#lewis pullman×reader

- Bob floyd

⁠✿ Summary:

Step 1: Bring a boyfriend. Step 2: Signal you're taken. Step 3: Sad excuse of a boyfriend gives up before the night even starts. Step 4: The dangerously attractive replacement steps in, steals the show, and ruins you so deliciously you're not sure what just happened. ⁠✿ Warnings: The dagger squad as your neighbours (yes it's a warning), you're a cop, very sad excuse of a love life, obsession, heartbreak hours, very depictive description of a relationship with an avoidant attachment person (experienced fml), Bob Floyd will fuck the sad outta you and he's been waiting for it for two years, overall it's fluffy enough.

A/n: I'm bacc. #My way of coping with heartbreak irl. P.s I'm gonna have to split it into two parts cz it got too long. Love ya

The cruiser coughs twice before dying, the tired kind of death you understand. When you step out, dawn's barely made up its mind yet, thin, sour light spilling over the street like lukewarm tea. Your front tire sags flat, completely gone. You stare at it. Then yawn so wide your jaw clicks.

"Cool," you mutter, voice gravelly. "Love that for me."

You flip the tire off like it's been giving side-eye to your life choices for years, rub a hand down your face, and start the death march up the driveway. Your boots thud like you're wearing bricks. Each step sounds like regret.

The air's got that wet shimmer, dew clinging to the grass, road lamps still glowing weakly like they haven't gotten the memo that morning's here.

The left side of the garden, their side, is pristine, freshly trimmed, perfect lines--Bradley's doing.

The right side, your side, looks fine except for one square of overgrown grass left untouched. Out of pure spite. Rooster's signature move.

"Petty bastard," you say under your breath, half amused, half homicidal.

You yawn again, tears stinging your eyes.

Your body's vibrating with that post-shift exhaustion where everything feels like it's underwater. Your holster digs into your hip.

Your hair smells faintly of adrenaline and bad coffee.

You nearly trip over your own boots-- again.

Maybe third time tonight? Fourth? There was the drunk guy who tried to propose in the holding cell, the street fight over a stolen sandwich, and the woman who swore her cat was running a drug ring.

Normal night.

Finally, you give up. Just stop in the middle of the driveway, sigh like you're releasing a demon, and sit down right there on the cold concrete.

It's quiet. The good kind of quiet, filled with birds you're too tired to hate.

You tug off your boots-- heavy, black stained with city dust-- and set them aside.

Your socks immediately soak through from the dew, but you're beyond caring.

Your toes wiggle. Freedom. Death.

Same thing.

The Daggers. Awake. At six in the morning.

Two doors ahead: yours, locked. And theirs, of course, slightly open, light spilling out, music faintly humming through.

Because why not ruin peace wherever they go?

You stare at your door key buried somewhere in your pocket. Then at their open door.

The open one wins.

And you drag yourself forward, socked feet squishing through the wet porch boards, straight toward the sound of chaos.

"Morning, degenerat--" you push their door open, barely getting the words out before a blond puppy launches at your knees.

You gasp, half-tripping, half-flailing, and end up in a half-push-up on the hardwood floor while the puppy wriggles on your back, tail thumping wildly, a stolen sock hanging from its mouth.

"God, I hate all of you," you mumble into the floor.

"Hey! Look who decided to crawl home!"

Coyote swoops in, snatching the sock from the dog's mouth before it can shred it completely. "You okay, sunshine? Or are we filing a workman's comp?"

"Only if it covers emotional damage from you idiots."

The living room looks like a military-themed zoo. Hangman's yelling the lyrics to BEGGIN' while buttoning his khaki uniform shirt--wrongly, somehow. Fanboy's still looking for his other boot, tripping over a duffel bag every three seconds. Coyote's grinning, polished, and way too pleased with himself for being dressed.

"Morning, Officer Doom," Hangman calls, toothpaste foam still at the corner of his mouth. "Sleep well, or did crime keep you company?"

You don't even look at him, resting your eyes right there on the floor. Deadpan, voice hoarse, "One more word and I'll start handing out noise citations."

Hangman beams. "At six in the morning? Abuse of power, sweetheart!"

"Public disturbance, aggravated stupidity," you mutter.

"Promises, promises."

On the couch, Rooster's asleep with a dog toy on his chest, head tilted back, snoring like he's been tranquilized. Phoenix strolls out of the kitchen, two mugs of coffee in hand, her voice lazy and teasing. "Why is there a cop on our floor again?"

"She's part of the decor now," Coyote says.

"Adds a rustic, exhausted charm."

"You mean you're part of the decor," you mumble, almost dozing off.

Coyote glances at you. "We were taking bets on when you'd get home. I said six-thirty. I win."

"You win a punch to the throat," you say, finally getting upright. The puppy (Socks, apparently) is still dangling from your shirt, paws on your shoulder, tail thumping your neck.

Bob's in his corner of the couch, the picture of serenity, newspaper open in one hand, a steaming mug in the other. It's deeply unfair how composed he looks at this hour. Like chaos refuses to touch him.

You squint at him. "Where'd you get that? 1970?"

He looks up over the rim of his glasses. "Some of us like to be informed."

"Some of us like to live," you shoot back, scooping up the puppy before it can attack you again. It licks your chin, full of sinful enthusiasm.

Phoenix hands one mug to Rooster, who snores louder, then shrugs and keeps both. "You look like you got hit by a bus."

You yawn. "Thank you, I was going for that."

Bob sets down his newspaper and quietly holds out his own mug toward you. "Here."

You blink, tilt your head. "That's yours."

"I know."

You stare at him a second longer, eyes squinting through exhaustion, before trudging toward the couch, puppy tucked under one arm like an infant. You sink down beside him, the kind of collapse that makes the cushions sigh too, and take the mug.

The first sip hits your soul. You exhale dramatically, one hand pressed to your chest. "Bob Floyd, you are an angel among men."

He hides a smile behind the newspaper. "You say that every time I give you coffee."

"Because it's true every time," you sigh dreamily, slumping deeper into the couch. "If you ever leave me, I'm calling the police."

"You are the police," he reminds you.

You lift a finger without opening your eyes.

"Fuck my life then."

You've been permanently stationed at Top Gun for a few months now, which sounded glamorous until you realized "permanent" meant you'd all turned into a weird, semi-domestic military sitcom.

The shifts are split to keep the base covered-- Bob, Phoenix, Payback, and Rooster have the evening one today, while Hangman, Coyote, and Fanboy are on the morning grind.

Which means now, at six in the morning, chaos has clocked in early.

When they first moved in, you honestly thought it was a sting operation. Too many duffel bags, too many buzz cuts, too much yelling before 9 a.m. The kind of organized chaos that screamed "federal trouble."

You'd just come off a double shift-- badge still clipped to your hip, radio crackling with dispatch chatter-- when the new neighbors' moving truck screeched into the cul-de-sac like it was landing on a carrier deck.

Then came the noise.

"Watch the wingtip, dumbass!" someone yelled.

"You're not in the air, Hangman!" another shot back.

And there you were, standing on your driveway, clutching a mug of coffee gone cold, wondering if you should flash your badge or just move to another city.

Hangman was the first to spot you: tall, golden retriever energy with a smirk that said he'd gotten out of more speeding tickets than you'd ever written.

Behind him came Phoenix, balancing three boxes and calling him "Captain Ego."

Coyote was arguing with Fanboy over who forgot to bring the toolkit, while Payback just looked like he was questioning his life choices.

And Bob-- sweet, unassuming Bob-- was the only one who waved, like a human apology. "Morning, ma'am," he said, polite as if you didn't have a hand on your Taser out of habit.

"Morning," you replied, eyes narrowing at the side of their truck, which was emblazoned with a decal that said,

TOP GUN: UNITED STATES NAVY.

Well. That explained the yelling.

The first week was a write-off.

Your cruiser mysteriously ended up parked between two of their bikes one night (you swore you didn't do it), and Fanboy accidentally set off your porch light's motion sensor at 2 a.m. trying to chase a raccoon "for science." You threatened to ticket them all for "excessive enthusiasm." Hangman called you "Officer Buzzkill."

Bob brought you cookies the next day to smooth things over. "They mean well," he said quietly. "Just... don't encourage them."

You didn't listen.

By the end of the first month, you were drinking your morning coffee on their porch while Phoenix gave you unsolicited dating advice and Coyote tried to teach you Navy slang you'd immediately forget. They'd call you Badge Bunny (you hated it, but secretly laughed), and you'd call them airheads with pensions.

You started visiting their "hangout" house after shifts-- half because you liked the company, half because Bob made decent coffee. There was always something going on: Hangman shirtless and smug, Rooster's record player humming in the corner, Phoenix shouting from the kitchen, Bob quietly repairing whatever they'd broken.

Your friendship grew the way trouble does--loudly, inconveniently, and all at once.

Hangman once got pulled over by you for speeding, and you wrote him a fake ticket that said

'for crimes against volume control.'

He framed it.

They started showing up at your precinct's charity events. You started showing up at their flight drills, pretending it was for "community liaison work."

Two years later, you've turned into something between siblings and partners in crime. They tease you for your cop lingo; you tease them for "playing with expensive toys."

You trade shifts and favors, cover each other's bad days, and sometimes-- when you're too tired to walk home, which is right next door-- Bob quietly hands you a mug and lets you nap on their couch.

Now it's impossible to tell where one life ends and the other begins.

Your cruiser's parked beside their trucks, the puppy splits its time between both houses, and you swear half your paycheck goes into restocking their coffee beans.

They're Navy pilots and you're a cop--different uniforms, same brand of stupid courage.

And somehow, against all logic, you fit.

You're slumped on the couch, half-conscious, clutching Bob's mug like it's the last holy relic left on Earth, when the soundtrack of your doom starts blaring again.

Hangman's shouting the chorus of BEGGIN' directly into existence, all energy, all ego.

He stops only long enough to snatch his aviators off the coffee table, leans way over your side of the couch, and yells the next line an inch from your ear.

You flinch like he's detonated next to you.

"WHY are you like this," you groan, eyes still shut.

He just grins, sliding the shades on with the practiced grace of a man who thinks sunglasses make him bulletproof. "It's called morale, sweetheart. Try it sometime."

You lift the cushion next to you, the cushion. The one no one talks about. Strategically flipped for months to hide the duct-taped crater underneath.

The official story? "It came like that."

The truth? Hangman's crash landing during "movie night: popcorn disaster edition."

You hurl it at him with sluggish rage. "Take your morale and shove it."

He catches it midair, laughs. "Still got that aim, huh? Guess the precinct's keeping you sharp."

Before you can reply, a sharp beep-beep-beep comes from the kitchen.

Coyote's standing by the microwave, frowning at its blinking display, which is flashing what looks like Morse code for "HELP."

He mutters, "Why does this thing keep doing that?"

"Because Mickeys' a menace," you mumble from the couch.

Fanboy, from under the dining table, calls out, "It's not broken-- it's communicating!"

"With who?" Phoenix asks from her perch near the counter, sipping her coffee like she's watching a live-action sitcom.

"The future," Fanboy says, straight-faced.

"You short-circuited the house last week trying to install 'smart lights," Phoenix reminds him.

He waves a hand. "Minor casualties in the pursuit of innovation."

You groan into Bob's mug. "You nearly fried the toaster, Einstein."

Fanboy grins. "It's fine now."

