All Bob was trying to do was be polite. You had mentioned taking an Uber to the Hard Deck tonight and Bob knew the polite thing to do was to offer a ride. After all, he wasn't going to drink. You would save money. It's what any good friend would do. It had absolutely nothing to do with the crush he had been harboring since your first debriefing. 

He was just trying to be courteous. The gentleman his Mama worked hard in raising. Getting to spend time with you, without the other members of your shared squadron around or loud music, wasn't even near the forefront of his mind when he made the offer. Bob was just trying to be a good friend. A good friend who just wanted to help. A good friend who was forcing himself to look at you through a platonic lens, not a romantic one. 

Bob liked to think he was doing pretty well at that. 

That is, until a dress came along and unraveled him. 

Perhaps you said hello when you opened the door.  You probably did, considering how polite you were. But all Bob could focus on was the way the fabric of your dress hugged your curves. 

And what little fabric there was. He had seen you in civilian clothes before. But never anything like this. His mind absolutely went blank when you hugged him and he could feel how much of your bare skin was exposed. Due to the halter style of the straps, nearly your whole upper back was now perfectly visible.

“Um you-you look um nice,” Bob barely got out. He was too busy trying to burn the feeling of your soft skin into his brain. You were warm, like a walking ray of sunshine. 

“Thanks! I got it yesterday and I figured with the weather being so nice, today was the perfect day to wear it!” you said, giving a little twirl. Bob tried to focus on the pattern of dress; how the green brought out your eyes. 

But all he could focus on was the curves of your body, now being highlighted. The way the halter style made your breasts swell and the lack of a bra very apparent. How the fabric stopped at the top of your thighs when you spun, giving Bob a peek of what he often thought about late at night. 

This was bad. 

“I take it you came early to watch an episode of Love Island before we leave?” You asked as he stumbled walked in.

The truth was, Bob wasn’t a fan of reality TV. But he watched because it gave the two of you a chance to talk to one another. Just as friends, nothing more. When watching the silly show, you two could make jokes, talk about things other than work. 

“Yeah! Ready to watch hot people make poor decisions again,” Bob said with a nervous laugh. The joke failed to put him at ease. If anything, it reminded him that he was about to spend at least forty minutes with you and that did not include the drive to the Hard Deck. 

“You’re using my tagline!” your smile lit up your whole face. Bob was certain it could light up the whole turmac. All he could do was nod, his heart fluttering when you grabbed his hand, leading him into the living room. 

"I have some kettle corn in the microwave for you! I also made cherry seltzer water!" Bob could feel heat rush to his face. You always remembered the little details that no one else seemed to pick up on; that he loved salt but had an even bigger sweet tooth. How in an attempt to cut back on soda, he switched to sparkling water. His favorite flavor was cherry because it reminded him of cherry coke. 

"Did you see the video I sent you?" You gently squeezed Bob's hand as you two sat down. 

"Y-yeah. You're absolutely right, having three otters would be my dream." Ever since learning about Bob's favorite animal, you had sent him every otter-related video you came across while scrolling the internet. You even got him a pair of Otter socks for his birthday.  It was the fact you paid attention to seemingly minor details that made Bob fall head over heels for you. 

But alas, you were a coworker. The problem at hand wasn't whether it was allowed, ‘incest’ (as Jake unfortunately called it) happened all the time in the Navy. After all, there were only so many things you could do on a ship before switching to people. No, it was the potential issues that came with dating. Rejection being the main one. Bob had no trouble believing you and he could be professional should you two date and it not work out. That happened all the time. What worried him was rejection. Having to go to work everyday and put on a facade, that things were fine. When deep down, he knew he'd be heartbroken. And even worse, he'd no longer have your friendship. 

So Bob settled, as he often did when it came to love. He took comfort knowing he'd still have you, albeit as a friend instead of a partner. That should be more than enough. For the last few months, he had convinced himself that it was enough. 

But God was it difficult when you bent over right to grab the remote. 

The hemline of your dress inched upwards, showing off the backs of your upper thighs and- 

he could see the swell of your ass. He could see the flash of red lace. Your skin looked so soft and supple and you were so close he could just reach out and- 

Oh God he was hard. Oh no. 

This was bad. Worse than that time he popped an erection during sex ed in middle school. There, he at least had a jacket and a desk to cover it. 

But here? He was a full grown adult and San Diego’s seventy degree weather didn't give him any additional layers. Bob looked around, desperate for something, anything, to hide his cock that was currently straining against his jeans. 

Thank fuck for your love of decorative pillows. 

He grabbed the closest one, shaped and designed like a pomegranate. You were so excited the day you picked it up from some Facebook Marketplace deal. He had driven you, partly out of wanting to spend time with you, partly because he wanted to ensure you were safe. It was adorable and definitely shouldn’t be used for nefarious purposes, such as hiding a boner. This was wrong, so fucking wrong.   

Bob was trying to think of anything and everything that would kill this boner. But his spot on the couch aligned perfectly with the entranceway of the kitchen, where you currently were, rummaging around to fix Bob a drink. 

What ever happened to doors? Why were people so opposed to doors? Doors were lovely. You could close doors. Every time he tried to think of something, you were right in his line of view, turning every thought into something more devious. 

His family? His family would love you. If you two got married you could make  your own family. 

Work? You worked with him, in that damn flight suit that clung to your every curve. No one else could make that god forsaken green fabric look good.  

School? God, you were so smart. The top of your class. And witty, always ready with a clever, underhanded comeback. It’s how you two originally bonded, both having muttered something about Jake under your breath. 

Bob Floyd was screwed. Thoroughly. 

He tried to comfort himself with the fact that soon you two would be watching people in their early twenties making the dumbest decisions over dating. If anything were to be a boner killer, that had to be it. He just needed to make it through then. 

“Bob?” Your lithe voice broke him out of his thoughts. Not that it was much of a reprieve, with the way you were standing at the kitchen entranceway with a glass of sparkling water in each hand, “You good?”

“Me? Oh yeah, I’m great!” He said with an all too eager nod, desperate to convince you this was truly the case. Fuck, you were so beautiful. And you were showing so much skin. He had seen you on the beach before, adorned in athletic shorts and a sports bra. But this was different. 

The dress was far too nice for the Hard Deck. No, you deserved to be taken to a nice restaurant, one with a lovely outdoor patio. The image of you sitting on a lovely chair with a glass of wine in your hand came easily to Bob. It was also the perfect dress for a picnic, particularly at the nearby park, specifically in that little secluded area. God, the idea of you laying down on a red and white checkered blanket, the hem of your dress pushed up your thighs as he leaned over you, ready to take you-

Bob leaned forward, clutching the pillow as he tried to will himself the strength to get it together. 

“Bob? Are-are you okay?” You quickly placed the drinks down on the coffee table, rushing over to kneel in front of him on the couch. 

Oh what a sight that was, you looking up at him with big eyes, full of concern. Your hands were on his biceps, and Bob knew if he looked down he would have the perfect view of your breasts. 

 It was so hot and also the very last thing Bob fucking needed. 

“I’m good. Stomach doesn’t agree with what we had for lunch, that’s all.” Lying was never good, his mother instilled that in him at an early age. But in this scenario, Bob was certain the truth was much worse. 

“I’ll go get you a ginger ale!” Bob opened his mouth to protest, though no words came out due to seeing not only the tops of your thighs, but a flash of your ass as you spun around to go back into the kitchen. 

For a few seconds, the  supple, plump flesh was so close to him. Practically within arm’s reach. 

Maybe he should just leave while you were in the kitchen. 

But that would be rude. Not only rude, but it would raise your suspicions if they weren’t high already. Plus, he had already promised you a ride to the Hard Deck. He couldn’t just leave you hanging, not after you brought a dress for the occasion. He may be in dire need of a cold shower, but the last thing Bob Floyd was going to do was hurt you. He squeezed the pillow, knuckles turning white as he tried to find strength. For once, he couldn’t wait to start an episode of Love Island. Hell, he would even take an episode of The Bachelor at this point. 

“Here ya go,” You sat down on the couch next to him, glass of ginger ale in hand. You even remembered how much ice he preferred in his cold beverages. You were perfect. 

“Thanks,” Bob slowly took one hand off the pillow, the other still holding onto it for dear life. 

“You uh, like that pillow?” You chuckled, though your nerves still shined through. 

“Huh? Oh yeah,” Bob looked down, ensuring his big problem was still covered, “It uh, helps my stomach!”

You raised an eyebrow, though you didn’t further question it. Instead, much to Bob’s delight, you reached for the remote, clicking through until you finally landed on the desired episode. With a shaking hand, Bob gulped down the ginger ale, promptly placing it on the coffee table so he could have both hands on the pillow. 

The room was silent, saved for the ridiculous conversations happening on the TV screen. Normally you and Bob would be shoulder to shoulder, laughing as you both narrated your opinions on the contestants. But today Bob was rigid, his fingers still clutching to the pillow on his lap. He hadn’t even touched the bowl of popcorn. 

"Do you like my dress?" It took everything in Bob not to groan at your question. The last thing he needed was a reason to look at you. But how could he deny himself such a chance? So he put on his best smile as he turned to face you.    

"Uh yeah it's lovely. I'm sure everyone will love it-" 

"I got it for you.” Your voice was soft as you hit the pause button on your remote, eyes remaining on the screen. 

The words hit Bob like a freight train. 

"What? Why would you-"

You shrugged, fingers toying with the short hem of your dress, "I thought maybe, if you saw me in something different, something that wasn't my flight suit or a tee shirt, that maybe you would finally notice me?” 

You finally looked him in the eyes, “Maybe you'd finally notice that I've been trying to flirt with you for the last few months?" 

Bob opened his mouth just to promptly close it. He thought back to the last few months, now analyzing every seemingly ordinary interaction he had with you. 

The way you insisted on sitting next to each other during lunch. As well as during briefings. And when you went to the Hard Deck. Whenever a guy tried to flirt with you there, you turned them down, focusing your attention back on him, continuing your conversation about his latest D&D campaign or a Lego set you had found that reminded you of him. The way you always touched his arm, your hand lingering on his skin as you bore your eyes into his. How you always texted him. How you baked a cake for his birthday. The little trinkets you’d bring him. 

Oh god, he was a fucking idiot. 

The tension in the room was thick. You, sitting restlessly as you waited for Bob to acknowledge what you had said. Bob, processing your words and what they meant. 

“How long?” Bob asked, his voice soft yet firm.

You chuckled as you shook your head, “Honestly? First day. We hadn’t even spoken yet. I saw you walk in and you just were….not only handsome but also looked so kind? Then you offered me a spare pencil, made that comment about Jake’s driving and I….was a goner.”

“I saw you talking to Halo before the briefing room was open,” He confessed, “She said something that made you laugh and it….it was the prettiest sight I had ever seen.”

“We’ve wasted a lot of time, huh?” You both stared ahead at the TV, still too fearful to face each other. 

Bob dryly chuckled, “Yeah….a lot of time. Months, if we’re being more exact.” 

