#pete mitchell

Javy Machado’s wedding was supposed to be a relaxing getaway for you.

He and his wife-to-be, Paisley, had chosen Cabo for their destination wedding, and you were more excited at the prospect of a getaway with your squad than the actual ceremony.

If that made you a bad friend, then so be it.

It was a miracle that you’d all been granted leave for the three-night extravaganza, and you intended to make the most of every second. Your suitcase was full of brand new bikinis with matching sunglasses for each, paperbacks you’d been meaning to read for months, and two cute outfits for each day in case you wanted to change in the evenings. Your wedding outfit was in a separate garment bag, slung over your forearm.

The resort Javy and Paisley had picked was, quite frankly, magical—funny since it was situated in a “Pueblo Mágico,” which translated to “magical town.” Located in Todos Santos on the Pacific coast of Baja California Sur, it had its own private beach with clear blue water and white sand. Plenty of art galleries and surf spots surrounded the area if you fancied any excursions, although you had every intention of spending most of your free time lounging by the pool or swimming in the ocean.

Penny and Maverick checked in first, then the rest of your squad. Everyone was paired off and given their room keys, leaving just you and Bradley. Jake shot you a cheeky wink as he followed Nat across the foyer, and your skin prickled as realisation dawned on you.

‘You two are booked into one of our ocean-view rooms on the third floor,’ the receptionist said with a warm smile. ‘I’m going to give you two key cards, but if you lose them, let me know, and I can make you another.’

Your eyes flicked to Bradley, who had a shit-eating grin on his pretty face.

‘We’re sharing a room?’ He asked.

The receptionist frowned and glanced between the two of you with a confused expression on her face.

‘You’re Mr Bradshaw? And Miss Y/LN?’ She queried. ‘I’ve got you two down to share, as the rest of the rooms are filled with other guests from the Machado wedding party.’

You groaned internally as Bradley’s smile widened. ‘No worries,’ he said, taking the keys.

No worries? Of course he’d say that. And of course you’d be the one stuck sharing with him. Javy probably thought he was hilarious, orchestrating this. You made a mental note to tell him exactly what you thought of that when you saw him at dinner tonight.

It was an ongoing thing: Bradley’s overbearing and loud attempts at flirting with you and your hurriedness in shutting him down. Objectively, you knew he was attractive. And despite his loudness, he was funny, kind, and reliable. Bradley Bradshaw was the kind of guy most women tripped over themselves to be with, and rightly so.

But you?

You’d always believed that you were too quiet for someone like him.

He didn’t seem to share this belief, and he flirted with you every chance he got. Sometimes you wondered if he was just doing it for the bit, but he hadn’t been with anyone else for as long as you’d known him. As far as you were aware, he’d never even taken anyone home after a night at The Hard Deck, and you knew with absolute certainty that he could’ve if he wanted to.

On the walk up to the room, Bradley hummed to himself, irritatingly joyful about this turn of events. You still hadn’t said a word, because what were you supposed to say? “I snore when I’m really tired, and I like to have the windows open instead of the AC. Also, please don’t touch my expensive shampoo?” Anything you thought of in your head sounded ridiculous and obsolete. While Bradley fiddled with the key card, you pulled your phone out of your pocket to text Phoenix if she knew about this. 

Truthfully, you suspected that the whole squad knew. You wouldn’t have been surprised if Bradley had been the one to suggest it. Bradley opened the door and stepped aside so you could go in first, ever the gentleman. The room was stunning. Huge, bifold windows that opened out onto a balcony with a table and chairs for morning coffees, a flat screen TV that you doubted you’d even turn on, ornate decorations and crisp white bed sheets…

On the double bed.

The one large, double bed.

Bradley appeared behind you, smelling of clean cotton and whatever aftershave he always wore that you found yourself searching for in the shops. But that was besides the point.

‘Shit.’

You could hear the smirk in his voice, and you just managed to refrain from smacking him around the head.

‘What are we going to do?’ You fretted, scanning the room for a couch or a pullout bed, of which there was neither.

Of course.

Bradley wheeled his suitcase further into the room and pushed his aviators up into his hair. He turned to look at you, trying to gauge your reaction to the situation.

‘I can sleep on the floor,’ he offered with a shrug. ‘Or I can see if Mav’s room is any bigger. Maybe he has a couch.’

You ran your fingers through your hair. ‘You can’t share with Mav and Penny. That’s ridiculous.’

Bradley set his backpack down on the bed with a sigh. ‘Then I’ll sleep on the floor.’

‘I find it hard to believe that there’s not a single other room left in this whole place,’ you grumbled, dumping your purse on the bed next to Bradley’s bag.

‘Paisley has five sisters,’ Bradley reasoned, ducking his head into the bathroom to investigate. ‘Coyote has four brothers. They’ve invited most of their friends and family, and our whole squad and all their partners are here. That doesn’t even account for the rest of the people Coyote’s invited from the navy.’

You kicked your suitcase over with a little more force than you’d intended and unzipped it in search of a bikini. Just because you were stuck sharing a room with Bradshaw didn’t mean you had to change the rest of your plans.

‘I can’t imagine wanting a big wedding like this,’ you ruminated. 

‘You wanna get married someday?’ Bradley asked, sliding the balcony doors open.

‘If I find the right guy.’

‘Maybe you already have.’ He teased.

You gave him a flat look. ‘I think I’d know.’

‘See, you say that,’ he drawled. ‘But you seem to be painfully unaware of a lot of things.’

You gaped. ‘I am not.’ You flushed, indignant.

Bradley smirked. ‘Whatever you say, sweetheart.’

You set about unpacking some of your things while Bradley helped himself to drinks and snacks from the minibar.

It was strange to be alone with him in a setting like this. You couldn’t help but wonder if things might be easier between the two of you if he weren’t so damn forward all the time. Even after knowing him for the better part of a year, he always managed to catch you off guard with a flirtatious comment or a sultry stare. It wasn’t so bad at work or The Hard Deck, where you had common ground and the rest of your squad to act as a buffer, but you hadn’t spent a great deal of one-on-one time together.

Mostly because you avoided it.

If you weren’t alone with him, he couldn’t make you flustered. And if you weren’t flustered, you couldn’t make a fool of yourself.

Now, you kind of felt like you’d been thrown to the wolves, and you dreaded to think what was going to be left of you by the end of the weekend.

‘I’m going to the beach,’ you announced, grabbing your bag and a pair of sunglasses.

Bradley looked at you, chocolatey eyes wide and expecting in a way that made you want to run and jump into his strong arms. He seemed to be on the verge of saying something, but you didn’t give him the chance.

The sight of him was honestly just too much, and you didn’t trust yourself to be normal when he looked at you like that. 

You should’ve known you’d find Bob at the beach with a tattered paperback in hand, glasses sliding down his nose. He was a lot like you in the sense that he wasn’t one for commotion—perhaps that’s why you connected so easily.

When he saw you approaching, his cheeks dimpled with a smile so wide, you couldn’t help but smile back.

‘Hey,’ he said, closing his book. ‘You okay?’