Coyote opens the microwave door; it immediately shuts itself with a loud clunk.

He stares. "Yeah. Totally fine."

Meanwhile, Hangman's still strutting around, doing vocal warm-ups like he's got a stadium waiting for him. Rooster's snoring on the far couch, one arm dangling off the side, while the puppy gnaws on his pjs. Payback's leaning in the doorway, eyes barely open, halfway through a bowl of cereal, watching all of it unfold like a man who's accepted his fate.

Every Friday morning is like this, a full-scale military operation to locate missing essentials. Wallets, keys, ID badges, dignity. And the culprit is always the same.

Fanboy's hoodie pocket.

The guy's like a black hole for other people's property.

Coyote's halfway under the couch when he yells, "If anyone sees my retainers, they're probably with Fanboy's lunchbox and Hangman's ego!"

"Check his hoodie," Phoenix says without looking up.

Fanboy freezes mid-sip of orange juice. "...I can explain."

Hangman, now holding his keys victoriously above his head, points dramatically at you. "See? Persistence pays!"

"Persistence should pay your next noise violation," you say flatly.

He laughs, entirely unbothered, and belts out the next line of the song right into your ear again.

Your hand shoots out automatically for another cushion. "I swear to God, if you hit that note, I'm hitting you."

Hangman grins wider. "You wouldn't dare."

"Oh, I'd get a fuckin' medal for it."

From beside you, Bob chuckles quietly over his newspaper, the corner of his mouth lifting just enough to make you forget you're supposed to be mad.

You'd been trying to nap against Bob's thigh, halfway conscious, when the volume hit ungodly levels. Hangman strutted past again, shouting something about discipline and aerodynamics, and Bob just turned his newspaper a page like he'd transcended the noise.

Hangman was now by front door, halfway through barking orders like he ran the Navy himself.

"Mickey, move your ass!" he yelled, slinging his flight bag over his shoulder. "If Mav catches us late again, he's gonna have our hides and Penny's gonna mount mine on the Hard Deck wall!"

"I'm ready!" Fanboy shouted back, still buttoning his uniform wrong, one flap tucked in like a crime. "I just can't find my--"

"Keys?" Coyote said flatly, opening the microwave door. "Found 'em. Again. Next to your Pop-Tart experiment."

The microwave made a noise like it was considering self-destruction.

The house was all clatter and caffeine-- the three of them looking infuriatingly crisp and sharp for six in the morning while the rest of the Daggers looked like post-apocalyptic survivors.

Bob, for one, had his newspaper, his dignity, and the patience of a saint. You had none of those things.

But see here's the funny thing.

Bob Floyd was fucked.

Bob was fucked. The kind of fucked you can see coming from a mile away but still wave at anyway, like "hey there, ruin my life."

Hopelessly, stupidly, spectacularly fucked.

He was fucked from the moment you walked out in that uniform-- hair tied back, sleeves rolled up, eyes sharp but kind in that way that made you want to confess things you hadn't even done.

It wasn't her uniform, though God help him, that didn't make it easier.

You didn't walk like you owned the world; you walked like you knew it would listen if you spoke.

There was a steadiness to you, something quiet and maddeningly sure. It wasn't confidence, not really. It was just you. The kind of presence that didn't demand attention-- it earned it.

And that was the problem. Because Bob noticed.

And once you notice someone like that, you don't ever really stop.

And now, he was trying very, very hard not to combust.

You were draped across the couch like gravity owed you money, cheek pressed against his thigh, one hand lazily fisted in his sweater. Every now and then, you'd twitch in your half-sleep, murmuring something unintelligible, and his pulse would do this embarrassing thing like it was auditioning for a drumline.

Your hair smelled faintly like rain and your shampoo that he got for himself as well, excuse? "u-uh-- hairfall, god look at my hairlin--"

His ears burned so hot he could probably fry an egg on them.

He cleared his throat, pretending to be very invested in the newspaper he wasn't actually reading. You shifted, just slightly, and your fingers brushed against his knee like it was no big deal. He had to swallow twice before he could breathe again.

Then-- sting.

He winced, jerking his hand back. His palm had just been skimming over your hair when something bit into his skin. He blinked down.

Tiny glint. A shard of glass.

Frowning, Bob leaned closer and carefully plucked it out. And then another. And another. What in the actual hell.

His voice was soft, tentative. "Hey, uh... why do you have glass in your hair?"

You didn't even open your eyes. "Bottle. Head."

It was like someone pulled the plug on the room.

Hangman froze in the doorway, halfway through putting on his aviators and out the door. "I'm sorry--what?"

Fanboy's voice cracked. "Like... someone hit you with a bottle?"

"Yup." You yawned, shifting comfortably against Bob's leg, one arm flopping over your eyes. "Bar fight. Friday special."

Coyote blinked. "And you're fine?"

"Eh." You cracked one eye open, smiled lazily. "You should've seen the other guy--he's bottled up about it."

Nobody laughed.

Except you.

A single snort escaped you like a balloon deflating.

Bob blinked down at you. "That was terrible."

"I know," you said, clearly proud.

Phoenix leaned against the couch, staring at you like you were a lost cause. "You got hit in the head, and your takeaway is a pun?"

"She's consistent," Rooster mumbled from the couch, still half-asleep, face buried in a cushion.

Hangman groaned, rubbing his temple. "Unbelievable. We risk our lives flying at Mach speed and you're the one who comes home with head trauma."

You waved him off, still smiling. "Calm down, Lieutenant Barbie. I'm good."

Coyote crouched, inspecting the top of your head like you were a particularly delicate piece of tech. "You sure you don't need stitches?"

"I've had worse dates," you said with a shrug, closing your eyes again.

Fanboy raised a brow. "The boyfriend?"

That earned a sigh. "Yeah," you muttered. "You'd think asking him to the precinct charity thing would be simple, but apparently commitment's harder than calculus."

Hangman grabbed his keys from the table, muttering something about idiots and romance, while Bob quietly plucked another bit of glass free, careful as always.

His touch was steady, gentle-- the kind of touch that made you feel almost safe enough to drift.

And even with the chaos, the yelling, the thudding of boots as the morning shift scrambled out the door, you smiled to yourself-- half from exhaustion, half from the strange, soft warmth of knowing that, in this madhouse, you were home.

The door slammed behind the morning shift and left behind a silence so sudden it felt holy.

Phoenix exhaled, muttering something about tinnitus and bad life choices before padding over to the stereo. "No more AC/DC at dawn," she said, scrolling through playlists with the conviction of someone restoring order to civilization.

The guitar screech faded, replaced by the slow hum of Ray Charles' "Hallelujah I Love you".

The house immediately sighed in relief.

Rooster, who'd been listing sideways on the couch like a collapsing tree, finally tipped over. Phoenix caught him with one hand, slapped his thigh with the other. "Don't you dare drool on the couch again."

He grunted, eyes half-shut. "M'not drooling."

"You were last time," she said, already lowering herself beside him. "There's photographic evidence."

He muttered something that sounded like "libel" before slumping fully against her shoulder, out cold in seconds.

Phoenix stole his mug. No hesitation.

Across the room, Coyote appeared from the kitchen, balancing a couple of plates with the grace of a saint. Toast, eggs, something that could almost pass for breakfast. He nudged your calf gently. "Eat before you pass out."

You stirred, hair a mess, cheek creased from Bob's jeans. A sleepy noise escaped your

Bob had been pretending to read again, though he hadn't turned a page in ten minutes. As you shifted upright, another flash of light caught his eye-- tiny and sharp. He reached without thinking, fingers brushing your temple to pluck out another bit of glass.

You blinked, disoriented, then immediately looked down at his thigh, patting gently. "Did I poke you?"

His ears went pink again. "I'm fine," he said softly.

"Good," you mumbled, voice thick with sleep. "You're too sweet to bleed on."

Coyote set a plate on the coffee table and backed away before you could argue. "Eat. Then sleep. Doctor's orders."

"Got a degree overnight?," you said, rubbing your face.

"I'd offer advice, but let's be honest--you wouldn't listen."

Phoenix took a sip of Rooster's coffee. "He's not wrong."

Before you could muster a response, phoenix scooped up the puppy, and dropped it squarely onto Rooster's lap.

The dog barked once, then launched into full joy mode, tiny paws stomping his chest.

Rooster jolted awake with a startled laugh.

"What the-- Socks! We talked about boundaries!"

"Breakfast time," Phoenix said sweetly.

The puppy ignored all protests, curling up contentedly on his thighs like she'd been the one doing night shifts.

Phoenix was halfway through a sip of coffee when she caught it-- the way you were eating like you'd forgotten what chewing was.

Eyes closed, face tilted toward the sunlight, like toast and quiet were the best therapy session you'd ever had.

"God, you look like you're about to ascend," Phoenix mutters, earning a muffled snort from Coyote.

"Meditating on carbs," Rooster says from where he's barely upright on the couch, the puppy snoring over his stomach.

"I'm ignoring all of you," you murmur, voice thick with sleep. "If I open my eyes, the world starts again."

"That's kind of the point," Coyote says, setting his empty plate on the table.

Phoenix watches you for another beat, then decides to ruin the peace. "So... that charity thing still happening tonight?"

Your fork freezes midair. "Don't. Remind. Me."

Coyote smirks. "Oh, I'll remind you. It's the best part of your tragic life."

"It's not tragic, it's political warfare," you say, slumping in your chair. "The chief's still trying to sell me off to his son like it's the fuckin' eighteen-hundreds or something."

Rooster perks up at that, rubbing his eyes. "That the same old guy who tried to shake your hand with his pinky ring? Thought he was a magician."

"Yeah, that one." You sigh. "He's not the problem, though. The son's actually... fine. He texted me last week, basically begging me to play along because he's already seeing someone. Just doesn't wanna break it to his dad yet."

"So he's using you as a decoy?" Phoenix says, eyebrows raised.

"Mutual cover operation," you correct, stifling a yawn.

Coyote whistles. "You sure you didn't miss your calling in intelligence?"

"Funny." You drop your fork and rub your face. "Anyway, I told him I'd bring someone just so the chief would stop cornering me about it."

Rooster scoffs. "You mean your boyfriend?"

You hesitate. "Yeah. Him."

The air thickens-- and not the comfortable kind.

Phoenix exchanges a look with Coyote. "You actually think he'll show?"

"Hopefully, but it feels like I'm trying to arrange a meeting with Mr. President."

Rooster huffs out a bitter laugh. "Man's dictionary definition of disannointment"

Coyote nods along, mouth full. "Didn't he ghost you for like, a week, because his car battery died?"

"He was dealing with stuff," you mutter, stabbing at your eggs.

Phoenix sighs, leaning back. "You're too nice, you know that? The guy radiates walking red flag energy."

"You've met him once!" you shoot back.

"Once was plenty," Phoenix says. "He gave Bob a nod like he was dismissing a waiter."

Bob freezes mid-bite, catching a stray, eyes darting up like he's just been caught in someone else's fight. "Uh. I mean... he seemed busy."

Rooster barks out a laugh. "Translation: the man's a jerk."

"Okay, shut up," you say, half-laughing, half-defensive. "He's not perfect, but he's--he's trying. And I slammed him for that Bobby, don't worry."

Phoenix gives you a long, skeptical look but doesn't push. "So, your prince charming knows he's got to play date duty for the charity event?"