The two of you remained in silence, your words sinking in. Neither sure what should be said, if anything should be said. Until finally, you spoke up. 

“Bob? What’s underneath the pillow?” 

His hips shifted, involuntary, “What?” For a moment, he forgot about the darn pillow and the erection he was covering with it. 

The cluelessness in his voice brought a giggle, “The pillow? Why are you using it to cover your lap?”

Bob sighed, “Can I at least kiss you first?” 

You nodded, moving to close the gap between you and Bob. Pillow be damned, his hands cupped your jawline, giving you a sweet smile before leaning in, closing the gap between your lips and his. 

Bob Floyd’s lips were soft, no doubt due to the sweet mint chapstick you'd watch him apply countless of times. You didn't want to admit how often you'd wondered about the taste, what his hands would feel like on your body. God, they were huge. His thumbs rested comfortably on your jawline, but you could feel his other fingers spanning your neck, down to your collarbone. 

The first kiss was gentle, practically modest. Your lips were only apart for several seconds, if that, before connecting again. 

You easily found his shoulders, grasping them for purchase. The gap between your bodies was too much, Bob wanted to be as close as possible. So his hands trailed down your body, skimming along until they found the back of your thighs. Using his strength, he moved your body, situating you onto his lap. 

A high pitched gasp fell from your lips upon feeling the bulge that was straining against his jeans. Good god, he was thick. You had heard whispers, chalking it up to typical locker room talk. 

Nope, those rumors were one hundred percent true. 

“I’m sorry,” Bob groaned, hands exploring your soft curves. Worst of all, he sounded earnest, only making you want to touch him more. 

“I-I wore this on purpose ah-after all,” you confessed, finding it difficult to speak as he pressed open mouthed kisses along your exposed chest. 

Right. You wore this on purpose. To entice him. To see if perhaps he felt the same burning desire. Once realization hit him again, Bob’s hands moved along your back, just stopping above your ass. 

Wait, he was about to touch your ass. 

“We-we shouldn’t,” Bob mumbled, retracting his hands from your body. You stilled, a crestfallen look painting your face. 

“We shouldn’t?” Repeating the words felt like driving a knife through your heart. Had regret finally emerged, beating the rush of adrenaline? Was he going to regret this, ask that you two never speak about it ever again, pretend it never happened?

“I…” Bob sighed, “I need to take you on a date first.”

Bless his heart. 

Sighing, you relaxed your body into his, resting your head in the crook of his neck, “You’re too sweet, y’know that?”

Bob chuckled, “That's supposed to be my line.” 

His hands gave your hips a loving squeeze, causing you to nestle further into him, until your bodies were nearly molded as one. Your lips searched for his, trailing up his neck, his jawline, along the side of his button nose until finally reaching his soft lips. Bob shifted in his seat, causing you to do the same. As a result, you could feel his erection, despite the layers of clothes. 

“Good lord Bobby, you've just been walking around with all that?” Bob groaned, but not due to your words. No, it was because you had started moving your hips in circles, his erection now pressed against your covered core. 

“I’m- I’m trying to be a gentleman.” Bob couldn't even look at you. He didn't want to stop. He should stop. Maybe you two could skip the Hard Deck and go out to dinner. Then he could take you home and not feel as guilty. 

“You can be a gentleman later,” by throwing your arms over his shoulder you finally had access to his neck. His skin was so soft, so delicate. How could you not sink your teeth into his neck? 

Normally you'd have better self control than this. But you were ovulating and had six months of sexual frustrations and wet dreams- 

“You had dreams about me?” Uh-oh. That wasn't meant to be said out loud. Granted, maybe it was for the best to get everything out in the open. 

Timidly nodding, you explained, “Yeah. The days I didn't sit next to you were because….I had a dream about ya the night before.” 

A band had snapped within Bob, no doubt due to the numerous times you didn't sit next to him during briefings. 

Within seconds, you found yourself on your back against the couch, the bespectacled WSO hovering over you. There was a fire flickering in his blue eyes as he remained laser focused on your face. 

“After this, you're putting this dress back on and I'm taking ya out to dinner, is that clear?” his voice was gruff and deep, similar to when he did a hundred pushes that one day (that you definitely didn't think about while masturbating). 

Chest heaving, dress pushed up to your upper thighs, lips kiss bitten, God, you looked like an angel to Bob. He remembered learning about angels in church growing up. How pious they were, that seeing them was a sign of comfort, that they would guide one to safety, to a holy life. 

There was nothing holy about what he wanted to do to you. 

His mouth was hot, searing kisses along your skin. Your back arched into him, desperate for me. But he always seemed to pull away before you could get enough. Would you? Ever get enough of Bob Floyd? 

Finding an answer would have to wait, for now you wanted to relish in the feeling of Bob’s hands kneading your breasts. It was obvious you weren't wearing a bra, a fact Bob ob had spent forty minutes trying not to think about. He still felt a smidge of guilt, as though the newly drawn line between friends and more hadn’t quite sunk in yet. Was he even supposed to be doing this?

“You can keep going. I want you to.” You sensed his hesitation. In all the time you knew Bob, he had never taken someone home for a one night stand. He wasn’t like that. He needed time to build a connection, to feel comfortable enough to be himself. That’s why he loved spending time with you. With you, there was no need to put up a front, no need to be fearful of judgement. 

“And then afterwards, we can order some Thai food and continue watching the episode, if you want. Or we can just do that now,” your hands cradled his jaw, gently forcing him to look at you. He found a sweet, reassuring smile, similar to the one that made him smitten six months ago. 

“I think I’m falling in love with you.” Bob could be blunt, and often was when it came to his colleague’s shenanigans. But with his own feelings? He always chose his words carefully. 

Hence why his admission took you some time to process. Bob could see it on your face; first your eyes widened, lips slightly parting as if driven by the need to respond immediately. But then your lips closed, your brain quickly gaining back self control. 

“I’m falling in love with you too Robby.” You were the only one who could call him that. It was that familiarity, that intimacy, that gave him the courage to move his hands to your hemline up to your hips, revealing the thin, lacy red fabric underneath. 

You were breathtaking. Always were. But this? This solidified things for Bob. You two had made a step forward in your relationship. Many things would still be the same. But there were now new things to experience. Simply another layer of intimacy had been added.

His long fingers skimmed over the fabric of your panties, every touch sending a spark of electricity along your spine. Every stroke caused a small gasp to fall from your lips, music to Bob’s ears. Lowering himself, Bob decorated your hips with opened mouth kisses. Finally, gaining enough courage, his fingers pushed your panties to the side. 

Fuck, you were wet. 

If there was any hesitation left in Bob, it died upon seeing how visibly aroused you were. He had done that. No one else. Lowering himself even more, he was now at eye level with your wet cunt. This wasn’t some vivid wet dream. 

When his touch licked a broad stripe up your slit, a broken moan fell from your lips, echoing off the walls. It was the prettiest sound Bob had heard. He wanted to hear it again. All the time. 

With more confidence, Bob begins lapping up your arousal, determined to taste every inch of you. His fingers dig into your thighs, pulling you closer. Looking down, you see his glasses are now crooked, though you highly doubt Bob cares, given how his eyes are half closed in pleasure. 

Wait, was he grinding against the couch? 

The discovery caused your thighs to clamp over Bob’s ears, your hips thrusting upwards to get more of his talented tongue. Bob wasn't reserved around you, never had been. But this was a new side to him that you had wondered if it ever existed. Animalistic. Devouring. Loud. 

His groans vibrate against your core, only heightening the pleasure. Slowly, his right hand goes from your hips to your core, mouth moving to your clit as the long digits trace your opening. 

“Oh my God, please,” you all but beg, not quite ready to admit how often you thought about his fingers and how they would feel inside of you.

Always thinking about your comfort, Bob started off with just one finger. You tried to fuck yourself with it, your own fingers gripping the soft strands of his hair for better leverage. The thought of making you beg crossed Bob’s mind. Would you like that? Would you be open to that? There were so many new topics to discuss, so many new boundaries to explore now. 

You happily welcomed the stretch of two, three fingers. Bob found the little moans you let out to be quite adorable. He could feel his cock throb against his jeans, but pleasing you took priority. 

“C’mon honey. Wanna feel you come on my fingers.” His voice was low, husky even. 

“C-can you be inside me? Like your…your cock?” A broken groan fell from Bob’s lips at the very thought of being inside of you. 

“I don't….I don't think I'll last long,” he admitted sheepishly. Hell, he could probably come just from eating you out. It wouldn't be the worst thing in the world. In fact, it sounded pretty good- bringing himself to the height of pleasure just from ravishing you. 

“I don't think I will either,” you giggled, “But we’ll….we have lots of other times to go slow.” 

Bob helped you sit up on the couch. “You wanna go to the bedroom?” He asked, thinking about how this could be more comfortable for you. 

Instead, you shook your head, hands moving to his jeans, hastily undoing the buttons. 

Now it was your turn to explore, to discover. There was a dark trail of hair that went past the waistband of his jeans. He wore boxer briefs. And Bob Floyd had the prettiest cock. 

His face turned bright red at the compliment, “Oh it's…I mean it's like fine, but it's not-” 

“Take the damn compliment Robert,” you all but scolded, eliciting a laugh from him, your favorite. The high pitch, near giggle one. The one that made your heart flutter. 

Feeling at ease, you moved so that you were hovering over Bob’s lap. Your fingers moved to the base of his cock, making you realize you would have to ease yourself into it. 

“I gotcha,” his hands found your hips, slowly easing you down. His sapphire eyes never left your face, searching for any sign of discomfort. He went slow, waiting until you made it vocally known you were ready for more. 

By the time you reached the base of Bob’s cock, you were a mess. You wanted him to move, to fuck you within an inch of your life. But he was also so big. The stretch was nothing you had experienced before. 

“Hey, we can take our time, okay? I know it's, that it's a lot,” he assured you, as though he could sense your internal conflict. His lips found yours, and in that kiss you found comfort. Bob grounded you, always had, whether it was up in the air or right here on your couch. 

How much time had passed, who was to say? You could recall both your phones vibrating a few times, no doubt messages from the rest of your squad. Those messages could wait. 

“I think I'm ready,” you whispered against Bob’s lips. He needed, digging his fingers into your hips to gain a better grip. With his help, you lifted yourself no more than a couple of inches off his cock, returning to the base. 

“Fuck, you feel incredible,” Bob moaned. You just made Bob Floyd curse. Something not even a bird strike could do. That four letter word gave you the confidence to lift your hips up on your own accord, returning swiftly. Slowly, just an inch or two, which became several inches. Up and down motions turned to swiveling your hips in a circular rhythm. What was once a quiet living room, saved for a few small gasps and the static from the TV, had now become a symphony of melodic pants and groans. 

Bob could tell you were close. Your pussy was tightening around his cock more and more, your fingers dug into his broad shoulders, as if trying to anchor yourself. You practically whined at the sight of Bob taking two fingers into his mouth, wetting them with his tongue. He lowered them to where your bodies connected. 