You dumped your beach bag in the sand and pulled another sun lounger over so you could sit beside him. ‘I was,’ you replied as you sat down. ‘Until I got stuck sharing a room with Rooster. Apparently, there are no other rooms left.’

Bob gave you a glib look. ‘You know Javy and Jake planned the whole thing,’ he told you. ‘They made sure there were no more rooms left.’

Indignation sparked in your chest. ‘I knew it! I fucking knew it!’

Bob chuckled. ‘I’m sorry, Y/N.’

You waved him off. ‘I should’ve expected it from those two,’ you said. ‘Who are you sharing with?’

Bob handed you a bottle of water, and you thanked him. ‘Fanboy,’ he sighed. ‘We’re the only two singles left in the group.’

You took a sip of your water—it was nice and cold and just what you needed in the heat of the Mexican sun.

‘You forgot Rooster and me,’ you corrected, pointing your bottle at him accusingly.

Bob gave you a sly grin, which was a rarity for him. ‘Come on, Y/N. You don’t have to pretend with me.’

‘I’m not pretending!’ You sputtered. ‘Nothing is going on between me and Rooster!’

Bob scoffed. ‘Yeah, right. And I suppose the sky isn’t blue, either.’

You lay back against your sun lounger and covered your face with your hands. Sure, Bradley flirted with you incessantly, and yes, maybe you did have a teeny tiny crush on him. But you’d always found it hard to believe that there was any real weight behind Bradley’s words. You told Bob all of this, and when you peeked between your fingers, he was looking at you like you were the biggest moron in existence.

‘Rooster is a lot of things, but he’s not the kind of guy who’d play around with someone’s heart like that. He probably just doesn’t wanna go in too heavy and scare you off.’

Deep down, you probably knew this, but you weren’t ready to face the music.

‘I’m not the right type of person for him, Bob,’ you said quietly. ‘He’s literally the human embodiment of sunshine.’

The pages of Bob’s book rustled as he leaned forward and patted your hand affectionately. ‘Don’t sell yourself short, Y/CS. You’re pretty special, too.’

You looked away, blushing. ‘Thanks, Bobby.’

‘Any time you need a reality check, I’m your guy,’ he joked. ‘But seriously, you should think about what I’ve said. Maybe this weekend is the perfect opportunity to find out if he means what he says.’

Your stomach quite literally clenched at the thought.

Bradley was good at talking, but what would it be like if he actually put his money where his mouth was? You could only imagine what being truly loved by him would feel like, how changed you’d be after basking in his impossibly bright rays.

Water lapped the shore gently as you and Bob fell into an easy beat of silence. You liked spending time with Bob; being in his company was as easy as breathing, and he never asked anything of you. Because of this, you were rarely shy. What you wouldn’t have given for it to be like that with Bradley.

‘What are you reading, anyway?’ You asked, desperate for a change of subject. It was hot enough outside as it was without thinking about Bradley.

‘East of Eden,’ Bob replied, flashing the cover of his book to you. ‘I’ve read it before, but not since high school.’

‘The classic debate of good vs evil,’ you remarked. ‘Just a bit of light reading on vacation, huh?’

Bob laughed. ‘I like to keep my brain fed.’

‘I know you do,’ you smiled. ‘That’s why I love talking to you so much.’

It was Bob’s turn to flush. He looked away and swallowed nervously.

‘What about you?’ He stammered. ‘What are you reading?’

You handed him the battered, well-read copy of one of your favourite books. It was part of a series, and you’d been rereading them for nostalgia purposes. He read the blurb and nodded approvingly.

‘Sounds pretty good, actually.’

A heavy hand landed on your shoulder, making you jump. Thoughts veering totally off track, your body’s reaction told you who it was without you needing to turn around.

‘What does?’ Bradley asked, stepping over the end of your sun lounger and perching on the edge.

‘Y/N’s book,’ Bob replied, shooting you a knowing smirk.

‘What is it?’ He asked, reaching for the book which Bob handed him.

‘Just an old favourite from when I was a teenager,’ you explained, keeping your eyes planted firmly on your lap so you wouldn’t oggle too much. ‘I’m rereading the whole series.’

‘Oh, cool,’ he replied, hand coming to rest on your shin. ‘I forgot my book.’

Your eyes flicked to his calloused hand on your leg. It was such a simple, casual act, but it drove you nuts nonetheless; it was an effort to stay focused on the conversation. ‘I didn’t know you could read.’ You said sweetly, hoping you didn’t sound too affected.

Bob choked on his water, and Bradley tipped his head back and laughed, a full-on belly laugh that made your chest tighten.

‘I’ll have you know, I like reading,’ he said, locking eyes with you. ‘Just have to be in the mood.’ His grip on your leg tightened, and warmth pooled in the bottom of your stomach.

‘That so?’

‘Uh-huh,’ he grinned, winking at you over his aviators. ‘I’m going for a swim.’

And with that, he was off like a shot towards the water, muscles expanding deliciously as he ran.

Bob was trying and failing to contain his laughter.

You read a few chapters of your book, stopping now and then to share lines you liked with Bob, who was doing the same. When Bradley came back dripping wet and somehow even more God-like than he’d been thirty minutes ago, you decided it might be a good idea to go for a swim as well, just to cool down. Being around him on base or at The Hard Deck was bad enough, but on a beach in Cabo in the blistering summer heat when he looked like that? It was impossible to think straight, especially when he pulled a sun lounger so close to yours that the arms touched and took a long drink from your water bottle. The worst part of it was that he did all this as if it were the most natural thing in the world. Almost like you were already a couple, which everyone else in your squad seemed to think you were.

Nat and Jake appeared with more drinks and a large platter of fresh fruit to share, which she promptly deposited in Bradley’s lap so she could lay her beach towel out. Jake took one look at Bradley, who was so close to you you might as well have been sharing a sun lounger, and smirked to himself like the cat who got the cream.

‘This looks cosy,’ he drawled, moving his toothpick from one corner of his mouth to another.

Bradley squinted up at him, unable to move without jostling the impressive tray of fruit. He seemed to be on the verge of saying something smart in response to Jake’s comment—something that would probably make you even more flustered—so you jumped up and grabbed hold of Nat’s arm.

‘Shall we go for a swim?’

Nat straightened, eyes flicking from you to Bradley as a knowing look spread across her face. You could feel Bradley’s gaze burning holes into your back, and you adjusted the straps of your white bikini self-consciously, suddenly hyperaware of the miles of skin you had on display.

‘Sure,’ she replied, brows raised. Then, once you were out of earshot of the rest of the group: ‘You’re acting weird.’

You threw your hands up. ‘I can’t help it! I feel like a caged animal!’ She laughed and you shot her a glare. ‘Glad to see my pain is funny to you, Trace.’

‘Oh come on,’ she nudged your ribs playfully. ‘You need to relax, stop taking it so seriously.’

You’d reached the shore. The cool, clear water lapping at your ankles was just the kind of grounding you needed.

‘I can’t help it,’ you whined. ‘There’s too much pressure on the situation. Bob told me that Jake and Javy were behind us sharing a room.’

Nat rolled her eyes. ‘You weren’t supposed to know that.’