"Yeah, I texted him about it this morning," you say, voice trailing off-- then your eyes fly open. "Shit."

Coyote blinks. "What?"

Your hand shoots into your pocket, fumbling for your phone. "I never texted the chief's son back. He messaged me last night asking what the plan was-- crap, crap, crap--"

Rooster chuckles, eyes barely open. "You've got so many men depending on you, Officer Popular."

You glare at him, typing furiously. "You're hilarious, Bradley. Really."

Phoenix smirks over her mug. "And yet you wonder why you're stressed."

"Because my life's a sitcom with no laugh track," you mutter, still typing.

Bob quietly leans over to pick up another tiny shard of glass from near your plate, like it's the most normal thing in the world.

"Careful," he says softly.

You barely glance up. "Thanks," you murmur, distracted-- and when you finally send the text. You sat back in on the couch, eyes fluttering closed again.

Phoenix looks at you like someone who wants to say told you so but decides to save it for later.

Your fork clicks softly against the plate, the half-hearted kind of eating people do when their mind's somewhere else entirely. You wipe your mouth with the back of your hand, thumb open your phone, and hit call.

Everyone ignores it at first-- the soft buzz of the dial tone swallowed under the sound of Rooster trying to butter burnt toast like it personally offended him.

Coyote's mid-story about how Fanboy's DIY disaster once took out power to an entire block, gesturing with a fork like he's presenting evidence in court. Phoenix hums in disbelief, her leg bouncing against the coffee table.

And through all of it, the phone just rings. And rings.

You press it tighter to your ear, eyes flicking toward the window like you're trying not to care. "He's probably asleep," you say to no one, too casually.

"Or allergic to responsibility," Phoenix mutters.

The call goes to voicemail. You sigh and hit redial.

Bob shifts, the sound of the newspaper rustling faintly. He keeps his gaze down, pretending to read while eating but tracking your every move like his eyes don't get a vote in the matter.

The sound of your voice-- soft, even when you're irritated-- hits something deep in his chest he's been trying to ignore for months.

It rings again. No answer.

Coyote looks up, eyebrows raised. "That the second one?"

"Third," Rooster corrects, grinning like an older brother watching a slow-motion disaster.

You flip him off without looking, your jaw tightening just slightly.

Bob's thumb presses into the corner of the paper, the thin edge bending as if it might snap. You try again. Still nothing.

By the time the fourth goes to voicemail, the room's gone a little too quiet, the kind that hums around you like static. You press the phone face down on the table and push away your plate. "He's probably busy."

Phoenix gives you a look that translates to he's probably trash, but she doesn't say it out loud. Rooster does it for her.

"He's always busy, huh?"

You ignore him, standing and stretching. The hem of your uniform shirt pulls taut as you raise your arms, and Bob-- poor, doomed Bob-- forgets how breathing works.

The sunlight hits you just enough to make the gold in your badge glint, your movements fluid and lazy from exhaustion.

He'd never admit it, not to anyone, but something about you in that pressed uniform-- hair still slightly mussed from sleep, attitude sharper than your cuffs--scrambles his brain like a rookie on his first flight.

Phoenix rolls her eyes as if she can hear his thoughts. "You look like you're about to arrest someone for yawning."

"Occupational hazard," you mumble, voice still half-asleep.

You reach over to grab your mug-- Bob's mug, technically-- take the last sip, and set it back down with a sigh that sounds too soft for how tired you look.

Bob's hand twitches, like he wants to take it back just to keep something that's touched you.

Rooster chuckles, already leaning back into the couch. "You know what? The guy's gonna pick up the second you're too busy to care."

"Yeah," Coyote adds, smirking. "Classic tactical mistake. Should've called before breakfast."

You shoot them both a glare, but there's no real heat in it-- just the weary fondness of someone used to being outnumbered.

Bob finally folds the paper, the edge catching light like a signal. He doesn't say anything-- never does-- but his eyes follow you as you walk past him to rinse your plate, still wearing that damn uniform like it was made to test his patience.

And maybe it was.

You start pacing through the living room with the focus of someone on a mission, except your socks keep sliding on the hardwood, and the mission is apparently nonsense.

"Where's my daughter?" you mumble, half under the coffee table, hair brushing the floor.

Phoenix doesn't look up from her mug. "You're gonna have to be specific. You collect strays."

"My small daughter," you clarify, peering under Rooster's knees as he sleepily clutches a dog toy. "Orange menace. We made eye contact last week. There was love. Mutual."

Bob doesn't even lower his paper this time. "She's on the refrigerator."

You stop mid-step. "Of course she is."

Coyote snorts into his plate. "Again?"

Without another word, you tip your head back and squint at the fridge. Sure enough, an orange puffball sits perched like a smug gargoyle, tail flicking. "I'm not that short," you mutter. "Why does she act like I can't just tip the fridge over to get her?"

Bob sighs, soft but amused, the corners of his mouth curling as he sets the paper aside.

"Because you let her."

He stands, moving like he's done this exact thing a hundred times-- which, statistically, he has-- and reaches up, murmuring something that makes the kitten tilt her head curiously before letting him scoop her up.

He hands the tiny creature over, your fingers brushing, and you immediately melt.

"Hi, love of my life," you coo into the kitten's fur, voice so sweet it practically makes Rooster groan from the couch. "You're the only one who understands me."

"Tragic," Phoenix mutters.

"Jealousy doesn't look good on you," you say airily, pressing a kiss to the kitten's head before straightening. "Bye, bitches. Bye, Bob."

Bob, predictably, gives you a faint smile and a quiet, "Get some sleep."

You point at him. "Angel." Then at the rest. "Demons."

The door clicks shut behind you, and a second later, the sound of another door opening next door drifts through-- the houses so close the echo might as well be inside the same walls.

For a few beats, nobody says anything.

The morning light spills through the blinds, catching dust motes that hang like static in the air.

Rooster exhales. "Feels too quiet when the circus leaves."

Phoenix elbows him. "That's because you're addicted to noise."

"Yeah, but they're good noise," Coyote adds.

Bob doesn't say a word. He just looks at the door, the faintest smile tugging at his lips before he sits back down, pushing aside the paper and picking up his plate-- like he can pretend the room doesn't suddenly feel a size too big.

Across the table, your phone buzzes once and goes still. Forgotten. No one moves to pick it up. It's a routine now. You'll be back in a few hours, knocking with your elbow and saying you "lost your idiot rectangle again."

And when you do, Bob will be the one to hand it to you. He always is.

---

You clear your throat. The kind of dry, brittle sound that makes you wonder if your soul evaporated sometime during the nap.

The sky outside is gold-tinted. Evening. Perfect lighting for a dramatic life choice. You blink out the haze, stare at your phone, and see the message: a lunch reservation. Downtown. Fancy place. From him.

Your heart does the pathetic little hop it always does.

Six years in, and this is what counts as intimacy-him sending you a Google Maps pin. You still zoom down the road like you've been proposed to.

It's ridiculous, really, the way your chest goes warm at something so stupid. Like, the bar is in hell and you're out here digging. But you can't help it. You love him. Or at least, the idea of him. He's avoidant, he said once. Attachment issues. "I'm just bad at texting."

And you'd smiled like a moron and said, "That's okay, I'll wait."

You waited through his ghosting phases, his "I've been busy" weeks, and-your personal favorite-the time he forgot your own birthday. Four times. Out of six.

And yet, here you are, lip gloss on, hair barely brushed, driving like you're in a rom-com montage.

You rehearse the way someone does before calling an ex-soft voice, hopeful eyes, the whole tragic comedy. "Hey, babe," you start, then wince. Too sweet. Desperate, even.

"Hey, babe, so I know you're busy with the interviews and stuff..." You trail off, groaning, thunking your forehead lightly against the steering wheel. "Ugh, cringe. You sound like a fan, not a girlfriend."

You glance at the coffee cup sitting in the holder beside you-Bob's handwriting scrawled on the lid: You'll need this. Don't be late again:) The ":)" somehow makes your chest ache worse.

He'd handed it to you that evening when he came to wake you up-still in his flight suit, fresh haircut, the clean-cut scent of cologne and jet fuel hitting you like a sin. Bob, who says "ma'am" even when you're half-asleep in a t-shirt. Bob, who holds the door open with that quiet, careful patience that makes everyone around him speak softer. Angel is the right word. But unfairly, cruelly, he's also -God help you-so good-looking it feels illegal. Square jaw, soft mouth, forearms doing things to you that you can't admit to anyone. Too bad you're taken.

Taken by a man who calls good morning texts "childish."

You sigh, staring at your own reflection in the rearview mirror. Hair still damp, mascara threatening mutiny. "Hey, my love, I'm sorry, I know I'm such an idiot, but I really need you for this one, okay?" you whisper, practicing, eyes darting between the road and your reflection. Then you pause, make a face. "My love? Who says that? He's gonna think I joined a cult."

You try again, gentler. "I know you're busy, I get it, you're doing so great, I'm proud of you, but could you maybe-ugh." You slump back against the seat, groaning into your hands. "You sound like a human doormat, congratulations."

Your fingers curl around Bob's coffee cup, warm even now. The lid clicks softly when you take a sip, and you mutter, "Should've just asked him. He'd have said yes before I even finished the sentence."

And then, quieter, almost embarrassed: "Too bad he wasn't here 6 years earlie-- no fuck! What am I saying how rude, GOD RELEASE ME--"

The road curves toward the ocean, your radio humming something smug about love. And that's when the universe decides to remind you: no, fuck you.

Because a seagull-out of the seven billion birds that could've minded their business-descends from the sky like a winged middle descends from the sky like a winged middle finger.

It doesn't even hit the car properly. It bounces. Off the windshield. Like it's made of arrogance and feathers.

You scream. The wheel jerks. The coffee you've been clutching like a comfort animal flies straight into the ceiling.

And then, somehow, gravity just... quits cooperating.

Your car tilts, spins, and lands upside down in what you'll later describe to the insurance company as "a dramatic but character-building incident."

The seagull, meanwhile, is fine. You see it in the rearview mirror-yes, while hanging upside down -strutting on the roadside like it's just delivered divine retribution and is off to clock out.

You groan, hanging by the seatbelt, hair dangling, muttering, "Of course. Of course this happens when I try to look hot."

Your radio fizzles, spitting out static between love lyrics, and you can't help it- you start laughing. That manic, sleep-deprived, I'm a cosmic joke laugh.

Because honestly, at this point, what else is there to do?

You hang there for a beat, suspended like some tragic ornament, cussing the universe in that way only exhausted people do-loudly, under your breath, and with a very specific profanity reserved for gravity. Coffee drips down your chin in a slow, pathetic rivulet. Of course you lick it up. Who else is going to clean up your own humiliation? Certainly not the man you gave your heart to.

The road is quiet in that uncanny way roads near the sea get when even the seagulls are judging you from a distance.

The crash isn't cinematic-no airbags detonating like confetti, no billowing smoke, just a car that's chosen to nap upside down because it has opinions about your timing. You're not hurt. You're a cop. You've survived worse: bar fights, bad dates, men who think "texting once a week" counts as romance.

This is Tuesday.

You palm the ceiling (which, in this new orientation, is now the floor) with the practiced motions of someone who's had to extract people from equally ridiculous situations. Seatbelt unclicks. You crawl out like a spider with commitment issues, toes finding pavement, hair a mess, coffee staining your collar. Sigh. The car looks dramatic and offended and very inconvenient.