Upon first contact with your clit, your head dropped to the crook of his neck, unabashedly moaning his name, hips moving in a now frantic motion. 

“That's it, I gotcha.” Fuck, we he going to talk you through it? Was Bob Floyd a talker? Ironic, considering at work he was known as a man of few words. 

“Feels s’good, being inside ya.” Fuck, he was a talker. You were doomed, “Wanna, wanna make us cum. Bet ya gonna feel even better when ya soak- fuck- soak my cock.” 

Your brain was hazy. Was this real? If it was a vivid wet dream, you never wanted to wake up. Was it wrong to hope that you were in a medically induced coma, so that if this  was indeed a dream, you wouldn’t have to wake up so soon? Surely, your friends and family would understand upon meeting Bob. 

Then he pointedly thrusted his hips upwards, reminding you that no, this wasn’t a dream. No, you wouldn’t wake up feeling frustrated and unable to look him in the eye. After this, you two could go out to eat, on a real date. Not some hey let’s get dinner that feels like a date in everything except in name. You could also order delivery and cuddle up on the couch. Maybe you could even shower with him beforehand, and see his bare body, find out what was truly hiding underneath that flight suit. Oh, he was deceptively strong, you always knew that. But to see it, to feel the hard planes of his muscles? Oh, that would be quite the joy to experience. 

“Sweet girl,” you clenched at that nickname, you wanted him to continue calling you that for eternity, “Let go. Know ya want it.”

“I-I do,” you all but whined. Bob found the noise cute. What other sounds did you make? What would you sound like if he kept fucking you after you came? What about if he ate you out for hours? Or teased you until you were teetering on the edge?

There were so many questions, so many areas to explore. But for now, Bob was satisfied with experiencing how tightly you clenched his cock, how you practically sang his name as you came. Your release triggered his, pulling your hips down until they were flushed against his. His lips smashed against yours, swallowing your moans. 

Then there was silence. No words spoken. Only the sounds of panting, you both clearly trying to catch your breath, and kisses exchanged, ones that neither of you could resist giving. 

Realization hits you like a freight train. “I’m on birth control.”

Bob’s eyes widened, “Oh thank God.” He was usually so good about asking, about pulling out. But you….you made his brain feel like cotton. 

“You saying you don’t want to have kids with me?” You giggled, pressing a kiss to his warm cheek to let him know you were only saying it in jest. 

“Not yet.” You sat up to find he had an earnest smile on his face, cheeks rosy and eyes shining in adornment. 

Bob Floyd was going to be the death of you. 

So you brushed several strands of sandy brown hair off of his forehead, replacing them with a kiss, "Gotta get me a ring first."

Jake “Hangman” Seresin wasn’t just your older brother. He was a force of nature, sharp smile, sharper jawline, and enough swagger to make heads turn before he even stepped foot in a room. He’d always been that way. The golden boy. The daredevil. The protector. And as his little sister, you were someone he guarded with his life. Especially, when it came to men.

Every birthday party, every school dance, every casual dinner date you attempted growing up had been intercepted by Jake. Sometimes he scared them off with a pointed glare. Sometimes it was a not-so-subtle, “I’m watching you.” And sometimes it was just his mere presence, standing a little too close, arms crossed over his chest like he was waiting for an excuse to break someone’s nose.

At first, it had almost been sweet, he was simply looking out for you. But as the years passed, it became suffocating. You weren’t fragile. You didn’t need saving. And yet, he treated you like some porcelain doll that might crack if someone so much as looked at you the wrong way. God forbid it was someone in the Navy. It was safe to say that you had grown so tired of flight suits.

That’s why you built a life as far away from that world as you could. Your work meant everything to you. You were a licensed therapist, specializing in trauma and stress-related disorders, an emotionally demanding job, but one that gave you purpose. You spent your days helping others unpack the things they carried, offering a safe space for people to speak their truth, even when it broke your heart.

You had your own small private practice just off base, tucked into a converted bungalow with soft lighting and calming artwork on the walls. It smelled faintly of lavender and worn paperbacks, and your bookshelf overflowed with psychology texts, handwritten notes, and dog-eared poetry collections. Your life was rooted in listening. In feeling. In forming connections.

And if, some nights, the weight of everyone else’s pain lingered in your chest, well, you’d made peace with that. You had your quiet apartment, your plants, your routines. You knew how to breathe through the noise. You were proud of what you’d built. Which made what happened next was all the more unexpected. You weren’t planning to go out that night.

It had been a long, exhausting week, three new clients, a crisis session, and a war veteran who hadn’t said a single word until your fifth session together. You were mentally and physically drained, emotionally raw. You had planned to stay in, maybe order Thai food and watch something mindless just to silence your thoughts. But your phone lit up with a message from Penny.

Swing by the Hard Deck tonight. First drink’s on me! 🍹

You almost said no.

But, surprisingly, something pushed you to say yes. So without thinking too much, you slipped into an orange sundress, threw on your favorite sandals, and drove the familiar road to the beach. As always, the Hard Deck buzzed with music, laughter, and the sound of boots hitting the wooden floors. The scent of sea salt and beer filled the air, and the jukebox was already playing something classic, probably something from Maverick’s rotation.

You knew half the faces there. A few pilots you’d grown up around. Some you had met through Jake. Speaking of Jake, of course he was already there, was holding court by the pool table, cue stick in hand, that ever-confident grin on his face. Same old scene. Same old bar. Penny spotted your first, waving you over as she started making your go-to drink. You smiled, walking over and giving her a hug behind the bar.

“Here, looks like you need it.” You smiled, accepting the fruity cocktail from her hands. As she attended to the other bar patrons, you sat in a nearby stool, fully intending to linger just long enough to be polite before heading back out so that you could crawl into bed by 10PM. Only, the universe seemed to have different plans, because that's when you saw him. He was tucked away in the corner of the bar, half-shadowed by the low glow of the neon beer signs above.

He sat with a bottle of beer in hand, long fingers loosely curled around the neck of it, his posture slightly hunched like he was doing his best not to take up too much space. His glasses were a little fogged from the humidity, slipping just slightly down the bridge of his nose. He reached up now and then to adjust them, eyes flicking around the bar like he was trying to blend into the furniture.

Not hiding, exactly, just keeping to himself. He wasn’t laughing with the others, wasn’t showing off at the dartboard, and he definitely wasn’t trying to flirt with anyone. In a room full of men with too much confidence and not enough subtlety, he was different. You couldn’t look away. There was something almost disarming about how awkward he looked. Like he wasn’t quite sure what to do with his hands or where to rest his gaze.

But even in all that quiet discomfort, there was something gentle about him. You were too far in your head when he looked up, and caught you staring. Your breath hitched, just slightly. But instead of looking away like most people would, he offered a sheepish, crooked smile. And you smiled back, because how could you not? He dropped his gaze immediately, taking a sip of his beer like maybe he was embarrassed by the brief moment of eye contact.

It only made him even more endearing.

You turned back toward Penny behind the bar, trying to play it cool, but your voice betrayed your interest. “Hey Penny, who’s the guy in the corner?” Penny followed your gaze, then gave you a knowing little smile. “That’s Bob.” You hummed, faking interest, taking a sip of your drink. “Lieutenant Robert Floyd. WSO. Flies backseat for Phoenix.” She added casually, wiping down a glass. “One of the good ones. Real quiet, but sweet as hell. Kind of Jake’s opposite.”

That earned a short laugh out of you. “So, he's not a pilot?” You smiled behind the rim of your glass. “He is, technically. But he’s the kind that listens more than he talks.” Penny raised an eyebrow. “Why? Are you interested?” Instead of responding, you glance over your shoulder again. Bob was staring down at the condensation on his bottle, idly tracing circles with his fingertip like he’d rather be anywhere else, and yet, somehow, he didn’t look miserable.

Just… out of place.

“Maybe.” You murmured, trying to sound nonchalant, but the truth betrayed you in the form of heat creeping up the back of your neck. You lifted your drink to cover the slight twitch of a smile you couldn’t suppress. Penny leaned in with a smirk, wiping down the bar like she wasn’t studying your every move. “Then don’t wait too long,” She coaxed under her breath, voice teasing. “Use that Seresin charm. Guys like that don’t usually make the first move.”

You glanced back at him. He was still in the corner, tracing the rim of his bottle with his thumb, eyes low, posture slightly slouched like he was trying to shrink himself into the background. But something about him, it tugged at you. Maybe it was the way his eyes had flicked toward you moments ago, a little wide, like he couldn’t believe someone like you had noticed him. Like he wasn’t used to being seen.

Or maybe, just maybe, you were tired of playing it safe. Tired of living under your brother’s ever-watchful gaze. Tired of waiting for permission you never needed in the first place. Your fingers tightened around the glass as you made your decision. You slid off your stool, smoothing down your dress like it could steady your nerves, and crossed the bar, each step quickening your heartbeat. “Mind if I sit?” You asked, voice smooth, chin tilted ever so slightly in confidence, fake or not.

He looked up at you, caught off guard. His expression flickered,first surprise, then something gentler. He cleared his throat, straightening a little. “Uh—yeah. I mean, no. I don’t mind.” You smiled and took the seat beside him, the wood cool against your skin as you eased into it. “Thanks, I’m Y/N.” You extended your hand across the small gap between you. The contact was instant, his larger palm warm, slightly rough from flight gloves, his grip unsure but respectful nonetheless.

“B-Bob,” He mumbled out. “Well, Robert. But, um… everyone calls me Bob.” You smiled, loving how blush dusted his cheeks. “Nice to meet you, Bob,” You let his name linger, giving it weight as your gaze swept over his face, softer up close, his features earnest and boyish beneath his glasses which hid his captivating cerulean blue eyes. “So… you always hang out in dark corners, or is tonight a special occasion?” The edges of his mouth twitched with a quiet, amused smile.

“Just trying to stay out of the way.” You raised a brow, slightly leaning into him so your shoulders were touching. “Of who?” You teased, head tilting. “The loud ones? Or the terrifying older brothers?” That made his eyes widen slightly behind his lenses, and you didn’t miss the way he stiffened, the realization hitting like a gust of wind. He blinked once. Then again. “Y-You’re… Hangman’s sister?” You sipped your drink, nodding slowly. “Guilty as charged, Lieutenant.” You winked as Bob stared for a moment.

You could practically see the gears turning behind his eyes, fast, nervous, cautious. “You gonna run, Bob?” You asked, eyebrow lifting, lips curved just enough to keep it playful. You wouldn’t have blamed him. You were used to that look. You’d seen it before on a dozen other faces. Guys who decided no girl was worth catching hell from Jake Seresin. But Bob surprised you. He didn’t bolt. Didn’t stammer out a goodbye or glance over his shoulder like he was looking for an exit.

Instead, he just smiled, really smiled, and for the first time, something inside you fluttered. His whole face shifted when he did, gentle and sincere, like the smile had been waiting for the right moment to be let out. His shoulders dropped, and the tension in his spine eased as his nerves melted into quiet warmth. The corners of his eyes crinkled behind his glasses, and the golden bar light caught the faint dimple in his cheek, softening his whole demeanor.