‘You knew too?’ You exclaimed, shoving her lightly. ‘I can’t believe you! Dating Hangman is really rubbing off on you in the worst possible way.’

The two of you waded deeper until the swell reached your waists; then, you leaned back and let the tide claim you, your hair fanning out beneath the waves.

‘If it makes you feel any better,’ Nat said, pushing her dark hair out of her face. ‘Bradley didn’t know.’

You regarded your friend. Being the only two females in your squad meant that you were quite close, and you always knew when she was lying. You could tell by the set of her shoulders and the look in her eye that she was telling the truth about this.

‘I just don’t like being backed into a corner,’ you admitted, scrunching your toes in the sand. ‘He makes me nervous enough as it is.’

‘Y/N,’ Nat sighed. ‘Can I give you a piece of advice?’

‘I have a feeling you’re going to anyway, no matter what I say.’

She gave you a glib look. ‘Get out of your own head and just lean into it,’ she told you. ‘So what if Jake and Javy orchestrated the whole thing? At some point, something had to give. He looks at you like you hung the fucking moon in the sky.’

You couldn’t help but glance back at the beach. With the distance, you couldn’t be certain, but you were pretty sure that Bradley was still watching you over the top of his sunglasses.

‘Bob said pretty much the same thing,’ you relented.

‘Well, Bob’s a smart guy,’ Nat said, standing up. ‘If you’re not gonna listen to me, you should listen to him.’

You followed her back to shore, mulling over what she’d said. Did Bradley really look at you like you’d hung the moon? Most of the time, you were too flustered to properly read into it, but maybe your friends were right, and there really was more to his flirting than simply getting under your skin.

As you approached the guys, Bradley tracked you without shame, leaning back on his forearms like he didn’t have a care in the world. You almost lost your nerve when he sat up higher and pulled his sunglasses down further so he could see you better. For once, instead of shying away, you decided to be bold and add a little sway to your hips. His eyes immediately darkened as he ran his tongue over his bottom lip.

When you reached your sun lounger, you took your time drying off with your towel and brushing the sand from your legs before sitting down. Bradley’s attention never once left you.

‘You’re always looking at me like that,’ you said lowly, so only he could hear you.

‘Like what?’ He asked, smirking.

‘You know what.’

He reached up and ran his fingers through his curls and released a long breath. ‘Sorry. Can’t help it.’

His voice had dropped lower, and he seemed to be struggling to sit still. In the spirit of leaning into it like Nat had said, you allowed yourself a small moment of satisfaction in knowing you had an effect on him.

‘Don’t apologise,’ you told him.

His eyes darted to you, questioning, like he wasn’t sure whether he’d heard you correctly. The air seemed to shift around the two of you, and you were distantly aware that there was no turning back now.

‘I’m gonna go get some ice cream,’ you announced. ‘Want one?’

‘Sure,’ he sputtered, tracking you once again as you stood up. ‘Thanks.’

You flashed him your widest, prettiest smile and relished in the way his lips tugged upward beneath his moustache.

‘No problem, roomie.’

Bradley let you take the first shower when you got back to your room. You took your time washing your hair twice, and then took extra care scrubbing the sand from every inch of your body.

You were stalling.

The Daggers had a reservation at a fancy restaurant a little way from the resort, but it wasn’t for another hour. That meant sixty whole minutes alone in a room with Bradley Bradshaw with nobody to act as a buffer and no ocean to disappear into.

Hence the twenty-minute-long shower.

The bathroom was just as beautiful as the rest of the suite, complete with a waterfall shower, his and hers sinks and light-up mirrors. You stepped out onto the fluffy mat in search of a towel, but all you could find was a couple of small hand towels.

An icy chill ran down your spine as you remembered the towels folded up at the foot of the bed.

Fuck.

Gingerly, you opened the bathroom door and poked your head out. Bradley was stretched out on the bed, flipping through your current read.

‘Can you pass me a towel?’ You squeaked. ‘There are none in here.’

Bradley’s head snapped up.

You watched the realisation that you were naked behind the door wash over him, and his eyes darkened just like they had on the beach. A sly grin tugged at his lips as he set your book down and swiped a towel from where they were folded into swans.

‘What’s the magic word, sweetheart?’ He teased, voice an octave lower than usual.

Your toes curled instinctively, grip tightening on the edge of the door

‘...Please.’

He came right up to the bathroom door, but didn’t hand the towel over right away—just stood there, a little too close, like he’d forgotten what he was supposed to be doing.

His eyes flicked over your face and settled on the water pooling in your collarbones. You thought you saw his breath hitch, though surely smug, confident Bradley Bradshaw wouldn’t be so affected by the sight of your naked shoulders.

You reached around the door and waved your hands impatiently, and he blinked as though startled.

‘Sorry,’ he murmured, biting back a grin as he handed you the towel. When his fingers brushed yours, your breath hitched, and you slammed the bathroom door shut suddenly and leaned against it.

He didn’t even have to try to get you worked up. Honestly, it was a little embarrassing.

After wrapping yourself in the fluffy towel, you bit the bullet and walked out into the bedroom. All your clothes were in your suitcase because—of course—you hadn’t thought to take them in the bathroom with you. You didn’t feel like asking Bradley to root through all your underwear to find you an outfit, thank you very much.

He didn’t move an inch as you sashayed across the room, just kept his eyes planted firmly on the wall in front of him, jaw set like it took effort to keep them there. After the way he’d stared at you at the beach earlier, you weren’t sure why he was bothering to be chaste now. He swiped another towel from the foot of the bed and disappeared into the bathroom, all without fully turning around, like he was afraid to look at you.

Or maybe he was afraid that you’d look at him.

After taking a deep, steadying breath, you moisturised and put on your evening dress. It was a cute, baby yellow number that you’d picked out especially for this trip. Admittedly, you’d had Bradley in mind when you’d bought it, though you’d die before ever telling anyone this.

It was hot enough outside that you could leave your hair to air dry, so you grabbed a mini bottle of prosecco from the fridge and a glass and headed out onto the balcony. The view of the private beach was breathtaking and made you wish you could take vacations more often.

By the time you heard the bathroom door open, the sun had started to set, and you’d nearly finished your drink.

Bradley had taken longer than you in the shower, and that was saying something.

You blamed the bubbly for your inability to keep your eyes on the beautiful ocean view, and turned subtly in your seat.

Bradley had his back to you, a white towel hanging low on his waist. Up until now, you hadn’t given men’s backs much thought, but now you were reconsidering. The expanse of tanned skin pulled taught over impressive muscles had you wondering about other areas of his body.

Now who was shamelessly staring?

Practically drooling, you watched him dig through his suitcase for some clothes, mesmerised by his fluid movements—so mesmerised, in fact, you only just managed to turn back around before he dropped his towel to the floor.

‘Hey, Y/CS?’ He called.

Your stomach somersaulted. ‘Yeah?’ You squeaked.

‘This mirror on the wall by the door’s nice, huh?’ He replied, smirk audible in his voice.

Your brows furrowed as you tried to work out what he was talking about. What did a mirror have to do with anything?

Silence stretched out for a second.

Then it dawned on you.

He must have seen you ogling him in the reflection.