You check yourself in the tiny visor mirror anyway-because dignity is optional but checking for lipstick on teeth is mandatory-brush off invisible dust, and announce to no one in particular, "Of course. Perfect timing."

You flag the first car like a person trying to get a taxi in a hurricane. The driver slows, window rolls down, and you prepare your best polite ask- then he cackles, proper barnyard laugh, leans out, and shouts, "CAN'T PARK THERE, SUGAR!" before peeling off like he's auditioning for a road-rage sitcom.

Which, okay, funny. Hilarious. You make a mental note of his license plate because you will absolutely be petty about this later (You're not proud of the list you're already collecting in your head. It's a coping mechanism. Also, revenge is free.)

A whole procession of cars follows, and every single one of them performs the exact same civic service: slow down, shout "CAN'T PARK THERE!", accelerate away, leaving you blinking in the dust like a living punctuation mark.

It's coordinated, like a chorus of suburban cruelty. You memorize the plates with the single-minded focus of someone assembling a revenge playlist. You'll take them all to small claims court in your head and win.

You fish your phone out and dial your boyfriend because at least men who are thin on common decency are reliable on voicemail, right?

Calls one and two go to voicemail, which you accept as a personal insult from fate. On the third ring he picks up, whisper-sharp: "Where the hell are you?"

You try, breathless and suddenly very small, "C-car flipped. I'm-"

He cuts in, clipped. "Stop. Just stop. I've been waiting here for 15 fucking minutes. You always do this shit, bro. You better be here in 20 minutes while I take a client in the meanwhile. If not, I'm going home. I've got things. Important things. I don't have time to wait for-" He sighs. "For someone who can't value time."

That's it. He hangs up like it's a clean, efficient cut. No 'are you okay?' No 'do you need me?'

Just logistics and discipline and leaving. You lower the phone to your thigh, the silver rectangle suddenly heavy, like a verdict.

It's one thing to be ghosted. It's another to be ghosted when your car is literally upside down in public and the only noise is a row of people yelling parking advice like a Greek chorus.

Your brows furrow as you glare at your device, as if it were his stupid face that haunts your nights. "You piece of fuc--"

But then groan and blame yourself immediately-reflexive, stupid, clean. Klutz. Idiot. Emotional masochist. You mutter all of this aloud because why not, because self-flagellation is familiar and comforting. Then you start calling for help.

Cab companies are in a conspiracy with the universe and also apparently in a feud with you. No answer. Line dead. An automated voice somewhere with a personality as vacant as a parking meter tells you to "try again later." Lovely.

The squad-heavenly creatures that they are- must be somewhere in the background being relieved, three of them atleast.

Hangman drives like a lunatic? Great. Fuck no. Coyote doesn't own a car. Fanboy has the scooter, which is objectively the best option for a ridiculous pickup.

You call Fanboy. First ring-miracle-and he answers sounding like he's been sprinting stairs for a week. Breathless. Voice full of panic and something like gym-class regret.

"Yeah? Hey! Uh-are you okay? I can- I can come, but Mav's on my case, like literally stringing us up 'cause we were goofing on approach. Might be, like, an hour? Maybe less?"

You laugh, a short, tired bark. "An hour?" Your teeth ache from the silence that follows. "Mickey, my car is upside down. I may be an occupational hazard to automobiles, but I am still at the side of the road. An hour is a mythological timeframe."

"Sorry!" he pants. "I'll try to yank off in twenty-uh-no, Mav sees everything. I'll do my best. Promise."

You hang up and try the cab line again, because the universe gave you the gift of hope and you are allergic to it. The clawing, ridiculous, petty, real-world mess of trying to get home begins.

---

Ten minutes. That's all it takes for your descent into feral chaos. Ten minutes of kicking the car like it owes you rent, yelling at seagulls who were frankly just bystanders, and chasing down a sedan that slowed only to yell "CAN'T PARK THERE!" again before peeling off, honking like a cartoon villain.

Your voice is hoarse, hair sticking to your temple, and you've somehow acquired a stick-God knows from where-like some vengeful woodland creature.

So when a familiar navy-blue truck rolls up, you don't even process it. You square your shoulders, raise your stick like a gladiator, and point it dead at the windshield. "Go ahead! I dare you to say it!" you bellow. "Say it and find out if your tires survive the night!"

Bob blinks from behind the wheel, face slack with horror and amusement. "... (Y/n)?"

You freeze mid-swing, blinking owlishly. "Bob?"

"Why are you holding a stick?"

"I-" you look at it, then at him, "-found it. For protection. From idiots."

He stares for another long second, then sighs through his nose, that sort of patient, resigned Bob energy radiating off him. "You've been hit on the head once and you're already waging war on traffic."

"Technically twice," you say, pointing at your head. "And also, you have no idea how mean people get when your car's upside down."

Bob follows your gaze to the cruiser, flipped neatly on its roof like a turtle. "...Jesus."

"Yeah," you sigh. "She's being dramatic."

"Didn't think I'd have to save a cop from jaywalking herself into a breakdown."

"Didn't think I'd be found by an angel in a Chevy."

He huffs, cheeks pinking in that Bob Floyd way-quietly, like embarrassment is an involuntary organ function. "Mav heard what happened," he says, stepping out. "Said it counted as an emergency. Phoenix pretended to have a concussion, so I got off easy."

You toss the stick aside like it betrayed you and gesture dramatically at the upturned car. "Well, congratulations, you've arrived at the scene of my villain origin story."

He gives a small, reluctant grin and helps you into the passenger seat of his truck. The moment you sit down, you exhale-finally, warmth, safety, Bob.

The smell of coffee and the faint hum of his playlist. You sag into the seat, staring at him like he just pulled you from a burning building.

"Bob Floyd," you say solemnly, "I love you."

His hands twitch on the steering wheel. "You -you what?"

"For picking me up," you clarify. "You literal saint. If I ever win a medal, your name's going on it. Front and back. Maybe in glitter."

He bites his lip, trying to stay nonchalant, but his ears are flaming red, creeping down his neck like spilled wine. "You were stranded," he says, voice steady but tight, "anyone would've done the same."

"Anyone didn't," you point out. "You did."

You stare out the window, chin in hand, hair mussed and lips still glossy from the coffee you spilled earlier. "My boyfriend's gonna kill me," you murmur. "He hates when I'm late."

He keeps his eyes on the road, the picture of composure except for how his knuckles have gone white. You can practically see the vein in his jaw pulsing.

"So," he finally says, jaw clenched, "your boyfriend didn't come?"

You sigh, thumping your head gently against the headrest. "Nope. Said he was... uh... too far. Which is... totally fine and understandable."

Bob's jaw flexes like he's grinding diamonds into dust. "Totally fine," he echoes, voice dangerously neutral.

"Yeah," you say quickly, forcing a laugh that sounds too bright for how flat your eyes feel. "Totally fine. Probably for the best, you know? I mean, who doesn't love being stood up twice in one day? Builds character."

Bob glances at you, mouth parting like he wants to say something, but you just keep going, words tumbling faster to outrun the sting.

"Besides," you add, drumming your fingers on your thigh, "he's busy. Saving kittens. Filing taxes. Whatever thrilling adult thing people who forget anniversaries do."

He bites back a smile, knuckles white around the steering wheel.

You sigh, quieter now, staring out the window. "It's fine. Really. I'll just get drunk on my own charm later."

Bob exhales slowly through his nose, a ghost of a laugh under his breath. "You're ridiculous."

You shoot him a tired grin. "Yeah. But at least I'm self-aware."

You give a small, lopsided smile, eyes flicking toward him. "Sometimes I think I hate him a little."

Bob's gaze flicks to you just for a second-soft, startled, furious for you. "Sometimes?" he says under his breath.

"Okay," you admit, "maybe a lot."

He smiles faintly, eyes back on the road. "Good. Means you're still sane."

You lean back into the seat, closing your eyes. "If you keep saying sweet things like that, Floyd, I might start loving you for real."

He nearly swerves. "What?"

"Relax," you murmur, already smirking. Teasing him like this was mean, but seeing his flustered expression was always entertaining enough for it to be worth being a bitch. "You're blushing too hard to handle a confession anyway."

And he is-ears, throat, all the way to his boots. He coughs out his embarrassment.

Then glancing over at you, concerned and changing the topic expertly, "You okay though?"

You nod, slumping against the seat. "You're an angel, Bob. A real one. Halo and everything."

He turns pink from the collar up, muttering, "It's just a ride."

"No," you say, already teary-laughing through exhaustion, "it's salvation. I was about two minutes away from adopting highway pigeons and starting a new life."

That gets a huff of laughter out of him-quick, quiet, but real. He looks down to hide his smile, fingers tightening on the wheel like he's not used to his own face being this warm.

"Why's he so busy though, sorry if I'm intruding..."

"Nope," you say, popping the 'p. "You're not. He just said he had things to do. He, uh... gets busy."

"Right," Bob mutters, voice dry. "Saving the world, I'm sure."

You smile faintly, then wince. "I shouldn't talk about him like that. He's just... complicated."

"That's one word," Bob says.

You sigh, slumping further down in your seat until your boots thud against the glove compartment. "You ever love someone who doesn't love you back, Bob?"

His hand freezes on the shifter. "...Maybe."

"Then you get it," you say, voice soft. "You know it's stupid. You know you deserve better. But then he texts you, and you melt like an idiot."

Bob doesn't answer. He just looks straight ahead, jaw tight.

You fidget with the hem of your sleeve, cheeks pink with the adrenaline from before, as you risk a glance at him.

God, he's... well, Gorgeous. The light hits him just right, tracing the sharp line of his jaw, the soft curve of his mouth. He looks so calm behind the wheel, steady and golden.

This kind of man has a one sided love too? How awful. You understand yours but for him? The person surely is stupid as hell.

Bob is a catch. A very... Cute one.

It makes you feel awful. Guilty, even. Because it isn't fair to think someone else is beautiful when you've already promised your heart to someone else.

Your thumb brushes the coffee cup sitting in the holder between you. Similar to the one he handed you that morning with a shy smile, like he remembered how you liked it-too sweet, too creamy, too you.

"Thank you for coming," you say finally, quietly. "You didn't have to.”

He looks at you, all gentle eyes and freckles. "You're my f-friend. 'Course I did."

And maybe it's just the way he says it-simple, honest, no strings attached-but it hits you somewhere deep. You smile, small and sad, and whisper, "You're a good man, Bob Floyd."

He ducks his head, ears flaming again. "You should stop saying things like that," he murmurs.

"Why?"

"Because you make it sound like it's special."

You look at him, something tender pulling at your chest. "Maybe it is."

For a long moment, the truck is quiet except for the hum of the road beneath you. Then you exhale, leaning your head against the cool window glass, and let yourself feel small again.

Bob doesn't say another word, but his hand hovers near yours on the console for a second longer than it needs to-steady, close, waiting if you need it.

---

The truck hums low for a second after Bob turns the key, then goes quiet. The kind of quiet that isn't awkward-just heavy enough to feel like it matters.

You don't move. You just sit there, hands limp in your lap, staring straight ahead at the glowing "The onyx table" sign like it personally offended you.

Bob stays still too. He doesn't reach for the door, doesn't clear his throat, doesn't ask if you're okay. He just... lets you breathe. Lets you sit there and gather yourself back together, piece by piece, fragile.