Something about it, about him, felt honest. “Not unless you tell me to.” His voice was low, laced with a touch of humor, but no hint of fear whatsoever. And that was it. And you knew then… you were in trouble. Of course, right on cue, nothing good in your life ever slipped past Jake unnoticed. And the moment your brother spotted you talking to someone, especially someone in uniform, he made a beeline across the bar like a guided missile.

“Seriously?” He muttered under his breath, then louder. “She’s off-limits.” He slung an arm around your shoulder, the heavy weight of it both familiar and infuriating, while his eyes narrowed at Bob like he’d caught him trying to hack into the Pentagon. His voice was low and sharp. “I mean it, Floyd.” To Bob’s credit, he didn’t bristle or shrink away. He didn’t puff his chest or try to argue. He just gave a small, respectful nod, calm, measured. “Understood.” You expected him to walk away after that.

Hell, Jake even expected him to.

That was usually the part where most men retreated, tail between their legs, deciding no woman was worth facing down a protective older brother with a reputation like Hangman’s. But Bob surprised you. Later that night, long after the initial rush of aviators had moved on to games of pool and darts, and Jake had wandered off to trash-talk some poor soul at the dartboard, you found yourself by the jukebox, flipping through the cracked plastic covers of old CDs. Then, a quiet voice spoke up from behind you.

“I know your brother’s... protective,” Protective was one way to put it, you thought to yourself. You glanced up from flipping through the CD’s as Bob shifted his weight from one foot to another, hands in the pockets of his khakis, standing just far enough away to give you space, but close enough that you could feel the sincerity in his tone. “But I’d still like to buy you a drink and maybe talk some more. I-If that’s alright with you of course.” You looked up, surprised and maybe a little impressed.

It was more than alright.

You gave him a nod, and the two of you sat at the end of the bar, away from prying eyes and Jake’s over-the-top dramatics. Conversation flowed easier than you expected. Bob wasn’t flashy or performative, he was thoughtful. Funny in a dry, unexpected way. A little awkward, but charmingly so. That night turned into another. Then a real date. Then two. Then weeks of texts that made you smile at your phone like a teenager. Things didn’t move fast, they didn’t need to. With Bob, it was steady.

He remembered your favorite drink after the first time you ordered it. He walked you to your car every time, even if it meant doubling back on his own route. He asked about your day and actually listened, not just to respond, but to understand. He never interrupted. Never made you feel small. He laughed at your jokes, even the bad ones. He offered his hoodie on breezy beach nights without saying a word. And even had this quiet habit of checking on you.

Whether it was a text at the exact right time. A glance across a room that grounded you. And maybe most surprising of all, he made you feel safe. It didn’t matter that he flew backseat for one of the Navy’s best pilots. That he was part of a squad who took down a nearly impossible mission. That half the base jokingly called him “baby-on- board.” None of that defined him.

What mattered was that when you were with him, for the first time in years, you didn’t feel like someone’s little sister. You didn’t feel like someone to be guarded or shielded or spoken for. You just felt seen. Of course, that didn’t mean you were ready to throw it in Jake’s face. For a while, you and Bob kept things quiet. It wasn’t that you were ashamed, far from it. But you both agreed: Jake didn’t need to know just yet. You liked the way things were. Soft. Sacred. Yours.

Besides, the moment your brother found out you were seeing someone, especially someone on his squadron, he’d lose his mind. So you kept your dates discreet. Stolen kisses in parked cars. Quick coffee dates before his briefings. Whispered conversations during beach bonfires where no one was paying attention. And on one particularly slow afternoon, he stopped by your office. Your practice had just closed for the day. The soft hum of the white noise machine still filled the room, and the late sun poured through the windows.

Bob was leaning against the wall, hands in his pockets, pretending to read the spines of your books, psychology texts, self-help, a few novels tucked in like secrets. “I still can’t believe you keep a weighted blanket in your office.” He teased lightly, eyes glued to your legs as you reached for your laptop. “Trauma work, remember? Nervous systems love pressure. Plus, it’s cozy.” Bob stepped closer, a grin tugging at the edge of his mouth. “You’re cozy.” You mirrored his smile, letting out a lovesick giggle before you could stop it.

“Are you trying to flirt with me using therapeutic language?” His blue eyes twinkled with mischief stepping closer. “Is it working?” You laughed, and before you could answer, his lips were on yours. It was supposed to be just one kiss. A quick goodbye before he headed back to base, enough to hold you off until you could get your hands on him later that night. But then your back hit the wall, and his hands cupped your jaw like he was memorizing every curve of your face.

You instinctively melted into him, fingers curling into his fitted white t-shirt that had no business making his biceps look that good. His lips pressed to yours, slow at first, soft and searching, but it deepened quickly. His hands found your waist, sliding over the thin fabric of your blouse, fingers splaying wide as if to anchor himself in the feel of you. Bob groaned quietly into your mouth, the sound low, needy, almost reverent. His tongue slipped past your parted lips, tentative but eager, and you welcomed him in with a soft, breathy moan.

Your hands fumbled for his collar, pulling him closer, grounding yourself in the way he tasted. One of his hands slid up your side, fingers brushing under the hem of your shirt, calloused fingertips grazing the bare skin of your ribs. You shivered at the contact, arching into him instinctively. His other hand cupped the back of your neck, thumb stroking just below your ear as his mouth moved with yours, deeper, hungrier.

Your nails scraped lightly through his hair, mussing it from its neat comb, and that earned you another quiet groan that vibrated against your lips. The air between you felt heavy, time blurred. Nothing existed beyond the feel of his body against yours, the way he kissed you like he was starved for it, like he’d been holding back for weeks. Maybe he had. Your hips shifted, a little too eager, and you felt the subtle hitch of his breath as his hand gripped tighter at your waist, holding you there.

Which is how you didn’t hear the office door creak open until: “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.” You both froze. Your lips were still tangled. Bob’s hand was still under your shirt. And Jake Seresin was standing in the doorway of your office, expression stuck somewhere between outrage and horror. You sprang apart, your heartbeat plummeted. And Bob, poor Bob, froze in place like someone had pulled the eject handle. Jake stood in the doorway, arms crossed, jaw clenched, face unreadable.

A vein twitched in his temple. “Jake—” You started, breathless, smoothing down your blouse. “It’s not, well, it is what it looks like, but—" Busted. “Of all the people,” Jake let out a sound somewhere between a growl and a sigh, dragging a hand down his face, then pinching the bridge of his nose like it physically pained him to witness what was happening. “Baby-on-board? Seriously, Y/N?!”

You instinctively stepped in front of Bob, shielding him with your body like your brother might actually tackle him through your office window. “Jake. Don’t.” Bob, didn’t move. His back was straight, blue eyes wide behind fogged-up glasses, lips parted as if mid-apology. His cheeks were flushed, his t-shirt slightly wrinkled from where your hands had just been. “I, uh… hi, Hangman." He offered awkwardly, pushing his glasses up with a shaky hand.

Jake stared at him, hard. Like he was cycling through a mental list of disciplinary actions and weighing the pros and cons of each one. “I told you once,” He growled slowly, voice like ice cracking. “My little sister is off-limits.” You stepped in again, squaring your shoulders, chin lifting. “And I told you I’m not twelve.” There was a beat of silence. Then Jake turned to you, jaw tight, mouth slightly open like he wanted to argue, but the fire behind his eyes dimmed.

You saw it, the shift. That split-second of hesitation. The realization. You weren’t his kid sister anymore, sneaking candy into movie theaters or crying over scraped knees. You weren’t some fragile thing he had to wrap in bubble wrap and keep hidden from the world. You were a grown woman. And you’d made your choice. “I’m your big brother,” He muttered voice quieter now, rough around the edges. “I’m supposed to look out for you.”

Your expression softened, shoulders dropping. “You always have. Better than anyone, but you don’t have to protect me from Bob. He'd never hurt me.” You glanced over your shoulder, eyes meeting Bob’s. Jake exhaled sharply through his nose and looked between the two of you. At Bob, still standing there like a soldier awaiting his court-martial. And at you, arms folded, gaze unwavering. After a pregnant pause, a long, reluctant sigh left his chest. “Are you really into him?”

You didn’t hesitate. “Yeah. I am.” Jake stared at him for another long second, then finally, finally, cracked the smallest smirk. “Jesus Christ. If this is happening, I don’t want to hear about it and I definitely don’t want to see it.” He turned toward the door, muttering under his breath. “Shit, I need bleach for my poor eyes.” Then, he paused and glanced back “If you break her heart, Floyd, I don’t care how good of a WSO you are, I will make you wish you had ejected mid-flight.” Bob swallowed visibly and nodded.

“Understood.” You rolled your eyes, but the corners of your mouth lifted. It wasn’t exactly a blessing. But from Jake Seresin? It sure as hell was close enough. You smiled at the memory, lips curling as your thoughts drifted back. Since then, Jake had slowly eased up, still overbearing at times, but less of an asshole, finally starting to accept the reality that you and Bob were together. It wasn’t instant, but it was progress.

Maybe it was the way Bob never rose to Jake’s bait, or maybe it was how he treated you, with a kind of quiet reverence that left little room for protest. Because Bob was nothing but attentive. The kind of man who remembered how you took your coffee, who sent midday check-in texts just to ask how your sessions had gone, who looked at you like you were his entire goddamn universe. He made you feel like the only girl in the world, seen, cherished.

Which is why, when your usual Thursday night rolled around, the one night you always carved out for each other, and Bob didn’t show… something inside you spiraled. You’d cleaned the apartment, lit one of your favorite candles, even queued up Star Wars: Revenge of the Sith knowing it was one of his favorites. His favorite hoodie was draped over the back of the couch, the one he always “forgot” to take home because he liked the way it smelled after you wore it.

The popcorn was in the bowl. The wine was chilling in the fridge. Take-out menus were on the coffee table. Everything was ready. Except him. You glanced at the clock. Once. Then again. Then again, your eyes flicking to the screen, then to the door, like maybe he’d appear if you wished hard enough. Each time, you brushed it off with a quiet, He’s probably still at the hangar. You knew the drill. Sometimes they got grounded late, schedules shifted.

But the minutes stretched into an hour. Then two. Still no text. No call. Just eerie silence. And Bob? When it came to date night, Bob was never late. When your phone finally rang, the shrill tone sliced through the stillness, making you jump. You scrambled for it, heartbeat thudding against your ribs as your thumb slid to answer without even checking the caller ID on the screen. “Hey, handsome,” You breathed out. “Are you on your way home yet?” Only, it wasn’t Bob’s voice that answered.

“Aww, Y/N,” Came the familiar, cocky drawl you had grown familiar with. “I knew you were lying to me all those times you called me ugly.” Your jaw clenched. Your eyes rolled before your brain could catch up. “Jake,” You snapped, already pacing. “What the hell, where’s Bob? Why are you calling me?” Your brother’s voice cut through the line, irritatingly casual. “Sorry for the late notice, but your beau isn’t making it to date night.” The floor practically dropped out from under you.