Heat crept up the back of your neck as you rubbed your temples, wishing the ground would open up and swallow you whole.

After a few minutes of quietly simmering with embarrassment, Bradley appeared on the balcony, dressed in black dress pants and a loose-fitting, white linen shirt. He’d combed his wet hair back, and his aviators were perched precariously on the tip of his nose. To top it all off, he smelled delicious.

‘Ready to go?’ He asked innocently.

You knocked the rest of your drink back and stood up. ‘Yep.’

He followed you across the room, and just as you opened the door, he placed a hand on your shoulder to stop you. Gently, he untucked your wet hair from beneath the back of your dress and tucked it over one shoulder so your back wouldn’t get wet. It wasn’t the feel of his fingers against the nape of your neck that startled you; it was the softness of the gesture. It affected you more than his loud, outward attempts at flirting.

You were frozen to the spot as he let his hand linger for a little longer than he should’ve before pulling away.

‘Thanks.’ You squeaked.

He was so close to you that you could feel his breath on the back of your neck as he said: ‘No problem, roomie.’

The restaurant was called Jazzamango, and it sold the most expensive pizza you’d ever had in your entire life. It had been Mav and Penny’s idea to come here, and they were paying for the whole thing. The Daggers were family, and you were grateful for the way Penny had taken you all under her wing—just because Mav had to, didn’t mean she did.

Naturally, you ended up sandwiched between Natasha and Bradley, because there had been no other seats left when you arrived. It was incredibly hard to focus on your $400 pizza when Bradley’s leg kept knocking into yours beneath the ornately decorated table. Every time it happened, you inched a little closer to Nat.

‘Wanna sit in my lap or something?’ she whisper-shouted after the fourth time it happened.

‘Sorry,’ you hissed. ‘Bradshaw’s all up in my personal space.’

She rolled her eyes. ‘Well, you’re sharing a room with him for the next three nights, so you might wanna get used to it.’

You flashed your teeth at her. ‘Thank you for captioning my nightmare.’

‘You know, this whole playing hard to get thing is getting really boring to watch,’ she told you with a smirk. ‘I thought I told you to lean into it.’

His knee touched yours again, and this time you didn’t move away—you told yourself it was because you had nowhere else to go, but was it?

‘Relax,’ Bradley murmured, low enough that only you could hear. ‘You look like you’re about to bolt.’

‘Maybe I am.’ You shot back.

‘Don’t,’ he said simply, before going back to his conversation with Reuben and his girlfriend.

By the time desert came out, you were jumpy, exhausted and ready for bed. Which would’ve sounded inviting after a day of socialising, if not for the fact that you had to share with Bradley.

‘So,’ Nat said suddenly, cutting into her piece of cheesecake. ‘How’s the room?’

You almost choked on your drink, but Bradley didn’t even look up from his plate. ‘Great, actually.’ He said.

‘Is it?’ She asked.

‘Yeah,’ he said, finally glancing your way. ‘We’re getting along really well.’

You kicked him under the table. Hard. His leg didn’t move. In fact, it pressed closer.

You went completely still.

By now, you were sure this man was going to be the death of you, and you were sick of him always getting one up. Resolutely, you put your hand on the top of his thigh and squeezed, hoping nobody would notice. His fork clattered onto his half-empty plate as he glared at you, pupils blown completely black.

‘Yeah,’ you smiled at Nat. ‘We are.’

She couldn’t see your hand from this angle, but she could see the pained expression on Bradley’s face. Honestly, you were taken aback by your own boldness. You had no idea whether to move away or double down, and your pulse was going ohshitohshitohshit.

‘Weirdos.’ Nat huffed.

For the first time since you’d met him, Bradley Bradshaw didn’t have a comeback.

He ate the rest of his dessert in a stunned sort of silence, glancing at you now and then like he was making sure you were really there. 

When you got back to the room, the energy between you and Bradley was loaded in a way it hadn’t been before.

You didn’t know if Bob and Nat’s words had gotten to you, if you’d had too much champagne or if the forced proximity to Bradley had finally broken down the last of your resolve—either way, you were seeing the situation from an entirely new angle.

It was hard to believe that all these months of teasing had purely been for fun when he’d looked at you like that when you’d grabbed his thigh. And this stunned silence he’d been trapped in since the restaurant? It was so unlike him that you could only assume you’d had a real effect on him.

Bradley went over to the minibar and grabbed two miniature bottles of Patròn.

‘Do we have to pay for these?’ He asked, waving the bottles at you.

‘I guess so,’ you replied, following him out to the balcony. ‘Unless the happy couple are footing the bill at the end.’

He handed you one of the bottles and uncapped his. ‘Guess we’ll find out,’ he smirked. ‘You ready?’

You scrunched your nose up. ‘We’re just gonna drink it straight?’

‘That’s the whole point of tequila,’ he reasoned.

Shooting straight tequila in a hotel room with Bradley Bradshaw? You said a silent prayer for your sanity before following Bradley’s lead and downing it, wincing at the harsh taste.

‘I don’t usually drink tequila,’ you sputtered.

‘Neither do I,’ he admitted, smiling sheepishly. ‘Doesn’t normally end well.’

‘That’s exactly what I was thinking,’ you laughed.

And that’s how you and Bradley ended up swapping stories about your worst drunken nights. By the end of it, you were clutching your sides, which ached from laughing so hard, and your jaw hurt from smiling so wide. He made you feel careless and present in the moment, as though nothing and nobody outside of it was more important. It was easier to laugh than to acknowledge what had changed.

Eventually, you cast a glance at the very inviting bed. Bradley watched you intently, like he was waiting to see what you’d say first.

The tequila had gone straight to your head. You leaned back in your seat and took a deep, steadying breath of ocean air.

‘You can’t sleep on the floor, Rooster. I wouldn’t be able to sleep.’

Bradley gave you a bemused grin. ‘You wouldn’t be able to sleep?’

‘No,’ you pouted. ‘Because I’d just be thinking about how uncomfortable you were all night.’

Fiddling with his empty bottle, Bradley smiled dazzlingly. ‘You would?’

Before you could stop the words flying out of your mouth, you asked: ‘Is it so hard to believe that I care about you?’

Bradley’s smile dropped, suddenly serious. ‘Kinda.’

His admission was like a sharp stab in your chest. ‘Well, I do.’

He didn’t drop his gaze from you as he said: ‘That’s good to know.’

Suddenly, the quiet between you was too loud. You couldn’t sit still anymore, and you could feel your clothes sticking to your body.

‘I’m going to put my pyjamas on,’ you announced, getting up from your seat.

‘Need a hand?’ Bradley teased.

Your mouth dried out at the thought. ‘Nope,’ you squeaked, hurrying into the bathroom with your night things.

As you dressed, you wished you’d brought something a bit nicer than an old Harley Davidson t-shirt and skimpy sleep shorts, but you hadn’t been expecting anyone to see you after 10pm. What kind of psycho could sleep in lace, anyway?

After brushing your teeth and combing through your hair, you headed back into the bedroom where Bradley was perched on the edge of the bed scrolling on his phone. He was shirtless in a pair of grey sleep shorts, and your brain short-circuited at the thought of sharing a bed with him.