The faint scent of your perfume-something light, like citrus and salt-floats between you. He catches himself noticing how your hair glints under the soft amber light from the dashboard. How you chew the inside of your cheek when you're nervous. How the pulse in your throat flutters fast and uneven.

You finally sigh, the sound small and tired. Then, without looking at him, you ask, "How do I look?"

He blinks, caught off guard. "Uh--" God... The poems he could write... "--pretty?"

You groan, dragging both hands down your face. "No, like-ugh. I meant actually. Like do I look too much? Or not enough? Or- God, I don't even know what I'm saying."

He frowns, watching you rummage through your bag for a mascara wand. "Why're you --?"

"Because," you mumble, already leaning toward the mirror. "Love makes you do stupid things, apparently."

You try to fix the smudge under your eye, mumbling curses under your breath. Bob's gaze flicks to the mirror where you're working-- where a worn photo peeks from the corner of the glass. The squad. You, grinning mid-laugh, Hangman pressing a dramatic kiss to your cheek while you shove at him in outrage. Bob, right beside you, caught in that split second with an expression that's half disbelief, half pure murder. Everyone else? Cackling like it's Christmas morning.

It's from your last birthday. He hadn't meant to keep that photo there. But he never took it down either.

You notice him staring. "What?"

He shakes his head, lips tugging into something small and fond. "Just thinking how dumb it is. That someone out there managed to make you think twice about yourself."

You pause, mascara wand hovering midair, eyes flicking to him.

He doesn't stop. "If he can look at you and not see how... bright you make everything feel, he's missing something real."

You blink, cheeks warming, mouth parting just slightly. For a heartbeat too long, the air between you buzzes. Then you laugh, soft and breathless, tucking a stray strand of hair behind your ear.

"Sweet talker," you tease, voice quieter than before.

He shrugs, trying to look at the steering wheel instead of your smile. "Just telling the truth."

---

He spots you before you even reach the table-- people are already staring. Coffee-stained shirt, mascara halfway down your cheeks, one broken heel swinging from your hand, and sneakers that are definitely not yours.

He blinks once, twice, then smirks.

"Wow," he says, voice dripping with amusement. "You look... interesting."

You drop the heel on the chair beside him with a thud. "Yeah, I went for 'traumatized chic.' Had an accident, actually. If you didn't realize I was speaking English."

He leans back in his chair, crossing his arms. "An accident. Right. That explains being forty minutes late and making me look like a complete idiot. You know how many times I had to ask for tea before someone realized my date wasn't imaginary?”

Your mouth twitches. "Tragic. Were they out of sympathy biscuits too?"

He arches a brow. "Cute. Maybe next time you try leaving the house before the apocalypse."

"I did, actually," you shoot back. "That's when my car decided to go full stunt mode and flip."

"Flipped?" he repeats, tone caught between disbelief and irritation. "Come on, you always say something dramatic when you're late."

You stare at him, tired and unimpressed. "Bob had to give me a ride. I was concussed, and you were yelling on the phone about me 'embarrassing you."

He frowns. "Don't be like that. I was just-- worried. You know how you are with excuses."

"Excuses," you echo, dryly. "Right. My car's in a ditch, but sure, let's make this about your tea."

He exhales sharply, rubbing his jaw like he's the one exhausted. "You done? Because I've got an early meeting tomorrow, and if this is just you venting, I'd appreciate the short version."

Your nails tap once against the table. "Fine. I need you to come with me to the charity event next weekend."

"Another one?" He scoffs. "Babe, those things are a drag. I've got the annual corporate dinner that night.”

"This isn't just some event," you bite out. "The chief personally invited me. It's mandatory courtesy. And he's been trying to set me up with his son. The son actually texted me asking for help because he already loves someone else. I just need you there so I can shut this thing down gracefully."

He smirks, that smug little tilt of his lips that always makes you want to throw something. "So I'm your decoy boyfriend now? Impressive promotion."

"You're my actual boyfriend," you say tightly. "It shouldn't be this hard to show up for me."

He shrugs. "You're overcomplicating it. Just tell the chief you're not interested. Done."

You laugh, sharp and humorless. "You think I can just tell my boss I'm not into his son like we're discussing salad choices? He's my superior. That's my job on the line."

He rolls his eyes. "Then don't go. Nobody's gonna remember who skipped some charity dinner."

"He will," you snap. "He personally invited me. It's an insult not to go."

He sighs, picking up his tea like he's ending the argument. "You're really worked up about this, huh? You always get so... dramatic about work stuff."

You freeze, then smile-cold, steady, deadly calm. "You know what's dramatic? Getting in a car crash and still showing up here because I thought maybe you'd care."

He blinks, caught off guard. "Hey, that's not fair-"

"No," you interrupt, voice quiet now. "What's not fair is me trying to make this work with someone who thinks asking for tea twice is a bigger inconvenience than his girlfriend flipping her car."

He stiffens, defensive but unsure what to say.

You stand, pulling your bag over your shoulder. "Enjoy your third cup," you murmur. "It's the only thing here that's actually warm."

He reaches for your wrist just as you turn to go, fingers warm and certain. "Hey, no-- don't. Sit down, okay? I'm sorry."

You give him that look, half disbelief, half exhaustion.

"Seriously," he says, tugging you gently until you sit. "I didn't mean to bite your head off. I was just... pissed and stupid. Which, I know, shocking combination, but is it really, considering me?"

That drags a reluctant snort out of you.

He grins, triumphant, already brushing his thumb over your hand like he's smoothing the whole thing out of existence. "See? There she is. My girl with the tragic taste in punctuality and... everything else."

"Everything else?" you ask, trying not to melt at the way he's looking at you.

"Mm." He leans in, teasing. "You crash cars, ruin outfits, and still show up to make me feel bad. You're a menace."

You shake your head, lips twitching despite yourself.

He chuckles. "But, you know, a cute menace."

And there it is-the warmth sliding back in like muscle memory. The way he tilts his head, half-apologetic, half-smug. The kind of look that always unravels you because he knows exactly where to press.

Then his eyes drift downward, and his expression changes. "Okay, wait, hold on-- what are those?"

You follow his gaze to your feet, blinking. "My shoes."

"No," he says, horrified. "No, they're not. Those are... crimes. You should get rid of them before they reproduce."

Your laugh comes out small, caught between embarrassment and disbelief. "They're not mine."

"Thank God. I was about to start a GoFundMe for your fashion sense."

You roll your eyes, but your voice softens. "They're Bob's."

He freezes mid-smirk. "Bob's? As in... One of those rowdy neighbours Bob?"

"Yeah. He's the most sane one." You glance down again at the sneakers-two sizes too pig, gray and dusty, the laces still knotted the way Bob had tied them before he shoved them toward you.

'Hopefully they don't smell,' he'd said, half-laughing as he drove barefoot. 'But it's better than walking on glass.'

Your heart tugs at the memory. "He gave them to me after the crash. Broke my heels."

Your boyfriend blinks, the easy charm thinning. "So... you're wearing his shoes now?"

"He literally drove me here. I think he earned the right to loan me footwear."

He lets out a sharp laugh. "Right, right, of course. Nothing weird about that at all. Maybe you two can share jackets next."

Your spine straightens. "Don't start."

He raises a brow. "I'm not starting. I'm just saying-"

"He was there," you cut in, voice low. "When you weren't."

That lands like a pin dropping on glass.

He blinks, then his tone softens, eyes darting. "Okay. Okay. I deserved that." He reaches across again, catching your hand with both of his. "I'm sorry, alright? You're right. I messed up. I should've been there."

You sigh, the fight leaking out of you as his thumb brushes over your knuckles. He smiles again, small and almost boyish this time. "You know I hate it when you're mad at me. Makes the whole world feel... off."

You laugh under your breath. "You're impossible."

"And yet here you are," he says softly, thumb tracing lazy circles.

Your heart sinks and swells all at once. You're so easy --easy to calm, easy to please, easy to... Love? And right now, he's everything you want him to be. Which is a big fat lie.

Even if part of you can't stop thinking about a barefoot Bob Floyd, driving one-handed, telling you not to worry while his shoes sat clumsy and kind on your feet.

You almost forget what you came here for.

Almost.

He's back to teasing you, that half-crooked grin doing its usual damage, his thumb still tracing circles over your hand like he's hypnotizing you into forgiving him.

You hesitate, then take a breath. "So... about the charity event," you start carefully. "I really do need you to come with me."

The warmth on his face flickers. He looks at you, the kind of look that isn't angry, just tired. Heavy. The corners of his mouth fall, his thumb stills against your hand.

No words. Just that exasperated stare.

The noise of the restaurant fades a little around you-soft clinking, muffled laughter from another table-and you know what it means before he says anything.

----

The evening had been dying slow, the kind of slow that makes people say things just to fill the air. The squad had gathered on the porch with cold drinks and no sense of purpose whatsoever.

Phoenix was sprawled sideways in her chair, flicking a bottle cap toward the grass. "You ever think about how Coyote looks like a man who'd lose a fight to a goose?"

Coyote's head snapped up. "What does that even mean?"

Rooster grinned. "It means you'd square up all confident, and then the goose would hiss and you'd immediately apologize."

"Damn right I'd apologize," Coyote said. "Goose got teeth, man. You seen those mouths? It's nature's chainsaw."

"Teeth?" Fanboy blinked. "You think birds have teeth?"

Hangman leaned forward, smirking. "Oh no. We're not doing science hour with Fanboy again."

Fanboy pointed at him with the wrench he was somehow still holding. "I passed biology, jackass."

"Barely," Payback muttered. "And only because you flirted with the TA."

"I was networking," Fanboy said with mock dignity. "It's called building connections."

"Pretty sure she filed a complaint," Phoenix deadpanned.

Rooster laughed so hard he nearly dropped his drink.

Fanboy turned defensive. "You all act like you never did dumb stuff for attention."

Hangman raised an eyebrow. "I don't need to. I am the attention."

That earned an instant chorus of groans.

"Bro," Payback said, face twisted like he'd bitten a lemon, "you can't just say that out loud."

Coyote grinned. "Nah, let him cook. Maybe the mirror will applaud next."

Phoenix added, "You know what's tragic? He's not even wrong. The man flirts with his own reflection."

"I do not," Hangman protested.

"Yes, you do," Bob finally said, quiet but deadly accurate. "You winked at yourself last week in the truck window."

Everyone howled.

Hangman glared at him. "It was an accident reflection!"

"Sure," Phoenix said, sipping her drink.

"That's what Narcissus said right before he drowned."

Even Bob cracked a laugh then, trying to hide it behind his hand.

Rooster pointed at him. "You see that? That's the face of a man who's judging us but still loves this circus."

Bob just shook his head, smiling that shy half-smile of his. "You guys are hopeless."

Payback gestured dramatically. "And yet here you are. Voluntarily. Every night."

"I pay rent--"

"Tragic," Phoenix said with mock sympathy. "Truly tragic."

And that's when your kitten wandered up from your porch, dragging a dead leaf like it was a prize. Socks trotted over, tail wagging, and the squad collectively melted.

"Okay," Coyote said, watching them play. "You think we could ask her to babysit Hangman instead of the kitten?"

"She'd charge more," Phoenix replied.

That was enough to get the whole porch humming.

"Or maybe Bob?"

"He'd pay us for that, actually."

Cue Bob scrunching his face, cursing the world like everytime he does when he's the center of attention.