“What?! Why? Jake, what happened?” You barely heard yourself over the rush in your ears. Your pulse kicked up, adrenaline beginning to surge. He ignored the edge in your voice, brushing off your panic like it was nothing more than static. “Just come to base. I’ll be waiting at the gate to escort you inside.” Then the line went dead. You stared at your phone for a second, willing it to light up again, to clarify, to make sense. It didn’t.

Just the reflection of your stunned face in the dark screen. “God, I hate when he does that.” You muttered, voice low and sharp as you shoved the phone into your back pocket. Without wasting another breath, you yanked Bob’s hoodie over your head, feet shoving into the nearest pair of sneakers, fingers scrambling for your keys. Your heart thudded in your throat as you raced down the stairs, and out the door.

The base wasn’t far, thankfully. About a twenty-minute drive. You didn’t floor it, but your foot stayed heavy on the gas, knuckles white around the steering wheel. Your thoughts circled and twisted with every mile: Was he hurt? Why didn’t Bob call you himself? Was Jake just being dramatic, or worse, trying to protect you from something serious? By the time you reached the gate, your nerves were all over the place.

True to his word, Jake was waiting just past the security checkpoint, casual as ever, like this was a run-of-the-mill errand. You flashed your ID to the guard, who barely glanced at it before waving you through. You didn’t even bother straightening the car when you parked. The engine had barely cut before you threw the door open and leapt out. “Jake,” You barked, striding toward him with a glare. “You have one minute to explain yourself before I kick the shit out of you. Where’s Bob?”

Your brother slung an arm around your shoulder like this was all completely normal. The audacity of it made your teeth grit. “Relax, baby-on-board is fine.” He muttered, steering you forward. “Don’t call him that. How many times do I have to tell you before it sticks?” You snapped, elbowing him lightly. Jake lifted both hands in mock surrender, grinning like this was all part of a joke only he found funny. “Alright, alright fine. Just… follow me.” And without another word, he led you deeper into the base.

Your steps faltered, just slightly, as dread started to pool low in your stomach. Because something wasn’t right. You could feel it. Your suspicions were confirmed the moment Jake led you down the familiar corridor toward the medical bay. The sterile scent of antiseptic and the soft hum of fluorescent lights filled the air, too clean, way too quiet. Your heart pounded harder with every step. Then you saw them, Maverick and Bradley, standing a few feet away near the nurses’ station, mid-conversation.

Or they had been. The second their eyes landed on you and Jake, their voices cut off like a switch had been flipped. “Mav,” You rasped, your voice laced with urgency as your eyes locked on his. They both turned fully now, posture straightening. Bradley offered a tense smile as he stepped forward to greet you, arms opening automatically. You didn’t hesitate, letting yourself fall into the hug, if only for the brief comfort of familiar arms and the steady heartbeat beneath his civilian clothes.

“Where’s Bob?” You asked again, for what felt like the hundredth time. The question burned now, raw and desperate, clawing up your throat. Maverick moved closer, his expression calm but lined with concern. “He’s alright,” He began, voice steady, measured, but the silence that followed said otherwise. The look, the flicker of shared worry between him, Bradley, and Jake did nothing to settle the growing storm in your chest. You could feel it building, pressure against your ribs.

Maverick exhaled slowly, like he didn’t want to alarm you but knew sugarcoating it wouldn’t help.“During today’s training, Phoenix and Bob suffered a bird strike. The impact triggered an engine fire, which spread fast and caused a total systems failure, both engines, and hydraulic controls.” Your breath hitched. “They had no choice but to eject,” He added, quieter now. “They’re stable and conscious, but the doctors are keeping them overnight for observation.”

The words tumbled in slowly, too slow to process all at once. Bird strike. Engine fire. Ejection. The air felt thinner. The hallway longer. Your mouth moved before your brain could catch up. “C-Can I see him?” You asked, your voice barely more than a whisper. Maverick nodded, but you were already moving. Your sneakers squeaked against the linoleum as you bolted down the hallway, weaving past a nurse and ignoring the muted “Miss, wait—” that came from someone behind the desk.

When you spotted the door at the end of the corridor with Seresin scrawled hastily on the visitor clipboard and Floyd, R./Trace, N. listed beneath it, your chest constricted. You pushed the door open. You spotted Natasha first. She was reclined in the hospital cot closest to the door, propped up slightly by a pair of thin, starch-white pillows. Her skin looked pale under the sterile fluorescent lights, a stark contrast to the deep purpling bruise blooming along her cheekbone.

A butterfly bandage held a small cut together above her eyebrow, and her arm, though not in a cast, was wrapped in gauze from wrist to elbow. Still, she was awake. Alert. Breathing. “Nat,” You exhaled, already moving toward her. Her head turned at the sound of your voice. The split-second surprise in her expression melted into something warmer, despite the lingering pain behind her eyes. She pushed herself up with a small wince, the thin hospital blanket slipping off her shoulders.

“Y/N, hey,” She murmured, voice raspy but steady. Your arms were already wrapping around her before you could stop yourself. Your movements slowed as soon as you felt her body tense slightly, stiff from the impact, from the adrenaline still likely fading. She let out a breathy laugh against your shoulder, one arm curling weakly around you. “I’m glad you're here.” She murmured, voice muffled against your sweatshirt. You leaned back slightly to look at her, brushing a stray curl from her forehead, careful not to graze the fresh scrape on her temple.

It was safe to say that ever since you and Bob had started dating, you and Natasha had become inseparable. It started with casual conversations at the Hard Deck that turned into late-night wine nights, venting sessions, and a friendship built on fierce loyalty and shared eye-rolls at the men in your lives. Part of it, no doubt, came from the fact that she and Bob were more than just teammates, they were a crew. They trusted each other with their lives, and somewhere along the way, that trust naturally extended to you.

“I’m just glad you’re both okay.” You whispered. Natasha gave you a faint, lopsided smile, tired but genuine. “Yeah, well, Bob took the worst of it. I was lucky.” Your stomach dropped. You hadn’t even seen him yet. The cot next to hers was shielded slightly by a privacy curtain pulled partway across, and suddenly, you couldn’t breathe fast enough. Your eyes darted toward the edge of the curtain. “He’s awake. A little banged up. But, he’s been asking for you since we were brought in here.”

That was all it took. You gave her hand a gentle squeeze and whispered. “I’ll be right back.” Then, without hesitation, you stepped around the curtain, ready to face whatever was waiting on the other side. As soon as you rounded the curtain, your eyes found him. Bob was sitting upright, well, trying to. He winced slightly bracing himself on one elbow as he straightened in the cot, ignoring the tight pull of gauze around his ribs and the IV in his arm. Sensing the presence of someone in the room, he stopped fidgeting, blue eyes meeting yours.

You moved without thinking. The world blurred as you rushed across the room, the cool floor beneath your sneakers giving way to the warmth of his outstretched arms. He barely had time to brace himself before you collided with him, sinking into his chest, arms wrapping around his torso with desperate urgency. He winced, but his hands immediately came up, one cradling the back of your head, fingers threading gently through your hair, the other wrapping tightly around your waist.

His grip was firm, steady, anchored, as if the contact itself might undo the fear that had rooted in both of you. You buried your face into the crook of his neck, breathing in the familiar scent of his skin beneath the sterile tang of antiseptic. His heart was pounding hard beneath your cheek, fast and erratic, matching your own. “Shit, Bobby,” You whispered, voice trembling. “I thought—” You couldn’t even finish the sentence. “I know,” He murmured into your hair, his voice cracking with emotion.

“I’m so sorry I scared you, sweetheart.” Then, more softly, almost sheepishly, he mumbled into your shoulder. “I’m also sorry I missed our date night.” You nearly scoffed, half a laugh, half a sob, as you pulled back just enough to look at him, your fingers still tangled in the collar of his shirt. “Date night? Bob, I could care less about date night right now. I’m just glad you’re alive.” Bob’s selflessness never ceased to amaze you, how even through the haze of pain and adrenaline, his first thought had been about you, about letting you down.

As if your heart hadn’t broken in half the moment you realized he wasn’t where he was supposed to be. You clung to him tighter, your arms curling around his back, your fingers clutching at the fabric of his t-shirt like letting go wasn’t an option. Bodies wound tightly around one another, like you were trying to climb inside his chest and stay there. Like the only way to be sure he was real was to feel every inch of him pressed to you. He exhaled shakily, lips brushing your temple.

“All I kept thinking was that I had to get back to you.” That made your throat tighten even more. Your hand moved instinctively to his face, cupping his cheek, thumb grazing over a scratch along his jawline. His glasses were still slightly askew, and he hadn’t even bothered to fix them, too focused on you. “I’m right here,” He reassured, almost as if sensing your inner turmoil. “I’m okay. We’re okay.” In that moment, he held tightly in his arms, everything faded away.

There was only the thrum of his heartbeat beneath your palm and the soft warmth of his breath against your skin. You didn’t want to pull away, but when you finally did, it was only to take in his face. You brushed a thumb gently beneath his eye, tracing the faint bruise that had bloomed along his cheekbone. He looked a little beat up, but to you? He was perfect. Alive. And most importantly, breathing. His eyes met yours, impossibly blue beneath the smudged lenses of his crooked glasses.

They searched your face like he couldn’t quite believe you were here either. Like he was afraid if he blinked, you’d vanish. You leaned in again, this time slower, gentler, your hand cradling the side of his face. His breath caught just before your lips met, as if even now he was asking for permission without words. The kiss that followed was soft. No heat. No urgency. Just a lingering press of your mouths. You could feel the tremble in his shoulders as his hand slid up to the back of your neck, holding you there like he needed it as much as you did.

His lips parted slightly against yours, letting out the faintest sigh, and you melted into it, into him, feeling the world finally slow down. When you pulled back, your forehead rested against his. “I love you.” You whispered, the words weightless, certain. He smiled, eyes closed, breath warm against your cheek. “I love you more.” Just as you were about to lean in for another kiss, the door creaked open behind you. “Fucks sake, not this again.” Came the dry, unmistakable voice of your older brother.

You groaned softly, forehead dropping to Bob’s shoulder as he stifled a wince and a laugh at the same time. You were so close to murdering Jake and becoming an only child. “Do you have some kind of built-in radar for whenever we kiss?” You muttered into Bob’s shirt as his hand rubbed comforting circles on your back. “Apparently,” Jake scoffed, stepping fully into the room, arms crossed, brow raised in brotherly disapproval.

“I give it ten seconds and you look like you’re ready to climb the guy like a tree.” Bob straightened awkwardly, almost like a cadet caught doing something wildly against protocol. His cheeks flushed deep red, climbing all the way to the tips of his ears, and his hands instinctively loosened their hold on you. Before he could scoot even an inch away, your fingers curled gently but firmly around his bicep, grounding him right where he was as you shot Jake a glare. “What do you want now?”

