been holding his breath this entire time. His eyes glistened behind his glasses, torn between disbelief and the desperate hope that you might actually be telling the truth.

When he finally spoke, his voice was rough, low. “You… you mean that?”

You nodded quickly, stepping closer until your fingers brushed against his trembling hand. “Every word. You have no idea how much.”

Bob exhaled shakily, as though the air itself had been stolen from his lungs.

He let his hand slip into yours, still hesitant, but when he felt the way you held on, how tightly you clung to him, something in his chest broke open.

Slowly, he pulled you against him, burying his face into your hair, inhaling deeply as though grounding himself in your scent.

“I want to believe it,” he whispered, voice cracked and unsteady. “I want to believe you so badly.”

“You can,” you whispered back, your arms sliding around his waist, pressing yourself against him as though you could anchor him there, away from the storm in his mind. “You can.”

Bob leaned back just enough to look at you, searching your eyes for any sign of deceit. Finding none, he let out a small, broken laugh, his thumb brushing across your cheek. “I don’t know what to do with you,” he murmured, half exasperated, half overcome.

“Just…” you whispered, leaning into his touch, “…believe me.”

And finally, Bob did. He kissed you then, not desperate like last night, but soft and slow, like a man who had been lost and suddenly found his way back.

His hands framed your face tenderly, almost reverently, and though his heart was still aching, it began to steady, the pieces stitching back together one by one as he held you.

Still holding you close, Bob let out a long breath, his forehead resting against yours. His heartbeat was finally slowing, syncing with the steady rise and fall of your chest.

Then, in a voice quieter, softer, almost shy, he murmured against your temple, “You look… really good in my shirt.”

You laughed softly, the tension in your chest finally loosening, and leaned back just enough to look at him.

“Oh yeah? Well, you don’t look too bad yourself,” you teased, brushing your hand across his jaw where the stubble had begun to grow in. “Think I might keep this shirt.”

His lips twitched into the faintest smirk. “You can keep it,” he said, his thumb tracing lazy circles on your waist, “but on one condition.”

You raised a brow suspiciously. “Condition?”

“Mm-hm.” He tilted his head, studying you with that mixture of earnestness and mischief that only Bob could pull off. “I want to see that video.”

Your whole body stiffened, and you pulled back instantly, eyes wide. “What? No. Absolutely not!”

Bob chuckled at your sudden panic, holding you in place when you tried to wriggle out of his arms. “C’mon, what’s the big deal? Just let me see it.”

You shook your head furiously, hiding your face against his chest. “No way. Not happening.”

“Mm,” he leaned down to pepper a quick kiss on your cheek, then another on your jaw. “You’re hiding something. That makes me want to see it even more.”

“Bob!” you groaned, swatting at his chest, though your lips were already twitching with a reluctant smile.

He only laughed, pulling you closer, his voice warm and playful now. “Fine, fine. I’ll stop. For now. But don’t think I’m letting this go forever.”

You finally looked up at him, rolling your eyes but unable to fight the smile that spread across your face. “You’re annoying.”

“But you like it,” he replied without hesitation, kissing the tip of your nose before wrapping you in his arms again.

This time, when you melted into him, it was with a sense of ease, of trust, of something fragile but real. And as you stood there in his shirt, tangled in his embrace, you knew that whatever had started as a game had turned into something neither of you could ever walk away from.

THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR READING!

I hope you guys enjoyed it! If you have any suggestions, don’t hesitate to let me know! I’d also be super happy for any feedback; whether it’s a reblog, comment, like, or even a follow.

HAVE A LOVELY DAY!