Rooster kicked his boot against Bob's. "Come on, man. Admit it. You're whipped."

Bob groaned, cheeks already warming. "I am not."

"Buddy," Payback said, dead serious, "you're the only one who laughs at her jokes. You know that, right?"

"She's funny," Bob muttered, half defending, half remembering you cracking some dumb pun about traffic lights that had him laughing harder than he wanted to admit.

Phoenix leaned back in her chair. "She's not that funny. She's cute when she tries to be funny, though."

Hangman smirked. "She laughs before she even finishes her own joke."

Rooster nodded solemnly. "And he laughs at her laughing."

That broke the porch-- Coyote choking on his drink, Fanboy wheezing.

"Stop," Bob said, face completely red now. "It's not-"

Phoenix pointed her mug at him. "Oh, it is. You look at her like she hung the damn moon. You're practically glowing when she calls you 'Bobby."

He groaned. "Please stop talking."

Hangman clutched his chest dramatically. "Aw, look at him! He's blushing through his ears!"

They all turned to stare-- yep, bright red.

Payback barked out a laugh. "Man looks like a stoplight."

Fanboy snorted, still twirling his wrench until it slipped and clanked down square on Payback's foot.

"OW-- WHAT THE-" Payback doubled over, clutching his foot like he'd been taken out by enemy fire.

"It wasn't me!" Fanboy yelped instantly.

Coyote lost it laughing so hard he elbowed Hangman's sunglasses clean off his face.

They hit the porch and snapped right down the middle.

"Dude!" Hangman shouted.

Coyote froze, then-without a word-picked up the broken shades and slid them across the porch, where they stopped neatly by your locked front door.

"Perfect," he said under his breath. "She did it."

The squad exploded again.

Amid the chaos, Socks and the kitten rolled together in the grass, a little ball of orange fur and wagging tail. The kitten leapt onto Socks' head and meowed like it had just conquered Rome.

Bob smiled at them, soft and helpless. It hit him sometimes, how much warmth lived in the small, stupid things-coffee, laughter, this porch... Even the thought of you.

Rooster caught the look and smirked. "You'd be better for her, you know."

Bob's eyes flicked up. "What?"

Phoenix nodded, casual but firm. "Her boyfriend's a walking migraine. She needs someone who'd actually treat her right."

"Yeah," Hangman added, "like a man who lends his shoes without making a speech about it."

Bob's blush crept back. "Guys-"

"Or someone who doesn't make her cry in restaurant bathrooms," Payback said darkly, still nursing his foot.

"Or laugh at her puns," Coyote grinned. "Because let's face it, she's terrible-but you love it."

Bob rubbed the back of his neck, trying-and failing-to hide the grin tugging at his lips.

Phoenix grinned at him over her mug. "Face it, Floyd. You're gone."

He sighed, glancing toward your porch light still flickering faintly next door. "Yeah," he murmured, half to himself. "Ofcourse I am."

The kitten meowed. Socks barked back. And somewhere between the two sounds, the laughter picked up again-easy, warm, and entirely unfair to anyone trying not to be in love with a taken woman.

The sound of tires crunching gravel made Phoenix glance up first. A sleek black car-expensive enough to make Hangman whistle low-rolled to a stop near the driveway.

"Well, well," Coyote said, squinting. "Either she finally got a sugar daddy, or that's the idiot himself."

Rooster leaned forward, smirking. "Place your bets. You think he's gonna get out this time, or just lower the window enough to let the smell of entitlement waft out?"

Fanboy snorted. "Man probably sanitizes after shaking hands with normal people."

Payback grinned. "Guess we'll find out."

They watched like a live-action telenovela audience as you climbed out-careful, almost dainty. There was something off about the way you moved, like you were made of cracks pretending to hold. You turned back to the car, talking through the open window.

Your voice may be low, but your posture said it all, tense shoulders hunched over the car window, not a single muscle moving as your head tipped down, the look of someone trying to reason with a wall that occasionally called itself your boyfriend.

Phoenix cupped her hands around her mouth. "Did you anger a witch or something? First a bottle to the head, now a flipped car?"

"Maybe it's karma," Coyote added, grinning. "You steal someone's fries one too many times, the universe notices."

Hangman joined in, mock serious, whispering, "If I were karma, I'd hit him with the car next time. Just saying."

Bob, who hadn't said a word, stared quietly at the scene. He caught the moment you tried again-one last soft "please, just say hi"-and how your boyfriend leaned back, shook his head, and said something sharp that made your shoulders drop. The car door stayed shut.

The car peeled away, leaving behind a faint smell of cologne and money.

You turned then, brushing a hand through your hair like that could fix the day. "You guys are loud," you said, smiling without meaning it.

Rooster tilted his head. "You love us."

You sighed. "Debatable."

Your boyfriend's car peeled away with that pretentious hum only expensive engines make-like even the vehicle knew it was too good for the people around it. You stood there for a moment, watching the red taillights shrink down the road, before turning to face the duplex steps.

There they were. Your circus.

Fanboy, in all his shining glory, was wearing nothing but a pair of swim shorts, like it wasn't nearly 11 p.m. and the world wasn't damp and cold enough to make penguins consider sweaters. He looked criminally unbothered, lounging against the railing with a grin that could probably power a small city.

You started trudging toward them, exhaustion clinging to you like static. "Where is your robe, Ignacio?" you called out tiredly, voice dragging but laced with a faint smile.

Fanboy immediately sprang to his feet, striking a ridiculous pose. "They were... stinky. These are my recreation clothes."

The others barely looked up. Rooster gave a disbelieving snort. Phoenix muttered something that sounded like "please strike him down, universe," and Hangman just clapped slowly, the orange kitten still in his lap looking genuinely embarrassed on Fanboy's behalf.

You couldn't help it-- you laughed. A low, soft sound that cracked in the middle, like you were too tired to commit to joy but trying anyway.

"They look expensive," you teased, finally reaching them and letting yourself slump onto the ground in front of the steps.

Fanboy smirked down at you, hands on his hips like a smug lifeguard. "Now give me the butt clench," you added dryly, eyes half-lidded.

He barked a laugh, utterly delighted. "You gotta climb into my room at midnight to see that, sweetheart."

That earned him a handful of groans, a few "gross, man"s, and a stray pebble thrown expertly by Phoenix. He just laughed harder, spinning once like a pageant queen.

Bob, sitting a few steps up, shook his head, mumbling, "Y'all are ridiculous."

But he was smiling too. Because you were smiling now-mud on your shoes, ache in your chest, mascara smudged-and somehow, you looked lighter than you had all week.

Fanboy pointed at your scuffed joggers. "You good? The car thing wasn't serious?"

"Yeah, yeah." You flopped onto the grass in front of them, the sound halfway between a sigh and surrender. "Just a normal day. You know. Casual near-death experience. Mild public humiliation. The usual."

Phoenix leaned back, grinning. "You sound like a sitcom that's about to get cancelled."

"I feel like one," you said, stretching your legs out, watching Socks chase your orange kitten across the yard. "Except the laugh track's broken and everyone keeps missing the punchline.”

Bob smiled faintly, fingers tapping against his mug. "You're alright though?"

You looked up at him. The question was simple, but his voice had that thing in it-care disguised as casual. It hit you like warm sunlight through cracks.

"Yeah," you said softly. "I'm alright."

The squad exchanged glances, a mix of teasing and something gentler. Rooster handed you his drink. "Here. Hydration, or whatever."

"Thanks, doctor," you said dryly, taking a sip. "Glad to know I've got the best medical team in the country."

"Cheaper than therapy," Coyote said.

"Barely," Phoenix muttered.

They laughed again, all of them, the sound rolling through the porch like a collective exhale. And for a second, you let yourself laugh too-because pretending was easier when the world didn't feel so heavy.

Bob watched you, quiet, smile ghosting his lips. Just you, grass-stained and exhausted and trying so damn hard to look fine.

He couldn't tell if it broke his heart or made him love you more.

The night had softened into that lazy blue hour where everything felt half-drunk on its own calm. The grass glistened faintly, damp but comforting, like it was trying to apologize for existing. You lay back on it anyway, sighing into the ground like it could absorb the day out of your body.

Phoenix poked your ankle with the end of her boot. "Alright, Sleeping Beauty, what'd Loverboy say about the charity event?"

You didn't move for a long second. You could practically hear yourself mentally reaching for an acceptable lie. "He said..." You cleared your throat, faking brightness. "He'll see. It's in, like, two days, so... he'll try to clear his schedule."

A silence fell, thick with disbelief.

Then Coyote clapped once, deadpan. "Wow. Riveting. The bare minimum, delivered with enthusiasm."

Fanboy laughed. "Translation: he's not coming."

"Yeah," Hangman added, "man's probably gotta moisturize that jawline or something. Tight schedule."

Phoenix groaned. "Oh please, his schedule consists of gym selfies and avoiding eye contact with waiters."

Rooster leaned back, grinning. "What does he even do again?"

"Disappoint," Phoenix said.

You covered your face with your hands, laughing in spite of yourself. "You guys are evil."

"Just realistic," Coyote said. "Somebody's gotta narrate your tragic rom-com."

Fanboy pointed at you dramatically. "We're your Greek chorus, babe. You fall, we provide the soundtrack."

They all laughed-except Bob, who shook his head with a soft huff. "Knock it off," he said, tone gentle but firm, like a teacher scolding toddlers.

Phoenix grinned. "Aw, come on, Bob. You're her knight in-"

"Don't," he cut in quickly, cheeks already pink.

You tilted your head up, about to protest that you were fine, but Bob was already moving.

He crouched beside you, rummaged with one hand, then carefully slid his bundled-up flight jacket under your head.

"Grass is wet," he muttered.

Coyote nudged Phoenix, whispering, "Domestic as hell."

"Oh it's a crime being considerate now?," Bob shot back without looking back.

Rooster smirked. "Look at him. The human golden retriever."

Fanboy added, whispering loud enough for her to catch it, "Golden retriever who's in love and refuses to admit it."

That earned him a small pebble chucked expertly by Bob.

You laughed then--a real one this time, thinking this is just a tease session that you occasionally joined in. "You guys never stop, do you?"

Phoenix grinned, kicking back against the steps. "We'd lose the will to live if we did."

And just like that, the porch filled with soft laughter again-yours blending with theirs, your head pillowed on Bob's jacket, the night humming like it knew something you didn't.

The lawn was soft and damp, smelling faintly of rain and engine oil. You lay there flat on your back, arms thrown out like you'd just given up on existing.

Bob sat cross-legged beside you, quiet, pretending the weight of your fiddling with his jacket zipper wasn't making him feel like his brain had short-circuited. His spare jacket-bundled up neatly-was under your head like a makeshift pillow, courtesy of him and his tragic crush.

A few feet away, Hangman was lying on his stomach, the picture of chaos and charm, an orange kitten asleep on his chest while a very offended dog tugged at his hair.

"No, no, buddy, Daddy loves you too," he whispered dramatically to the dog. "Just not in a biblical way."

Coyote, Fanboy, Phoenix, and Rooster were having what could only be described as a competition no sober person should invent -- balancing the wrench upright on their palms while heckling each other. Rooster's leg was slung lazily over Phoenix's lap, her boot resting on his thigh like she owned him.

Payback was pacing on the far end of the lawn, phone in hand, grinning ear to ear while he talked to his wife. Every time he laughed, you caught the tiniest flicker of something in your chest-warm, wistful.