Jake gestured vaguely at the two of you. “Don’t mind me. I’m just checking in on the critically injured WSO who, last I heard, had survived an emergency ejection, a bird strike, and now looks like he’s about two seconds away from a very different kind of cardiac episode, caused, I assume, by my little sister sticking her tongue down his throat.” Bob gave a tiny, nervous cough, his gaze flicking toward the heart monitor as if it might start blaring just to spite him. He wisely chose not to answer.

You smirked, leaning in to press a slow, lingering kiss to Bob’s temple, just to be petty. You felt the way his breath hitched beneath you, the way his fingers curled gently at your waist despite himself. Jake rolled his eyes so hard you were genuinely concerned they might get stuck that way. “I figured you’d be staying the night, so, I’ll leave you lovebirds to it. But don’t get any ideas. I’ll be back tomorrow, bright and early, and I better not walk in on a repeat performance, especially not with Phoenix two feet away.”

From the other side of the curtain, Natasha’s dry voice floated through like a dagger dipped in disinterest: “Fuck off.” You bit your lip to stifle the laugh that almost broke through. “There’s the door, Bagman.” You shot back, raising your middle finger without even looking at him. With one last grumble and an eye roll that nearly cracked his skull, Jake pulled back the curtain dramatically and disappeared down the hall, muttering something about needing a drink.

As soon as the door clicked shut behind him, Bob let out a soft breath, his entire body seeming to relax now that Jake had exited the room. He didn’t even need to ask. With a quiet grunt, he shifted on the narrow hospital cot, careful but determined, wincing slightly as he adjusted his IV line and tugged back the scratchy blanket with his good hand. It wasn’t much, but he made space for you like it was second nature, like your place had always been beside him, no matter the circumstances.

Without a word, you discarded your shoes and climbed in next to him, moving slowly, mindful of the bruises you couldn’t see and the ones you knew would surface by morning. The cot creaked under the added weight, but neither of you cared. Your head nestled into the curve of his shoulder, your hand drifting under the soft fabric of his t-shirt, fingers resting on the soft skin of his abdomen, like you just needed to feel he was real.

His arm slid around your waist, drawing you in with a familiarity that made your heart flutter. The other hand found its way into your hair, combing through the strands slowly, rhythmically, like he was soothing both of you at once. His thumb brushed absently along your spine in lazy arcs, and he let out a content when your legs tangled with his beneath the thin blanket.

The room had gone quiet, the soft beeping of monitors fading into the background like a lullaby. Wrapped in his arms, you tilted your head just enough to meet his eyes. “Still worth it?” You whispered, the question edged with lingering fear. Bob didn’t miss a beat. His smile was the same one he’d worn eight months ago, the first time he saw you across the bar. He pulled you closer, pressing a kiss to your forehead with a tenderness that made your chest ache.

“Every single second.”

“Oh, Jake, you wouldn’t believe it.” They both swung open their lockers in sync. At a glance, you wouldn’t think that they flew separately. They were so similar as they mirrored the movements of getting their gear on.

“I made love to her four times last night. This morning, I got pancakes. She woke up at six to make them for me before I left. God, I fuckin’ love my wife.”Javy boasted with prideful laughter.

Jake only spurred him on, with a proud slap on his back and matched Javy’s amusement.

However, at Javy’s confession, Natasha snorted quietly to herself.

Jake’s head cocked to the right of him and his eyebrows raised with a questioning glance her way. He leaned back against the lockers containing their gear and attached some to himself.

“What’s so funny, Nat? You tellin’ me you could beat Javy’s record?” Jake questioned her with a smug grin pulling at the corners of his mouth.

By this time, Mickey, Rueben, and Bradley had all filtered into the room as well. They didn’t want to interrupt the ego-boosting feud that was currently unfolding in front of them. They geared up in silence but still listened with eager ears, their eyes flicking back and forth between Jake and Natasha.

She took a sharp breath between her teeth and broke Jake’s questioning gaze. She purposefully didn’t look back at the guys but calmly stated, “Well, I made love to my wife six times, and yeah, I also got breakfast.”

The silence from them both was telling. She continued fixing her gear and calmly played off her triumphant feat. It was as though it was the most normal thing in the world for her (which wasn’t far off).

She heard Bradley’s hushed whistle of “Oof,” and she smiled proudly to herself as she looked down to see where she was fiddling with a buckle on her suit.

Bob, on the other hand, had watched the entire exchange before him, with bated breath. His eyes were wide behind his glasses, and the corner of his lips twitched into a grin as he saw Jake and Javy’s bewildered faces.

If only they knew how good you were for him last night. If only they knew how pretty you looked on your knees and spread out on the soft linen, all for himself. If only they knew how pretty you sounded, as you whimpered and whined his name all—

“Bob!” Jake’s biting tone snapped his attention straight towards the blonde-haired man. “You’re lookin’ smug for a guy, who, as far as we know, hasn’t been laid in… two years?” He questioned with faux interest.

Natasha immediately belted out an amused, “Ha!”

She knew Bob better than anyone here. She had met you, Bob’s long-time wife. Natasha and her wife had been to dinner with Bob and you. She had been to BBQs in your backyard and tried your delicious home-cooked macaroni and cheese. You were even invited to her bachelorette party when she got married.

Natasha also knew that no one else knew.

Bob was private about his life away from the naval base. He had his reasons, but more than anything, he appreciated the peace he shared with his one love. You.

Jake’s jeering and deeply imposing question made his eye twitch a little from behind his glasses. He pushed his frames up the bridge of his nose with his index finger, before looping his hands into the gear on his chest. He puffed out his chest slightly and stood confidently across from Jake.

“Well? You got a wife?” Jake asked the question carelessly and casually, making Bob squirm. He severely despised people thinking about his wife like that, as if you weren’t the moon to his sun.

A beat, and Bob responded. “Yeah.”

Javy’s mouth fell open in disbelief. Mickey and Ruben had turned around to watch the whole thing by then. They nudged one another in the ribs and whispered, “I told you so!”

Bradley didn’t flinch. He knew. He saw Bob and you on the beach one evening. Bob gave him a curt nod, and when he arrived at the Navy base the next morning, Bradley swore he wouldn’t tell anyone. He understood, more than anyone, why people kept their private lives away from here.

Jake snorted, although he blinked furiously as Bob’s statement took him aback. “Okay then, Baby, how many times did you make love to them last night?”

He crossed his arms over his broad chest in an attempt to shield himself from perhaps being scolded by Bob Floyd.

“Once.”

“Once?! Oh, Bob.” Jake mocked with faux sympathy. “And did they make you anything this morning?”

“Nope.”

“Why not?”

“Because…” Bob’s gaze narrowed fiercely towards Jake. “My wife was asking me not to stop.”

There was a deafening silence, and then a chorus of bellowing laughter and jeers echoed throughout the room.

Even Javy let out a loud chuckle, gripping Jake’s shoulders and playfully shaking him. “He got you there!”

Bob cocked his head at Jake, with an assured smile now etched fully onto his lips. He asked if Natasha was ready, and then they both headed out onto the tarmac, leaving Jake behind, practically frozen in shock.

Once the rest of the guys had had enough playful jabs towards him, they all made their way out to join the others. But Jake felt a firm hand on his shoulder as the tall brunette towered over him.

“Don’t assume stuff like that, Hangman. Wait until you find out that he has a kid.”

taglist: @floydsmuse @beachbabey @tallrock35 @luckyladycreator2 @unmistakablyunknown @birdy-bat-writes @thedroneranger @kmc1989

tagging those who may be interested: @becks-things @rhettabbotts @hangmanapologist @lewmagoo @peachystenbrough @thecowboyfiles @auroralightsthesky @beautifulandvoid

It was Saturday night, and instead of being at home by himself like he had grown used to, Bob was out at The Hard Deck, perched on a stool with a Ginger Ale in his hand as he watched Phoenix kick Hangman’s ass at pool. 

It was entertaining, to say the least, because Jake was usually so stuck up and cocky about everything and anything, it was nice to watch his fellow aviator effortlessly beat him at something. 

The bar was lively as usual, but Bob didn’t mind it. He had ditched his usual khakis for a white tee and jeans, his casual clothing choice outside of his work uniforms. 

As he listened to the comical bickering, he looked over at the bar and watched as you talked with Penny, a kind smile on your lips as you gave her your full attention. God, you were so sweet and so sexy, Bob was still in a little disbelief that he is the one who gets to take you home after this. 

He adjusted his glasses and looked over at Jake, who was smirking at him, and Bob just shook his head. He’d grown accustomed to the teasing remarks and looks from his co-workers about how hot his wife is. He knew you were fucking gorgeous, he’s married to you. 

“I still don’t know how you landed her, Bob,” he said as he bent down to line up his shot again. “She’s a fucking stunner. Total smokeshow. I don’t know what she sees in you. No offense.”

Bob just shook his head again as Bradley reached over and smacked the blond on his shoulder while Nat glared at him from across the table. He didn’t care to say anything back as he turned his head and saw you begin to make your way through the crowded space, your drink held up a bit as you carefully maneuvered between bodies. 

Your pretty engagement ring and wedding band reflected off the lights as you settled beside him once again and leaned up to press a soft kiss to his cheek. He was still a little taller than you, even from his place on the stool, but it also made him the perfect height for you to snuggle against him. “Sorry I took so long. Penny is so sweet, I just had to stay and talk with her for a bit,” you murmured, a gorgeous smile on your lips as you sipped on your red drink. “But I’m back now.”

Bob smiled back at you as one of his arms wrapped around your waist and pulled you closer. “It’s okay. Penny is great, I don’t blame you for wanting to hang with her instead of us guys and Nat,” he said, knowing Phoenix was far too focused on drilling into Jake to hear his words. “You know, you look stunning tonight.”

You really did. Your pretty blue and pink sundress looked gorgeous on you, and it was one of Bob’s favorite things you owned. Of course you knew that, though. 

A blush coated your face as you nuzzled your head against his shoulder, hiding as if you were embarrassed by his words. “Are you trying to ensure you get lucky tonight when we get home? Or are you just being your natural sweet self?” you teased, nudging his side with your elbow. “I can never tell with you, baby.”

Bob grinned, his hand tightening its protective hold on your hip. “Can you blame me? You’re the most gorgeous girl in the room,” he said back, knowing just how lucky he was to have you by his side, and he loved the flirty banter that always happened between you and him every time you went out together. “I just want to make sure you’re having a good time, baby.”

You leaned up to press a chaste kiss to his lips. “I’m having a great time,” you said, winking up at him as you moved closer to his side and sipped your drink some more. “But I kinda can’t wait to get back home with my hot husband.” you added, shrugging casually as you slipped your left hand into the back pocket of his jeans and gave him a teasing squeeze. 

His breath hitched slightly and he held back a low groan as he leaned into your touch by pure instinct. “Is that so?” he hummed, trying to keep his cool in front of his friends. He was known as the sweet, shy and quiet guy at work and in public, but with you, he was as dirty as it got. 

But that side of him was just for you. 