When you flopped down on top of the duvet, he turned to face you, propping his head up on his hands. God, he was handsome. Nobody had the right to be so perfect.

‘I sleep with the windows open,’ you told him, lips tugging upward. ‘No AC. And sometimes I snore if I’m really tired.’

Bradley laughed delightedly. ‘I sleep with the windows open too,’ he told you. ‘And I snore all the time.’

‘Now you’ve got me second-guessing letting you sleep in the bed with me,’ you joked.

Bradley laughed again, and something in your chest shifted. You found yourself trying to come up with ways to hear that laugh again.

He sat up and moved further up the bed, close enough to you that you could feel heat rolling off him.

‘You’re on my side, though,’ he said huskily.

‘That so?’ You asked, raising a brow.

‘Yup.’

Emboldened by the wicked glint in his eye, you straddled him so you could get to the other side of the bed. Instinctively, his hands flew to your hips, and even though the contact and proximity were short-lived, it still set an electric current buzzing beneath your skin. His little ‘oof’ had your pulse jumping into your throat.

Without giving him any time to respond, you reached over and snapped the bedside lamp on, plunging you into near total darkness. The only light came from the moon, which was almost full up in the sky, and a spattering of twinkling stars.

Bradley pulled the duvet back and nestled beneath it, and you followed suit. You could barely hear the ocean outside over the pounding of your own heart as you grabbed a few of the extra pillows (what bed needed this many?) and made a barrier between the two of you. You knew full well that it was childish, and you felt a bit like an idiot, but really, what other choice did you have?

‘You’re not serious,’ Bradley laughed, voice more unsteady than usual. You couldn’t tell him that you didn’t trust yourself, or that you knew you’d never drift off to sleep if you could feel him lying beside you.

‘Night roomie.’ You said sweetly.

He scoffed, but you could hear the smile in his voice when he said: ‘Yeah. Goodnight.’

You woke up a few hours later completely disoriented.

It took you a moment to remember that you were away in Cabo, and not in your own bed in San Diego.

Slowly, you came to terms with your surroundings: the lovely, light breeze in through the balcony doors, the sound of the ocean gently lapping the shore, and someone snoring.

Your brain hadn’t quite caught up yet—it was still somewhere between sleep and waking.

And then it did, all at once.

The pillow barrier you’d built hastily before falling asleep had been kicked to the foot of the bed. In your sleep, you and Bradley seemed to have found your way into each other’s arms. Your face was pretty much buried in his chest, and both of his strong arms were wrapped around you. He smelled of sandalwood and sunscreen, and he was so incredibly warm.

You’d never been this close to him before. Not like this. Not where you could feel every single breath he took.

The heat you were becoming all too familiar with unfurled deep in your belly. It was desire mixed with nerves and anticipation, and it was slightly intoxicating; better than any expensive champagne.

You debated rolling away, probably should have rolled away. But you didn’t.

You couldn’t.

Bradley was so warm and inviting, and he wasn’t awake to make a sly remark and totally ruin the bliss. Tentatively, you draped your arm across his middle, hand hovering for a second before you let it settle against his back, fingertips tracing slow, absent lines like you were testing whether the moment was real. He shuddered in his sleep, and your breath caught, and not because he’d moved—because he’d felt it.

You bit back a pleased grin.

Just as you’d started to drift off again, his arms tightened around you, somehow pulling you even closer.

‘Y/N?’ He murmured.

You inhaled sharply. ‘Yeah?’

‘Are we cuddling?’

And damn if his raspy, sleepy voice wasn’t the sexiest thing you’d ever heard in your entire life.

‘I think so.’ You whispered.

Silence for a second, then a quiet, ‘Okay.’

His grip didn’t loosen; it just settled, like he’d decided something. And not two minutes later, he was snoring again.

Just like that.

You didn’t move, not even after he’d fallen asleep.

And that meant something you weren’t quite ready to face just yet. 

Bradley didn’t think he’d ever been this close to losing his mind before.

Every little thing you did drove him insane—the way you got embarrassed and couldn’t hold eye contact when he flirted with you, the smell of your expensive shampoo, the sight of you in that fucking white bikini, water sliding down your stomach and legs.

And now, he could add your little snores and the way you clung to him like a koala in your sleep to the list.

He woke up to you still nestled against his chest, arms wrapped around his torso like you two did this sort of thing every night. It didn’t surprise him that you two fit together like puzzle pieces—he’d always known that you were meant for each other. What surprised him was that you hadn’t moved all night, even after waking up and finding yourself pressed against him. Most of the time, he had a hard time even having a serious conversation with you without you disappearing on him or retreating inward, so he was counting this as a step in the right direction.

Being careful not to wake you, he peeled your arm off him and crept to the bathroom, closing the door behind him softly. No matter what, he started every single day with an ice-cold shower, but today it was more necessary than usual. His skin smelled of your perfume, he finally knew what it felt like to hold you close, and after spending the better part of six hours pressed up against your gorgeous body, he was more than flustered.

He gripped the edge of the bathroom sink, suddenly all too aware of his own body, which had totally betrayed him.

He felt more than a little guilty for sorting out his morning problem with you sleeping ten feet away, but what other choice did he have? You cut and run from in The Hard Deck when he winked at you, so he couldn’t imagine what would happen if you woke up to his dick pressing against your stomach. Hell, you’d probably never be able to be in the same room as him again.

Bradley tried not to take it personally; he really did. He understood that you were shy and more reserved than the rest of your rowdy squad. But that was one of the things he loved most about you. He also knew that you didn’t believe that he genuinely liked you, that he wanted more with you than the sex he hinted at too often.

Maybe that was his own fault, but he just loved teasing you so damn much.

As he went through the motions of his morning routine, he thought about how incredible it had felt to wake up cuddling you. By the time he was done in the bathroom, he’d replayed the memory so many times he no longer fully believed that it had really happened. Had he dreamt your arms tightening around him, or the lazy circles you’d traced into his back?

The sight of you tucked up in the middle of the bed, hair splayed out across his pillow, was the only proof he had that any of it was real. Bradley dressed quickly and grabbed his phone and key card. Breakfast would be starting any minute, and he thought you might like some time to yourself to get ready for the busy day ahead. Cocktails had been scheduled for the afternoon, followed by the rehearsal dinner, and he knew you well enough to know that you’d want some time to charge your social battery before all that.

Down in the restaurant, Natasha, Jake, Mickey and Bob were already seated at a table close to the window. Bradley grabbed himself a cup of black coffee and a plate of fresh fruit before joining them.

‘There he is!’ Jake said, smirking smarmily.

‘Fucking finally!’ Nat exclaimed. ‘I need details, now. Did it happen?’

Bradley stabbed a strawberry with his fork. ‘No.’

All four of his squad mates visibly deflated with disappointment. ‘What do you mean “no?”’ Nat demanded. ‘You shared a bed with her! She had like, four glasses of champagne!’

‘So?’ Bradley rolled his eyes. ‘What was I supposed to do, take advantage of her because she was drunk?’

Bob leaned forward in his seat. ‘Did anything happen? Anything at all?’

Bob Floyd wasn’t one for gossip, so if he was interested, then the situation must have been getting dire.