It looked like the universe was rubbing your nose in it: Look bitch, that's the life you wanted. Now watch someone else live it.

"So, tell me again," Fanboy called over, balancing his wrench like it was a sacred relic. "Why are you still with that guy? Didn't he tell you once your 'little art thing' was a waste of time?"

You sighed dramatically, not even opening your eyes. "He was just being realistic."

"Realistic?" Phoenix repeated. "That man's got the emotional range of a stapler."

Rooster snorted. "A stapler that thinks it's better than you."

Hangman, half asleep, added, "You're dating a stapler with a superiority complex. Revolutionary."

"Maybe I like staplers." You mutter.

They all give you a look that got you laughing-head rolling to the side, face half-buried in Bob's jacket. The sound was soft and bright in the cooling night. Bob tried very, very hard to act normal, staring straight ahead like he wasn't hyperaware of how close you were, how your fingers kept toying with the zipper near his knee.

"You're so fidgety", he muttered finally, shuffling closer and nudging his jacket more securely under your head. His voice came out gentler than intended. "You're gonna wake up with a sore neck."

You smiled at that, eyes still closed. "You're sweet, Floyd."

"Don't tell people that," he said quickly, cheeks pink. "I got a reputation to maintain."

"Of what?" Phoenix shot back from the steps. "Being everyone's emotional support bear?"

The group erupted again, laughter spilling across the lawn. The kitten shifted sleepily on Hangman's chest, the dog yanked harder at his hair, and Bob just sat there, half-smiling, half-melting, watching you grin under the stars like you didn't know you were making the world a little worse for anyone trying not to fall in love with you.

You looked like you were listening, but everyone could see your brain was off somewhere sulking about a certain overpriced man in an overpriced car.

Phoenix caught on first, because of course she did, "Alright depression hour's over. You're trying on those charity event dresses tonight."

You blinked. "It's one a.m."

Phoenix shrugged. "Time's fake. Dresses are forever."

"I'm not in the mood."

"Oh really?" Phoenix said, stretching the words like taffy. "Because the event's in-what-two days? What if it doesn't fit?"

You sat up, instantly alert. "You think it won't fit?!"

"Just saying," Phoenix hummed, smirking.

Coyote leaned back with a grin. "God, she played you like a fiddle."

Fanboy threw his hands up. "Hold on, we doing a fashion show? Because I will absolutely bring out the scorecards."

"Scorecards?" Phoenix snorted. "You're not even invited."

Hangman gasped like he'd been shot. "Excuse me, we are morale support."

Coyote nodded solemnly. "Yeah, it's emotional labor, Nix."

Phoenix rolled her eyes. "You idiots wouldn't know emotional labor if it bit you in the--”

Bob cut in, soft but doomed. "I mean... if she wants opinions, we should probably--uh... help."

The porch erupted.

Fanboy clutched his heart. "BOB SAID IT! THE SWEET PRINCE HAS SPOKEN!"

Coyote whooped. "You heard the man! Fashion show's on!"

You looked at Bob with the slow, dangerous smile of a cat who just found a bird with a limp wing. "You wanna help, Bob?"

Bob blinked. "That's not-- uh-l meant like... respectfully."

You leaned back, smirking. "Respectfully, huh? Gonna rate it by fabric density?"

Hangman snorted so hard he choked on his drink.

Bob turned pink all the way to his ears. "I-I just meant-"

Phoenix slapped his shoulder. "Dig up, Floyd."

He sighed, face buried in his hands. "I regret speaking."

You grinned, finally laughing, bright and warm like someone who hadn't for days. "Don't worry, Bob. You can take notes for the official report."

Hangman, deadpan: "Title it 'An Empirical Study on How My Heart Stopped Six Times in One Hour.'"

Even Bob had to laugh.

For the first time that night, the heaviness in your chest felt a little lighter, drowned out by snorts, bickering, and the sound of the squad pretending not to care how much they did.

---

It was 1:07 a.m., the time when normal people slept and emotionally stunted idiots like you gathered in your living room pretending you weren't half in love with the comfort of it.

The squad was slouched everywhere Phoenix sprawled across the armchair like she owned it, Coyote and Fanboy sharing a beanbag that was never meant to hold two grown men, Rooster sitting backward on a dining chair, and Bob on the floor by the coffee table, where he somehow always ended up. Socks the dog had passed out in the corner. The kitten, lord of the household, was perched on top of Rooster's knee like it paid rent.

Then you walked out.

"Okay, round one!" you announced, emerging from the hallway in a baby-blue dress that shimmered faintly under the too-yellow light. "Honest opinions only. Hurt me."

God help him.

Bob blinked hard. You looked like sunlight after too many hours underground. It wasn't even a particularly fancy dress, but you had that thing-- that glow that came from laughing at your own misery. The kind that could ruin a man.

Every blink feels like blasphemy; he might miss a fraction of her.

Coyote yawned. "Looks like something you wear to hand out juice boxes at church."

Phoenix didn't even look up. "Cute. If you're meeting your ex's mom."

Fanboy shrugged. "Seven outta ten. Bonus point if you don't trip in it."

Rooster nodded gravely. "Blue's not your color, sweetheart."

Not her colour? I'm seconds away from disgrac-- there goes my moral compass. Fuck me.

Bob opened his mouth and then shut it again. He'd once read somewhere that love was when someone made you forget your own language. That sounded about right.

"Nice," he finally managed. "You look... nice."

Hangman threw a peanut at him. "Nice? You're a poet, Floyd."

You laughed, real and soft, and disappeared down the hall.

Bob looked at the floor. He should stop this. Really. Because in his head he was already seeing you in that blue dress in a backyard you didn't own yet, laughing as some toddler-- your toddler-- dumped juice on your shoes.

Then you came out again.

The black dress. The problem dress.

It hugged just right. Fell just wrong. One strap slipping off your shoulder like it had its own agenda.

Fanboy sat up straight. "Oh, okay. You didn't say we were doing crimes tonight."

Phoenix wolf-whistled. "Finally, you look like the homewrecker I always knew you could be."

Bob was pretty sure his soul left his body.

'You people need your eyes checked. Or gouged out. Preferably both.' His hands twitched.

You smiled at him --and his brain decided it was an engagement announcement. He could already picture the white fence, probably two dogs, decision changed from two to three kids just 'cause of a fucking dress, one of them definitely named after Rooster for some stupid reason.

Coyote leaned forward, pointing at you like he'd just solved world hunger. "That's the one, darlin'. You wear that, and the chief's son is gonna faint before dessert."

You adjusted the strap of your black dress, pretending not to beam. "That's not the goal, genius. I just... don't wanna look like a bum next to my boyfriend."

Immediate outrage.

Phoenix groaned so loud Socks actually lifted his head from the carpet. "Don't say that, it lowers your IQ."

Rooster mimed gagging. "The man wears sunglasses indoors, officer. You're fine."

Fanboy flopped backward dramatically. "Sweet mother of denial, deliver her."

You laughed, tossing a couch cushion at him.

"You're all so dramatic."

Bob tried not to laugh but failed spectacularly, his whole face lighting up like an overworked nightlight. You caught him, narrowed your eyes, and jabbed a finger at him. "Don't you start, Floyd."

He raised his hands, grinning. "Hey, I'm Switzerland in this war."

"Switzerland doesn't smirk like that," you said, crossing your arms.

"I wasn't smirking."

"You so were."

"I was just... breathing happily."

"Yeah, at my misery."

"God forgive me, my face has opinions," he said, shrugging.

Fanboy stage-whispered, "Floyd, blink twice if you're already writing her wedding vows in your head."

Bob went red to the ears. "Knock it off."

Phoenix leaned over to you. "Careful, sweetheart. He's gonna start color-matching curtains to that dress."

"Funny," you said dryly, playing along to life long tradition of picking on sweet Bob, turning to him. "You planning our imaginary house already?"

He met your eyes for just a beat too long, smile small but steady. "Just checking if the fence is white or wood."

The room exploded.

Rooster clapped his hands like a seal.

"Floyd's building fences now! We're getting promoted to uncles!"

You laughed so hard you had to sit down, cheeks flushed. "You're all insufferable."

"Yeah," Phoenix said, slinging an arm over the back of the couch. "But look at you smiling again. You're welcome."

Bob ducked his head, pretending to fiddle with the cereal box just to hide his grin. You didn't see the way he looked at you then like you'd hung the stars yourself and then made a joke about tripping over them.

Hangman grinned wickedly, leaning over the couch, whispering, "So, Floyd, you gonna help her zip that up or you gonna keep pretending you're a man of God?"

Bob turned scarlet so fast Phoenix actually snorted.

You laughed and turned once, the skirt fanning out like a sigh. "This one, then."

And for a fleeting second, in that messy, loud living room at 1 a.m., Bob Floyd thought -just thought-maybe the universe wasn't completely cruel.

Then Fanboy said, "So which one's the boyfriend gonna hate more?"

You paused, smirked. "This one."

And Bob, bless him, forgot how to breathe all over again.

You're still laughing from roasting Bob, the sound soft and smug as you spin once-just to feel the skirt move. The black dress hugs you like it knows exactly what it's doing, and for a second, you just look at yourself in the TV's dark reflection. A small tilt of your head. Maybe wondering if it's too much. Maybe wondering if your boyfriend will hate it. Maybe wishing you didn't care.

Then flash.

You blink. Once. Twice. And there they are --your chaos squad --lined up like fashion photographers on Red Bull, every one of them holding up a phone.

Phoenix squints. "Lighting's terrible. Bob, move the lamp, you human coat rack."

Hangman gestures grandly. "No, no, she's glowing, Phee. This is cinematic. Someone put music on."

Fanboy's already snapping pictures. "Pose! Look over your shoulder-yeah, like that! He's gonna regret ever ghosting you."

You groan, laughing as you cover your face. "You people are unhinged."

Coyote grins. "Nah, we're emotionally invested."

Then Bob, sweet and helpless, blurts, "You look... really, god you're beautif-- LOOK, look beautiful I mean. Not that you aren't-- the phrasing was just a bit off--" And immediately wants to melt into the floor.

Hangman claps him on the back. "We know buddy, she looks like heartbreak with good mascara."

Before you can answer, Phoenix drags you into the middle of the group. "Everyone in, we're doing a selfie. It's evidence for when she says we never support her."

Bob's still fiddling with his phone, cheeks warm. When you lean back against him for the photo, he forgets how to breathe for a full three seconds.

They all shuffle together, pulling you into the frame. Someone yells "Group selfie!"

Bob's hand ends up half-hovering near your waist before he panics and shoves it into his pocket. He's smiling too wide, pretending he's not thinking this feels suspiciously like a family photo.

"Okay, ready? One, two-"

Phoenix: "Bob, stop blushing."

Bob: "I'm not blushing, it's just-uh-bad lighting."

Click.

You roll your eyes but still smile for the next one. The flash pops again, and the boys start arguing about filters while Bob just stands there, looking like he wants to frame the moment.

"Smile, ducklings," Phoenix sings.

Flash.

Everyone's laughing, half-blurry in the shot.

You're glowing, Bob's eyes are drifting to you, and Hangman's already saying, "We should print that out-- title it 'Shes still dumb as hell."

And when you look down at the picture later, you see it: your wide grin, hair a mess, eyes tired but alive.