Bob lifted his hand and cradled your jaw between his fingers as he looked you in the eyes. “I think we can arrange that, sweet girl,” he said, his tone promising as he leaned in to press a gentle kiss to your lips

You moaned softly against his lips, because you were shameless as much as you are sweet, and that’s one of the things Bob loves about you. “Bob,” you whispered against his lips as your fingers teased the collar of his shirt. “Take me home. Please?” 

Bob stood up and set his forgotten drink aside before he wrapped his arm around your waist and guided you towards the door. “I thought you’d never ask,” he said quietly as he led you out towards his truck, where he kissed you a few more times before getting in the driver’s seat. 

As soon as he was behind the wheel, he reached for your hand and intertwined your fingers as he drove. Once he parked the truck in the driveway, Bob was pushing open his door before rounding the front of the truck to open yours. He gathered you into his arms as he walked with you towards the front door, his lips peppering kisses along your neck. 

When he got you up to your shared room, Bob laid you down on the bed, his gaze heated as he looked at you. His hands were already tugging at your dress as he kissed you deeply, tasting the fruity drink you’d had at the bar on your tongue. 

He pulled away and pressed a few kisses to your shoulder blade before he looked at you with nothing but adoration and desire in his eyes. “You’re so beautiful,” he whispered, cradling your face in his hands as if you were the most fragile, most stunning thing he’d ever seen. “I need to taste you.”

You moaned at his words, your eyes unguarded and trusting as you writhed under him. You reached down and pulled off your dress, tossing it aside to find later, which left you in just your panties since you skipped a bra tonight. 

Bob’s hands gripped your knees and spread your thighs, his eyes darkening as he looked at the lace clinging to your heat. You were so hot, he was having a hard time taking his eyes off your gorgeous body, but your soft laugh had his gaze meeting yours. “Taste me,” you encouraged as he pulled off his shirt and kicked off his jeans.

Your words definitely had an impact on Bob as he leaned down and nuzzled his face against you, inhaling your all too familiar scent. He was rather slow as he hooked his fingers into the waistline of your panties and tugged them down your legs, showing him the pretty view of your glistening folds. He leaned in and licked a stripe up your slit before flicking your clit with the tip of his tongue, and Bob moaned at your taste, so addictive and sweet and all for him. 

He worshipped you with increasing fervor, switching between gentle licks and hard sucks that had you bucking against his face and sliding your hand into his hair. “Mm, I love tasting you,” he murmured, one of his hands sliding up your stomach to palm your breast as his thumb teased your nipple.

Your head fell back on the pillow as you writhed on the bed, your fingers tightening in his hair. “Bob…fuck, baby,” you gasped, arching your back as he devoured you like a man starved. 

Bob groaned, feeling his cock twitch in his boxers as his tongue explored your most private part. His other hand gripped your hip, keeping you pinned to the bed as he feasted on your sweet taste. 

His hand left your chest and slid down your torso, and he slipped two long fingers inside you, your arousal and his saliva giving him easy entrance. You were so wet for him and warm and tight, Bob had no control over the way his hips bucked against the mattress. You were so hot. 

“Come on, baby,” he mumbled against your pussy, his lips brushing against your clit. “Let go for me, I got you.”

When he curled his fingers and sucked harder on your puffy clit, you came for him with a soft cry, your eyes squeezing shut as your back arched. Bob licked and lapped at your folds greedily until you had quieted down and fell back on the bed, your chest heaving with uneven breaths. He crawled up your body, slowly pulling his fingers out of you as he did so, and he licked them clean before kissing you deeply.

Then he pushed his boxers down and slid inside you. “God, baby,” he groaned against your mouth as he began to slowly roll his hips against yours. You were so tight, Bob had to hold himself back from fucking into you like he wanted to. “You feel so good, taking me so well.”

He broke the kiss and trailed his lips along your jaw, his nose nuzzling against your cheek as he picked up the speed a bit, making your mouth part as soft moans left your throat. “Fuck,” you gasped, your back arching as his cock immediately filled you. You were still sensitive since he’d just made you cum a mere five seconds ago, but you didn’t mind it at all. Your legs were wrapped tightly around his waist, your body shaking a bit as you tipped your head back on the pillow. “Bob…oh, my fucking God.” 

Bob lifted his head and kissed you again, his tongue brushing against yours and muffling your whimpers. “I love feeling you wrapped around me. So tight and warm,” he rasped, nuzzling his face into the crook of your neck as his hips snapped a bit harder against yours. “So sexy, baby.” 

He reached down in between your bodies, his fingers instantly finding your throbbing clit, and he teased the bundle of nerves as he increased the pace even more until you were shaking once again. 

“Gonna make you cum again, sweet girl,” he promised, his voice low and husky. “Right here on my cock. Just for me.”

In public, Bob was a softie (for the most part), but when he was with you, he had no filter, and the filthiest things freely left his mouth. He knew it drove you wild, the switch up that only happened with you, and he knew how much dirty talk turns you on. 

You were shuddering from the sensitivity, your eyes rolling back a bit as you moaned louder. “Just for you,” you echoed, wrapping your legs tighter around his waist as your hands slid into his hair and made it a mess. “Just yours.” 

Bob moaned, peppering kisses along your shoulders as he reached down to grip your knee with his free hand, and he lifted it slightly to change the angle. “Just mine,” he agreed against your skin, his body heating up as a light layer of sweat formed on his forehead. When you clenched around him, he let out a strangled sound as he fucked you into the bed. “That’s it, baby, squeeze me.”

Your moans and whines were growing louder and louder, and your fingers were beginning to pull at his hair. “Bob,” you whimpered, guiding his lips back to yours in a messy kiss. 

Your hips were bucking against his as his fingers continued to rub fast circles onto your clit, and he knew you were close when he felt you tighten around him once again. “Come on, sweet girl,” he murmured, his body pressed right up against yours as he rocked his hips into yours. “Cum for me again.”

Your body tensed up in his arms as you broke the kiss and tipped your head back, a long, loud cry leaving your lips as you came around him, enveloping him in a warm wave as you shuddered uncontrollably. 

“Fuck yes,” Bob groaned, his hips stuttering as you clung onto him. A few seconds later, he was there too, and he was filling you up entirely as you whimpered and trembled under him. 

He gave a few more slow thrusts before he pulled out of you, and he watched as his glistening cock slid free from your warm body, and a bead of cum dripped from you. You were so beautiful, he’d never get tired of watching you come undone for him. 

Bob leaned down and pressed a softer kiss to your lips, and when he pulled away, his mouth was turned upwards in a lazy grin. “I love you,”

You hummed, draping your arms around his shoulders as you finally settled under him. “I love you too,” you said back, keeping your legs wrapped around him as you kissed him again in a post-sex make out session. “Stay like this, right here. Don’t get up yet.”

“Okay,” he whispered, holding you tightly in his arms as he gently eased his body down on top of yours, covering you like a shield. “We’ll stay like this for as long as you want to.”

There were other patrons scattered across the Hard Deck, but nowhere near the regular amount on a typical Friday night.

He hadn't even realised the romantic holiday was coming up. It wasn't until a week prior when Fanboy hollered that he'd scored a date with someone he'd been chatting up on Bumble; his booming voice causing Bob’s pool cue to completely miss the ball.

From then on, it was all he heard from the Daggers. Payback had a dinner planned with his long-term partner, Rooster was going out with a woman he'd been casually seeing, and Coyote nonchalantly declared that he'd have no problem heading into town and picking up a cute chick on the day itself.

Hangman had let it slip that he and Phoenix were going to a drive-in cinema together, but any cheeky remarks from the rest of the team were left unsaid at the heat of Phoenix’s glare.

So there Bob was, sitting at the bar on Valentine's, nursing a drink and musing over everything he could've been doing instead. With the complexities and demands of his job, he'd rarely given much thought to his romantic life. Boy, was he regretting it.

His eyes bore into the random sports match playing on the bar’s TV, his brain only registering the vibrant colours and fast-paced movements.

"Hey, Bob."

A melodious voice broke him out of his daze. Behind the counter stood everyone's favourite, sweet-as-sugar Hard Deck employee. She gave him a small smile as she wiped down glasses and put them aside.

"Fancy seeing you here tonight. Thought you'd have somewhere more important to be."

His head tilted, like a curious puppy, making her giggle.

"Y'know, cause it's Valentine's?"

"Right!" Bob exclaimed. "Yeah, no, no plans. I don't have anywhere else to be, so..." His voice trailed off as her warm smile struck his soul. With sweaty palms, he raised his glass and took a swig of his drink.

"That's a surprise," she said.

"It is?"

She shrugged her shoulders, "I thought you'd have a cute date or something."

Bob's eyes widened and he quickly choked out a laugh, "Me? Oh, no, no I'm flattered but I'm not..." A wave of nausea rushed through his body - the words sticking to his throat. "I'm not really the ask-out-women type," he said as he stared into his glass. "Never been good at it."

And maybe it was the alcohol making him feel all fuzzy. Maybe it was the bar's dim lighting setting the mood. Or maybe it was the feeling of being almost alone with the attention of the stunning bartender-slash-waitress he maybe, sort of, definitely, had a crush on.

Something in the situation just made him feel... different. Trusting. Honest.

"I'm not confident like the rest of them," he confessed. "Hangman, Rooster, Coyote, they see someone they like and have no problem approaching them. Even if they didn't, there are plenty of people who come up and offer their numbers all the time. But I can't do that. Can't bring myself to talk to anybody like that. I'm not suave or charming like they are. Not cool or confident. I don't stand out in a crowd or attract any eyes from across the room. I'm just the guy in the background no one gives two cents about. Boring ol' Bob."

A silence hung between them, the static sports commentator voice floating through the air.

A tsunami of emotions whirled through him. On one hand, a weight had been lifted off him- a cathartic thrum in his chest at finally voicing the thoughts that'd tormented him for years. On the other hand, the admission of his feelings only made them more real and ever apparent to him. A dark cloud over his head, doomed to follow him.

"Excuse me?" she spat.

His head snapped up to find her eyes ablaze.

"Do you really think that?"

His mouth opened and closed like a fish but no words came out. Thankfully for him, she didn't give him time to reply.

"Bob, you’re an amazing person. You're kind, and sweet, and thoughtful. You're always there for others, helping them even when they don’t ask for it. You carry your friends out when they're too drunk to walk. You listen to them rant about their work and lives. And when you're here during closing you insist on helping us clean up; stacking the chairs and storing crates in the back. You’re this guardian angel looking out for everyone around you.

So what if you're not like Rooster or Hangman? Why would you wanna be anyone else anyways? You're an amazing person all on your own and you show it everyday."

Bob felt an overwhelming heat engulf his body. It was as though he'd stood at the entrance of an active volcano for a decade.

“You really think that?” he squeaked out.

“Yes! And if girls don't see that then screw them. Anyone with a functioning brain cell would be lucky to go out with you.”

Bob smiled shyly, "Well, I'm flattered-"

"I mean, you're literally a dream!" She continued, hands frantically wiping glasses and setting them down with a low thud. "Not only are you kindhearted but you're a dream to look at. It's honestly criminal how fit you are with your glasses making you look so cute, and kissable, and..."