Bradley shrugged. ‘We had some tequila, chatted for a while, then we went to bed.’

‘Did you share the bed?’ Mickey asked, waggling his eyebrows.

‘Yeah,’ Bradley snorted. ‘With a fucking pillow shield between us.’

Jake’s eyes lit up, and Bradley immediately regretted saying anything. If you found out that he’d told anyone about what had gone on behind closed doors, you’d never talk to him again.

‘Come on, Rooster,’ Nat pleaded. ‘Just make a move already!’

‘I don’t know if she wants that! She’s so hot and cold, I never know whether I’m coming or going.’

‘But I bet you wish you were co—’

Natasha punched Jake’s arm, cutting him off abruptly. Bradley busied himself with his fruit, although it was difficult to focus with four pairs of eyes boring holes into the top of his head.

He huffed. ‘We cuddled.’

Chaos erupted. He only meant to give them something to shut them up, but now he was being bombarded with a whole slew of other questions, like “who initiated it?” and “did you get to second base?” Bradley banged his fork down onto the table.

‘Can you guys cut it the fuck out!’ He snapped. ‘It’s none of your business—and if you tell her I told you that, I’ll never speak to any of you again.’

Mickey snorted. ‘Yeah, cos it took you a whole fucking year to even get her in a room alone.’

Bradley picked up a grape and threw it at Mickey’s head.

‘Low blow, Fanboy,’ Nat growled.

Mickey threw his hands up. ‘But it’s true!’

‘Y/N’s different,’ Bob said quietly. ‘If you really wanna be with her, you have to show her that it’s not all just for show.’

Bradley blinked. He knew you and Bob talked a lot, probably because you were both quiet and relatively reserved. Judging by the look in the WSOs eyes, he knew more than he was letting on.

Nat nodded in agreement. ‘Bob’s right,’ she said. ‘Maybe slow down on the flirting and let her get comfortable.’

Bradley chewed on this. Out of everyone in your squad, Phoenix and Bob definitely knew you best. If he was going to take anyone’s advice, it would be theirs. Maybe all his shameless flirting was only harming his cause.

He could tone it back, let you come to him for a change. He just had to hope that you actually did, because he didn’t think he could survive another night in bed with you without kissing you.

Bradley couldn’t stop admiring the way your pretty, blue evening dress clung to your body in all the right places. You looked so stunning he couldn’t think straight, just kept going back to the previous night in his mind.

You sipped your cocktail, smiling slightly at something Penny was telling you.

It was the first time he’d seen you since this morning in the room. When you hadn’t come down for breakfast, he’d taken you up a croissant and some coffee, but you weren’t in the room. He’d checked the beach, the pool and the bar, but he hadn’t been able to find you anywhere. He didn’t even see you when he went back to the room to get ready for cocktails and the rehearsal dinner, which was disconcerting.

It wasn’t until he’d arrived at the garden that he saw you, leaning against the wall with an impressive-looking drink in hand, chatting with Penny. Either you hadn’t seen him come in, or you were ignoring him, because you hadn’t so much as glanced in his direction.

Javy clapped a hand on his back, startling Bradley from his reverie.

‘How’s it going?’ He asked, face split in a wide grin.

‘Good,’ Bradley replied. ‘What about you? Feeling the pre-wedding jitters yet?’

Javy shook his head. ‘Not in the slightest. When you know, you know. I’ve never been more sure of anything my whole life.’

Bradley’s eyes darted to you. ‘I get that, man.’

Javy followed Bradley’s line of sight and smiled sheepishly. ‘I hear mine and Jake’s plan isn’t exactly working.’

Bradley shrugged, hoping he didn’t look as dejected as he felt. ‘Bob and Phoenix think I’ve been coming on too strong, but I’m not sure if it’s that anymore. Maybe she just doesn’t like me back.’

‘Bullshit,’ Javy said. ‘You just need to take a different approach.’

‘Yeah, so I’ve heard.’

‘It’ll happen. Like I just said—when you know, you know.’

Bradley nodded, because he did know. He just wasn’t sure that you did.

You were halfway through your drink when you felt him beside you. You kept your eyes trained on the couples dancing beneath the pergola, which was strung with twinkling, golden fairy lights. Bradley inched closer to you, resting his arm on the back of the stool you were sitting on. You wore a backless dress, and the feeling of his arm against your bare skin reminded you of last night.

‘You disappeared on me today,’ he said quietly.

You leaned back slightly until you were almost in the crook of his arm ‘Sorry.’

‘Everything okay?’

You didn’t even know where to start. ‘Yeah,’ you said. ‘Just wanted some peace and quiet.’

‘Charming,’ he said, voice teasing.

‘I didn’t mean—’ you sputtered, covering your face with your hands. ‘I didn’t mean it like that.’

His chuckle reverberated through your body. When you removed your hands from your face, he leaned even closer to you. ‘It’s okay,’ he murmured, eyes darting to your lips. ‘I get it. You don’t have to hide from me, Y/N. I can go as slow as you want.’

You lost yourself in the depths of him, totally enamoured. It was as if the rest of the garden had faded away, and it was just you and Bradley left. A few more inches, and you could’ve kissed him. It would’ve been so easy if you could just forget about your insecurities and stop overthinking everything.

‘Why do you keep trying with me?’ You asked a little breathlessly.

He tucked a loose strand of hair behind your ear, thumb lightly brushing your jaw, and your whole body trembled with a mix of nerves and anticipation.

‘Why wouldn’t I?’ He answered.

Your eyes fluttered closed. His breath fanned across your face as he exhaled, slowly closing the distance between the two of you. Your stomach flipped just as the tip of his nose bumped yours, and

‘Everyone, if you could please make your way to the dining area,’ somebody announced over the microphone. ‘Dinner will be served shortly.’

The spell was broken.

Around you, everyone scraped their stools back or set their empty glasses down on tables. Your body was a live wire, veins coursing with adrenaline that now had no place to go. Bradley pulled back, and your heart sank, and that was when you realised just how much you wanted him to kiss you.

He gazed at you longingly and held out his hand for you to hold, which you took. ‘Later,’ he breathed. 

This time, when Bradley’s leg touched yours beneath the dinner table, you didn’t pull away.

That alone told you everything had changed.

Like last night, you’d spent most of dinner thinking about sharing a room with Bradley, but it was different tonight. You’d given yourself time to breathe instead of immediately talking yourself out of anything. You hadn’t let yourself go round in circles about the cuddling or what it meant, just let yourself accept that it had been nice. And that almost kiss? The way your body and heart had reacted told you everything you needed to know about how you truly felt about Bradley—something you’d always known, deep down, but had been too afraid to let yourself accept.

Part of you still found it hard to believe that Bradley truly liked you, but Bob and Nat’s words were starting to make a lot more sense to you now you’d seen he could give you more than obnoxiously flirty comments that set your skin on fire.

I can go as slow as you want.

Bradley was midway through a conversation with Mav when he filled your wine glass up for you, like taking care of you was something he didn’t even have to think about.

You tipped your head to the side, resting it on his shoulder for two seconds while you thanked him.