Bob's hand, hovering just behind your back like he wanted to hold you but wouldn't dare.

And somehow, you look happier than you've been in weeks.

---

5:00 a.m.

The door creaks open behind you, and you don't even have to turn.

The scent hits first --coffee and lavender laundry detergent and the faint metallic tang of engine oil. Then something warm settles over your shoulders. Bob's cardigan. The one you're always teasing him about, calling it "grandpa chic."

He doesn't say anything at first. Just folds himself down beside you on the step, both of you staring out at the fog still lifting off the grass. Socks flops between you, loyal little mediator.

Your fingers twitch toward your mouth again, but Bob catches them midair, gentle and sure. "Hey," he says quietly, pushing your hand down. "You'll run outta nails."

You huff out a half-laugh. "You offering me yours, then?"

He hands you the mug instead. "Whatever you want."

The mug's warm enough to sting your fingers a little. You take a sip, hum, eyes still on nothing. "Thanks."

Bob shrugs, one shoulder brushing yours. "You even sleep?"

"Define sleep," you say, voice light but cracked around the edges. "I closed my eyes and contemplated my poor life choices for about four hours. Does that count?"

He smiles, small and crooked. "That's a no."

"Detective work like that is why you're the best."

"Flattery won't fix the bags under your eyes, darlin'."

"Rude," you mutter, but your lips curl anyway. "You used to take my side."

He chuckles, gaze still on the yard. "I still do. Just... sometimes your side's a little dumb."

You turn your head at that, mouth open in mock offense. "Excuse me?"

He grins-just the corner of his mouth. "You're an idiot in love," he says, soft enough that it doesn't sting. More like he's stating a law of physics.

You blink at him. Then sigh. "Oh, so you switched sides now. Great. Knew we'd lose you to logic eventually."

He shrugs again, eyes kind but steady. "Someone's gotta remind you gravity's real."

You scoff, leaning your head back against the porch railing. "I liked it better when you lied to me."

"Yeah," he says, voice barely above the hum of the morning, "me too."

The wind carries the smell of coffee between you. Your laugh fades into something quiet.

And somewhere between the silence and the cardigan and your chipped nail polish, Bob Floyd knows he's completely, irretrievably done for.

"That's bad..."

The porch creaks under you, soft morning light bleeding gold across the wood. You'd just said it-half teasing, half testing-- "Are we gonna have a problem, Lieutenant?"

And that line, of all things, drags him straight back to the first time he ever saw you.

Summer had been mean that day-loud heat, louder friends. The squad was hauling boxes into their new house like a tornado with rank insignia. Payback and Coyote were arguing about who'd dented the fridge, Phoenix was cursing about the lack of sockets, and Bob, poor soul, was the only one who thought maybe the neighbors would appreciate a polite "good morning."

He'd waved. A shy little half-wave with his elbow pressed to his ribs like he could make himself smaller.

You'd been on your porch, coffee in one hand, eyes narrowed at the chaos. Exhausted. Probably coming off another twelve-hour shift. And when you'd seen him, you tilted your chin, gave the tiniest nod.

Then, in that low, deceptively calm tone that made grown men nervous, you said, "Are we gonna have a problem, Lieutenant?"

Bob's hand had dropped mid-wave. "Uh-uh, no, ma'am! No problem. Definitely not. We're -uh-- quiet. Mostly. Sometimes. We'll-uh-- keep it down."

You'd stared at him for a long beat, lips twitching like you were trying not to laugh.

"Relax, I'm kidding."

He'd blinked, shoulders dropping about three inches "Right yeah... I-I knew that."

"You didn't," you said, smiling into your coffee.

He'd rubbed the back of his neck, voice small. "No, ma'am."

The laugh that escaped you then wasn't mean-it was soft, real, like something warm cracked open in your chest. "You the voice of reason for that circus back there?"

He glanced behind him at Phoenix yelling, "Payback, that's not even your screwdriver!" and muttered, "No, ma'am. That'd be the girl doing the yelling, and the guy getting yelled at. I'm just... the designated apologizer."

Your laugh deepened, bright and sleepy. "You're gonna be my favorite then, Lieutenant."

And he'd just stood there, heart doing something so stupid he couldn't name it. He'd even dropped the screwdriver he'd been holding.

Now, on the porch years later, you say the same thing-same smile, same glint in your eyes-and Bob can't stop the grin that tugs at his mouth.

"Well? Are we gonna have a problem, Lieutenant?" you repeat softly.

He huffs a breath, coffee warm in his hands. "Guess not, ma'am."

You tilt your head, teasing. "No?"

He looks at you for a long second, sunlight curling through your hair, and says quietly, "Haven't had one since the day I met you."

You roll your eyes, bumping your shoulder against his. "That's cheesy."

"Yeah," he says, hiding a smile behind his mug, "I'm fine with that."

---

8:03 a.m.

The boys and woman are halfway out the door, flight suits half-zipped, coffee still steaming.

Phoenix leans over the porch railing, sunglasses already on. "Text us if he answers."

"He will," you say too quickly, tucking your phone into your pocket like proof. "He's just not a morning person."

Hangman grins. "Not a decent-person either, from what I've seen."

"Go do your job, Jake," you mutter, but there's no heat in it. Just exhaustion dressed up as wit.

Bob lingers a beat. "You got plans today?"

"Yeah," you say. "Gonna stare at my phone and call it productivity."

He smiles, soft and sad. "Don't let him ruin your day."

"Too late," you say, and wave them off.

---

10:17 a.m.

The house smells like burnt toast and nail polish remover.

You stand in front of the mirror, staring at the black dress from last night. It's beautiful, and you hate it. It looks like someone who still believes in being adored.

You swap it for something "simpler." Something he'd call "classy."

Take a picture. Send it.

> this one's better right?

Add a heart you immediately regret. Delete the follow-up draft that said 'can't wait to see you there. Don't dissapoint me.

The message shows delivered. Never read. Honestly? Nothing new. And you fucking. Hate. It.

---

12:49 p.m.

The kettle screams. You don't move.

He posted an Instagram story. Something about "grind mode." A whiskey glass and a view of the city.

Your text still hasn't been opened.

You tell yourself he probably didn't see it. He keeps his notifications off. He hates being "bothered."

You bite another nail and mutter, "He's just focused. I love that about him."

Your reflection stares back like, do you, though?

---

2:11 p.m.

You call him once.

Then twice.

Delete the call log so you don't have to look desperate.

You feed Socks, who refuses to eat until you sit down beside him.

"Even you think I'm pathetic," you say, scratching his ear. "But at least you show up."

---

4:26 p.m.

You're pacing now. The silence feels personal.

Your messages are stacking up like receipts you can't afford to look at.

> "Hey. Just wanted to know if you saw my text."

> "Can you just answer me? Please?"

> "You know this means a lot to me. Don't do this shit, man."

No response.

Your chest hurts in that stupid way that makes you angry for being soft.

"This is fine," you say out loud. "He's just busy."

Then quieter: "He always is."

The lie tastes stale now.

---

6:03 p.m.

You're on your porch. Socks curled in your lap. The kitten asleep beside him.

The world looks indifferent.

You scroll through your old messages-his voice notes, his good-morning texts from the early months. It's like looking through someone else's relationship.

Your eyes sting. "He's not even cruel," you whisper. "He's just ... So quite."

That's worse, somehow.

You shake your head, eyes glassy but defiant. "He will."

No one says anything.

They just sit there, you in the middle of them, pretending you don't notice how much safer it feels here than anywhere else.

---

Bob had always thought love was supposed to be easy.

It had been that way in his parents' house-- quiet, patient, predictable. His mom still left notes in his dad's lunchbox thirty years in; his dad still warmed up her car on cold mornings.

Nobody yelled.

Nobody disappeared for days. They just... chose each other, again and again, until it became muscle memory.

So he never quite knew what to do with you.

Because you didn't love like that. You loved like it hurt.

Like every breath had to mean something, every touch was a promise, every silence was a test.

And the bastard you gave it all to kept failing, and failing, and failing -and Bob kept standing there, pretending he wasn't cataloguing every wince, every forced smile, every damn moment your light flickered out because of him.

He didn't even call it love anymore. That word felt too clean.

It was obsession, maybe.

Devotion warped at the edges.

The kind of ache that crawled under his ribs and made itself a permanent resident.

One year and seven months.

He'd tried to shake it. Tried dating, tried distance, tried telling himself that good men don't fall for women who already belong to someone. But you made belonging look like a prison.

And his friends didn't help. Phoenix had once muttered, "He doesn't deserve her, Bob," and Rooster had clapped him on the shoulder like it was some sort of battle cry. Even Hangman, of all people, had sighed, "You'd treat her right, man. You just would."

It didn't matter. He didn't want to be the savior. He just wanted you to stop looking so tired.

So when he'd suggested they all go out, "help her clear her head," everyone jumped on it like it was a mission briefing. The Hard Deck, a few drinks, some music loud enough some music loud enough to drown the ache-that was the plan.

And then you opened your door.

Bob forgot how to inhale for a second.

That leather jacket-- the one that looked like it had seen a hundred miles of bad decisions and still had room for more-- hung off your shoulders.

Your jeans clung to every furious thought in your body. Boots scuffed. Hair wild. You looked like revenge with a pulse.

Phoenix muttered, "Oh, she's in that outfit," under her breath, and Bob's stomach flipped. Because yeah, you only wore it when you were done pretending.

You leaned against the doorframe, jaw tight but eyes steady. "Give me ten minutes," you said, voice low and sharp as a knife. "I'm gonna go remind my mistake why people shouldn't mistake silence for patience."

The hallway went quiet.

Bob swallowed hard, pulse roaring in his ears. It was equal parts fear, pride, and something dangerously close to hope.

Please...

Because for the first time in a long time you didn't sound like someone trying to hold on.

✿ Summary: It only took you seven nights, three blanket burritos, and one stapler to fall in love with the Navy’s most polite sleepwalker.

✿ Warnings: Extreme levels of fluff, Sleepwalking shenanigans, Mutual pining (terminal case), One (1) stolen blanket

A/n: I loved writing this. Fuck writer's block.

✿

You were asleep.

‎A miracle. A historical event. Someone alert the Pope.

‎Your eyes had finally closed after three failed sleep med attempts, two mental breakdowns, and a whispered promise to God that you’d stop watching horror movies at 2 a.m.

‎Then came the murmuring.

-Bob Floyd

✿⁠Summary: Morning after it all; you told him he looked ridiculous. He smiled like you just said you loved him. So now you have a migraine and a soul crushing crush.

⁠✿⁠Warnings: I realized I have free will. I'm sorry in advance.

◔ Part 1 ◔ Part 2

The world gave out from under her.

‎She didn’t wake up; she was dragged awake.

‎One second, there was the sleepy weight of dreams, the warmth of something solid beside her, and the faint, sweet sting of whiskey still lingering on her tongue. The next-- gravity turned cruel.

‎A sudden pull.

‎A gasp caught in her throat.

‎The world lurched sideways. Her stomach swooped.

‎Then-- thud.

‎They hit the floor together, limbs tangled, breath stolen, eyes wide in mutual shock.

‎Her cheek was pressed against something warm-- his chest, she realized, as her brain fought through the fog. The air left her lungs in a stunned oof, and Bob Floyd blinked up at the ceiling, dazed, hair mussed, his arm still looped around her waist like his sleeping self refused to let her go.