Nat, who was opposite you tonight, caught the whole thing and raised a brow.

You flushed scarlet, but didn’t pull away from Bradley, and she smirked knowingly. The two of you were good at having conversations with just facial expressions, and hers right now told you that you would be talking about this later, even if she had to tie you down to force information out of you.

When you finally looked away from her, your eyes caught on Bradley’s. He wasn’t listening to Maverick anymore; he was already looking at you. Not in that easy, teasing way you were used to—not like he was about to say something that would make your cheeks burn and your heart race for all the wrong reasons. This was quiet and steadier, like he was waiting.

Your breath hitched as something warm and certain settled low in your chest.

You didn’t look away this time, and neither did he.

After dinner, Javy and Paisley’s parents gave lovely speeches, and then, as he was basically an extra father for all intents and purposes, Mav gave one too. It made you a little emotional to see Mav standing so proudly as he recounted stories about Javy and his many achievements in the Dagger squad.

By the time all the plates were cleared and the speeches were finished, you could hardly keep your eyes open.

Bradley put a steadying hand on your shoulder. ‘Shall we go up to bed?’

You’d never experienced butterflies like the swarm that fluttered in your stomach at those words. Like going up to bed was something the two of you did—like it was normal. A world existed where those words actually meant something, and the two of you were right on the precipice of it.

‘Yeah,’ you said, taking his hand once again. ‘Let’s.’

He was grinning from ear to ear as you stood up and wrapped your hand around his bicep.

You threw a glance behind you at your squad, who were losing their collective shit. Maverick and Penny shared a knowing look that made you wonder just how many people were rooting for you and Bradley, and whether you were supposed to be flattered or embarrassed by it. 

The room felt different.

When Bradley closed the door behind you, it felt smaller than it had before. You kicked your shoes off and sashayed over to the bed, all too aware of Bradley trailing behind you.

‘Want a drink?’ He asked, voice thick with tension.

You nodded, and he set about pouring two glasses of wine.

He crouched down by the fridge, and you stared at the muscles in his arms as he uncorked a bottle of white wine and poured two big glasses.

It was a stark contrast to how you were used to seeing him: climbing into a multi-million dollar fighter jet, body tense but relaxed at the same time in a way that came only from being in the military. He was a totally different guy in this setting, and you couldn’t decide which version you liked best.

Your brain was ticking again now, starting to spiral. What if this didn’t work out? What if it all went to hell in a handbasket and you couldn’t work together anymore? What if all your worst fears came true, and Bradley decided you weren’t right for him after all?

You snatched your pyjamas from beneath your pillow and clambered off the bed towards the bathroom.

‘Going to change.’ You muttered.

You pushed the door open and stepped in, but before you could close it, Bradley was there, hand around your wrist and a steady look on his face.

‘Don’t,’ he said, gently tugging you towards him. ‘Don’t do that.’

‘Do what?’ You asked hoarsely, laying your hands on his chest to steady yourself.

‘Run. You don’t get to look at me like that and then run.’

He was almost pleading, and you were struggling to catch a breath.

‘This whole time, I thought this was just you being…you,’ you admitted. ‘I never thought you actually—’

‘Liked you?’ He released a shaky laugh. ‘I honestly don’t know what else I can do to get you to believe me.’

He let go of your arm and ran his hands through his curls.

‘At the start, I thought you were just flirting with me as a joke,’ you admitted, cheeks flaming. ‘And then when you didn’t stop, I started to wonder why you’d even go for someone like me. I’m quiet and boring, and you’re like sunshine, Bradley,’ you took a breath, and he reached out like he was going to touch you before thinking better of it. ‘Then this weekend, Nat and Bob have been trying to convince me that you really do like me and to just relax, but I can’t because you’re you and I’m me and you just make me so fucking nervous and—’

Bradley’s lips crashed into yours as he pressed you up against the wall, caging you in with his arms. You’d been kissed before, but not like this—not like you were the very air somebody needed to survive. It was natural then, the way you put your hands on the back of Bradley’s neck—still warm from the heat of the day—and pulled him in closer, licking his bottom lip and deepening the kiss. He whimpered, like actually whimpered, when you began exploring his mouth, and your stomach clenched so hard it was almost painful.

When he eventually pulled away, he was panting hard, eyes blown so wide you lost yourself in them for a moment.

‘I can’t believe you’d think that,’ he breathed. ‘You—you’re everything,’ he swallowed thickly, cupping your face in his hands. ‘I’ve liked you since the day I met you, but every day that’s passed since then it’s only gotten stronger. And maybe I should’ve given you more than stupid comments, but I didn’t wanna risk fucking things up with you.’

You closed your eyes and rubbed your nose against his. ‘I’m sorry for pushing you away.’

He kissed you slow and gentle, like he had all the time in the world. ‘You have nothing to be sorry for, sweetheart.’ You laid your hands flat on his chest and pushed him towards the bed, collapsing on top of him in fits of giggles. He gazed up at you, well, like you’d hung the moon. Nat had been right about that, at least. With his eyes wide, curls a mess and his lips slightly parted he looked totally disarmed, like you’d rocked the very foundations he existed upon. His hands came to rest on your hips as you leaned down and kissed him again, his moustache tickling the tip of your lip.

If you were to be honest with yourself, it was a feeling you’d been imagining for a very long time, but a feeling you never felt like you were allowed to want.

You could feel the way your weight was affecting him by his short breaths, wandering hands and the impressive length pressing against the inside of your thigh. The idea of sleeping with him both terrified and excited you at the same time. What if you didn’t live up to his standards? What if it made him change his mind?

It would’ve been easy to go into a downward spiral, but every passionate kiss and hungry grab pushed the negative thoughts further and further away until there was only him.

Just Bradley.

If you’d known it was going to be this easy, you’d have leaned into it a long time ago.

You pulled back slightly, and he leaned forward, chasing your lips for another kiss.

‘If we do this,’ you panted. ‘I don’t want it to be because of tequila and a wedding.’

He softened, adjusting you so you lay beside him, facing him. He twirled a strand of your hair around his finger absentmindedly. ‘We’ll go at whatever pace you want,’ he rasped. ‘I’ve waited a year for you, and I would’ve waited five more if I had to.’

Your heart soared. ‘You’re lying.’

He shook his head. ‘I wouldn’t lie about something like that, Y/N.’

And you believed him. ‘Thank you for being patient.’

He kissed you again and smiled against your lips. ‘Thanks for believing me.’

Bradley opened his arms so you could snuggle closer, tucking you beneath his chin and tangling his legs with yours. In a way, it was even better than the kiss. He made you feel safe and secure, and what more could you really ask for than that?

‘Big day tomorrow,’ he murmured, and you could hear how sleepy he was.

You ‘hmmed’ in agreement, and Bradley reached up and started combing through your hair with his fingers. Your eyes drifted closed, and you knew it wouldn’t be long before you fell asleep.

You didn’t miss the hopefulness in his tone when he asked: ‘That thing you said yesterday, about finding the right guy?’

‘Too soon to say,’ you replied, smiling against his chest. ‘But I’m pretty certain.’

The next morning, the two of you meandered down to the beach hand in hand. Javy and Paisley had chosen to have their ceremony on the sand, and you made Bradley stop so you could kick your heels off and walk barefoot. He had a massive, lottery-winning grin on his face that hadn’t disappeared all morning, and matched your own.

It had taken you longer than necessary to get ready because he’d kept interrupting you with kisses and hugs and compliments, and as a result, the two of you were the last to take your seats. The Dagger squad had a whole row to themselves, and Nat had saved you and Bradley the seats on the end.

All of them—including Penny and Maverick—had twisted around in their seats to get a look at the two of you walking down the aisle. All of them had variations of ecstatic and shit-eating grins on their faces. Nat and Jake were the worst of them all, and you knew that you were never going to hear the end of this. Jake would probably have “The Reason Bradley and Y/N Finally Got Together” carved into his tombstone.

‘Are those wedding bells I hear?’ Jake teased when the two of you sat down.

Bradley glanced around. ‘No, I think we’ve still got ten minutes till the ceremony starts.’

‘Not what I meant.’ Jake smirked.

Javy, who was standing at the altar looking very dapper in his tux, waved enthusiastically.

‘DID IT WORK?’ He yelled.

Everyone in the audience turned to look at you and Bradley. You’d never felt embarrassment like it, but Bradley squeezed your hand encouragingly, and it faded away.

He was good at that.

Jake stood up. ‘YEAH, IT WORKED! FINALLY!’

Javy cheered, and the rest of the Daggers followed suit. Nat and Bob were giving you smug, ‘I told you so’ looks that made you feel a bit like an idiot. You didn’t let yourself dwell on all the time you’d spent overthinking it.

Maybe it had taken a while, but you’d gotten here in the end. But you supposed everything happened exactly when it was supposed to—not a second before nor after.

And the two of you were right on time.

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

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

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

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

“Atta girl...”

LORD TAKE M--

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Bullshit.

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

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

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

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

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

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

‎“Oh~ you wanna breed me, Bob Floyd?”

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

‎“Mm, needy husband now?”

‎“Only for you. I'm so lucky.”

‎“You gonna fill me up, Bob?”

‎“Every last drop if you let me.”

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

‎“Yes ma'am.”

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

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

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

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

---

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

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

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

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

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

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

"SHUT UP JAK--"

"MY HAND--"

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

"MY HANDDDD--"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Fuck… you… Robert Floyd.”

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

---

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

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

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

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

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

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

-Bob Floyd

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

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

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

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

‎“…My love.”

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

‎Bob nodded very slowly. “Uh-huh.”

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

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

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

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

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

‎“And?”

‎“It kept dripping.”

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

‎“…I ripped it off.”

‎“With tools?”

‎You shook your head.

‎“With your hands?”

‎You whispered, “…maybe.”

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

‎“I’m not laughing at you,” he tried.

‎“You’re literally smiling, Robert.”

‎“Smiling isn’t laughing.”

‎“It’s betrayal.”

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

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

‎Bob’s entire heart folded up like origami.

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

‎“No one does that.”

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

‎You sniffed. “I’m hazardous.”

‎“You’re adorable.”

‎“I’m a loser.”

‎“You’re my wife.”

‎“I broke a sink.”

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

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

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

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

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

‎“We?”

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

‎You narrowed your eyes. “Fair.”

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

‎“And if you’re not home?”

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

‎You groaned dramatically. “That’s torture.”

‎“Better than replacing the entire plumbing system.”

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

‎Bob smiled and wrapped his arm around your waist.

‎“One time. And you did it adorably.”

‎---

‎Second was… another thing that made him pause.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‎You nodded, grateful and exhausted.

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

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

‎Sniffing his shoes.

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

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

‎“…By smelling my shoes?”

‎You nodded, looking embarrassingly earnest.

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

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

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

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

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

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

‎You came back with tortillas, yogurt, and pickles.

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

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

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

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

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

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

‎Bob kissed the crown of your head.

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

‎Even if you sniffed his shoes again tomorrow.

‎---

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‎He blinked. “…For…?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Out!”

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

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

‎And he knew it.

‎---

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

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

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

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

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

‎“So that’s a yes,” he mutters.

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

‎He winces.

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

‎"Why are you panicking?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‎She blinks once. “Calm down.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‎“Breathe,” she says.

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

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

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

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

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

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

‎“You don’t have dignity.”

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

‎---

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

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

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

‎Just existing. Haunting him. Mocking him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‎He looks at you. Really looks.

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

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

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

‎He thought it might be a baby.

‎He thought you might be pregnant.

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

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

‎You continue glaring.

‎He sinks two centimeters into the couch cushions.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‎Silence.

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

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

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

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

‎When the door finally opened, you stepped out.

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

‎His whole body went still.

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

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

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

‎Bob blinked. Once. Twice.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‎---

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

Unfortunately, they forgot who their friends were.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‎The rest of the squad?

‎Fanboy: scrolling on his phone.

‎Payback: trying to untangle something from his shoelace.

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

Coyote slipped into the bathroom yawning.

‎None of them have the faintest clue.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‎The room freezes.

‎".....Bob Floyd you did the do?!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‎---

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

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

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

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

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

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

‎Bob blinked. “What?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‎---

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

‎Then Bob says, “What about… Mabel?”

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

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

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

‎“Vintage names, baby. Not… dust.”

‎And just like that, war begins.

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

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

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

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

‎“Absolutely not,” Bob says.

‎“You didn’t even hear my suggestion.”

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

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

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

‎“No.”

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

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

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

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

‎The cat hisses. Probably in agreement.

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

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

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

‎“She’s not being born in June.”

‎“It’s a name, Natasha.”

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

‎“No.”

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

‎Everyone starts shouting suggestions.

‎Rooster: “Blaze.”

‎Fanboy: “Starfire.”

‎Phoenix: “Please stop.”

‎Hangman: “Denim. Or Wrangler.”

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

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

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

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

‎The cat swipes at him.

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

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

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

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

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

‎They’re wrong. Obviously.

‎---

‎Midnight cravings were a whole other disaster.

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

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

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

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

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

‎“I’m just saying--”

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

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

‎---

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

‎It’s 3:07 a.m.

‎The world is quiet. Peaceful.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‎Fanboy nods solemnly. “I get it.”

“You knocked-up too?”

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

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

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

‎“Feels like one,” he mutters.

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

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

‎Phoenix gestures at the pan. “Cravings.”

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

‎The cat hisses.

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

‎You glare at him. “I won’t.”

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

‎Fanboy claps softly like Bob just performed a magic trick.

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

‎The entire room watches.

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

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

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

‎“No.” You smile smugly. “Just Bob.”

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

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

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

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

‎The cat hisses at him.

‎Accurate.

‎---

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

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

‎Finally, you gave up.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

---

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

All three girls exploded like feral parrots.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Also, baby brain.

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

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

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

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

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

Cue eyes rolling back to their brains.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Absolutely unfair.”

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

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

---

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Bob blinks once. Twice. His ears go pink.

“Sweetheart… you can’t just--”

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

And you look terrifyingly committed.

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

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

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

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

“Then fuck m--”

“Nope.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Twins.

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

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

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

‎

✿

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