Her voice trailed off as their eyes locked and she registered Bob's tomato-red face. Bob's heart pounded in his ears.

"Sorry," she whispered. "I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable."

Bob wouldn't really classify himself as brave.

Sure he'd had a rare, unexpected surge of bravery when he joined the military - shocking everyone that knew him - but everything that came after was simply part of the job. Each day of suffering through grueling training to become a WSO had nothing to do with his bravery, but rather his tenacity and determination to show everyone what he could accomplish. What he was made of.

Buf in this moment, a rare moment in his life, Bob chose to be brave.

"What time do you get off from work?" he asked.

"Soon. In about an hour."

"And... do you have any plans after?"

"I was just gonna go home," she blushed, a smile painting across her face. "But you're most welcome to come with me."

"So Bob, how was your Valentine's?"

The Dagger Squad's chatter quieted down at Hangman's sudden question. The sounds of the Hard Deck filling the silence between them.

"It was good," Bob replied, leaning against a pillar and doing his best to act casual.

"Really? Get up to anything fun?"

"Stop it," Phoenix chided.

"What? I'm just asking," Hangman laughed, gliding about the pool table and lining up his shot as if he wasn't interrogating his teammate. "Wanna know if Baby-on-Board spent the night alone like I said he would."

The crack of his cue against the ball came as a comical sound effect to the shock everyone was smacked in the face with. Phoenix shook her head in disbelief and mouthed a 'sorry' to her WSO, which he waved off with an understanding smile.

"Well Hangman, since you're so desperate to know, I came here on Valentine's. And while I did start out alone, I ended up going home with someone."

Everyone's heads whipped towards him.

"No shit. Seriously?" Hangman chuckled. "Who is she? Who had the honour of being our Bobby's companion. Is she even real?"

It was at this time that she walked over to them, empty tray in hand. The woman who'd occupied Bob's head 24/7 ever since the night they shared together a week prior. The woman he'd confided in and poured his heart out to. The woman who held him and kissed his doubts away all night long. Her lips soft against his smooth skin, the heat of her body melded against his.

She moved with grace as she motioned for the team's empty glasses and bottles, everyone giving her polite smiles as she passed. Bob allowed his eyes to trail after her before turning his attention back to Hangman.

"I can assure you she is very real. She's an amazing woman, full of kindness and love. Adorable to boot. Honestly, I'm over the freaking moon that she even wants my company."

Their eyes met as she got closer to Bob, still pretending to be completely unaffected by the conversation at hand. Picking up the last empty bottle, she began to walk pass Bob to get back to the kitchen.

"And I'm most definitely taking her home with me tonight," Bob declared. Just as she passed, Bob raised his hand and let it fall with a swift smack! to her behind.

Jumping back in shock with a loud yelp, she turned to Bob, ready to tell him off, only to be met with his cheeky smirk and smitten eyes.

She huffed and glared at him, though there was no real heat behind her eyes. "We're leaving as soon as my shift is over."

"Yes ma'am," Bob smiled.

She scurried away as she failed to suppress the smile growing on her face.

He stared at her retreating figure unashamedly as the rest of the Daggers began whooping and hollering.

"Dude! No way!"

"How'd you pull her? What did you say?"

"My man! Knew you had that dog in ya!"

It’s a truth you’ve been sitting with...quite literally...for over a month now. And you feel it every time you sit down. You’re fairly certain your cervix has filed a formal complaint, but honestly? You’re not mad about it. Not even a little.

What you and Bob have built is something intentional. From day one, the relationship grew from mutual respect and open communication. He’s always made it a priority to create a space where you felt safe, loved, and entirely in control of your pace.

When things started to shift and that door opened to something more physical, he was cautious. Gentle. Maybe even too gentle at first. But after a few rounds of encouragement, a lot of trust, and a mutual understanding of just how deep your connection ran, something clicked.

And now you see him differently. The quiet WSO with the glasses, the one everyone describes as shy and sweet? He is. But you also know the other side. The side that leaves you breathless, legs shaking, and avoiding hard chairs the next morning.

That delicious soreness, the aching waddle and slow sits? That’s not from leg day. That’s Bob. And, God help you, you’re addicted. So is he. He gets possessive in the best way, completely obsessed with the effect he has on you. He knows exactly what it means to be drunk in love, and he drinks deep.

Meanwhile, Natasha has been begging for a girls' day out. You met her early on and over time she’s become one of your closest friends. The kind who notices everything. So now, with her watching you move a little too gingerly across the room, you realize your secret might not stay secret much longer.

She grows concerned when you grip the edge of the table at brunch and take your time easing into your seat, practically wincing once you're finally settled.

"Okay, what the hell is going on with you?" Natasha asks, brows furrowed, eyes narrowing in on you like she's about to conduct an interrogation.

You wave her off, forcing a smile that probably isn’t as convincing as you hope. “Nothing. I’m fine. Just... sore.”

Her eyes narrow further. “Sore from what?”

You sip your mimosa like it’s a lifeline. “Pilates.”

“Pilates?” she repeats, like you’ve personally insulted her intelligence.

You nod, still refusing to meet her eyes. “Yeah. The reformer machine kicked my ass.”

There’s a beat of silence. Then she tilts her head, a slow, knowing smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. “Right. And I suppose the reformer machine also left that hickey on your collarbone?”

Your hand instinctively goes to your neck, like you might be able to erase the evidence through sheer will. “It’s a bruise.”

“Oh honey, I know a love bite when I see one.” She leans back in her chair, arms crossing, and now she’s positively smug. “You’ve been defiled.”

You groan and sink further into your seat. “Please don’t say defiled.”

“Ravished?”

“Worse.”

“Ruined?”

“Nat!”

She grins. “I knew it. That shy little WSO has a wild side.”

You cover your face with your hands, your cheeks burning. “Can we not do this here?”

But it’s too late. Natasha is beaming like she just cracked a top-secret code, and now brunch is going to be nothing but teasing, smirks, and far too many follow-up questions. You know she won’t let it go. Not when she’s this entertained. Not when you’re this clearly wrecked by the very man everyone assumes is too soft-spoken to even raise his voice, let alone...

Well. You shift uncomfortably in your seat and wince again.

Yeah. She’s definitely not letting it go.

Natasha doesn’t let up, naturally. She picks at her fruit cup with her fork like she’s got all the time in the world, eyes still glued to you like you're her personal soap opera.

“So,” she says, dragging out the word. “Do we need to get you a donut pillow? Or maybe just ban you from hardwood chairs entirely?”

You give her a flat look, cheeks still warm. “I hate you.”

“You don’t. You love me. Especially when I’m right.” She leans in, eyes glittering. “Come on. How bad are we talking?”

You hesitate, toying with your napkin. “It’s... not bad. Just... sore.”

She cocks an eyebrow. “Sore how?”

You glance around to make sure no one at the next table is listening. Then you sigh, resigning yourself to the conversation you clearly aren’t escaping. “Like... the next day. That’s when it hits. I’m usually fine in the moment, obviously, but then I wake up and I’m like—Jesus.”

Nat’s mouth drops open, then curls into a grin so wicked it could qualify as a felony. “Oh. So Bob really is a menace.”

You shrug helplessly. “A respectful, communicative menace. Who always checks in and makes sure I’m good. But yes. A menace.”

She lets out a low whistle. “Remind me never to underestimate a man with glasses ever again.”

You chuckle despite yourself, sinking further into your seat. “It’s like... I don’t even know how he pulls it off. He’s so sweet. But then we’re alone, and something just... shifts. And I swear, I see God. Then the next day, I need Advil to make it through brushing my teeth.”

Natasha nearly spits out her coffee. “Oh my God. You’re wrecked. You’re so far gone.”

You cover your face with both hands again. “I really am.”

And you are. Utterly. Completely. Sore and stupid in love. And as embarrassing as brunch just became, part of you kind of loves that someone else finally knows. Because when it comes to Bob, you’re done pretending like this isn’t the real deal. Even if you do need to invest in comfier chairs.

The gym is alive with post-flight energy—grunts, sneakers squeaking on the mats, weights slamming down just a little too dramatically. Fanboy and Bob are finishing up a circuit while Natasha wipes down a bench, casually eavesdropping with the precision of a sniper.

“You good?” Fanboy asks, stretching out his shoulders. “You made that last set sound like you were dying.”

Bob shakes out his arms, breathing steady. “Just working through some soreness.”

That’s when Natasha, ever so casually, decides to stir the pot.

“Soreness?” she says, leaning one hip against the bench and raising an eyebrow. “Please. You weren’t nearly as vocal as your girl was after your last night together.”

Bob doesn’t miss a beat. He grabs his water bottle, takes a slow sip, and glances up at her with a smug little smirk.

He knew. Of course he knew. You’d told him all about your little brunch debrief with Natasha—face in your hands, voice muffled with secondhand embarrassment as you recounted the moment she connected the dots. He just laughed. Not out of surprise, but pride. Like her catching on was inevitable, and honestly? A little overdue.

Now, with Natasha grinning at him like a cat who cornered a mouse, Bob just looks entirely unbothered. Amused, even.

She could barely sit,” Natasha adds to Fanboy, eyes gleaming. “I thought she was going to slide off the booth at brunch.”

Fanboy freezes mid-stretch. “Wait. What?”

Natasha turns toward him, grinning like she just won the lottery. “Tried to play it off like it was from Pilates. But between the limp and the bruises on her neck? Please.”

Bob lets out a quiet laugh, tossing his towel over his shoulder. “She’s a trooper.”

Fanboy’s jaw drops. “You’re telling me Bob Floyd is out here…what…breaking backs and walking away like it’s nothing?”

Bob just shrugs, smile lazy. “Gotta give her something to think about.”

Natasha blinks. Once. Twice.

Mouth opens—then closes.

For the first time in probably ever, she’s too stunned to speak. She just stares at him, trying to reconcile the soft-spoken, rule-following WSO she’s flown with for years… with this version of Bob. The one who clearly knows exactly what he’s doing—and is damn proud of it.

Fanboy looks between them, eyes wide. “Did you just break Phoenix?”

Bob picks up his weights again, that smirk still tugging at his mouth. “Maybe.”

Fanboy whistles low, still catching his breath. “Man, I don’t think I’ll ever be able to look at you the same way again.”

Bob leans back against the bench, smirking. “Sitting’s overrated anyway. I’m more of a ‘stay horizontal’ kind of guy.”

Fanboy bursts out laughing. “You’re a menace.”

From the bar, Bob huffs a laugh so quiet you feel it more than hear it. He’s elbow-on-wood, bottle in his off hand, the exact posture of a man who never demands space and is somehow always allowed it. Payback is mid-lecture at his side—circles with his forefingers, an airplane in each hand, trying to explain crosswind landings to a criminally disinterested Rooster clone who is actually a civilian tourist. Bob listens the way he always does, respectful because he can be, curious because he still is. But he keeps finding you in the room like a compass needle checking true north. When your eyes snag his, he tips his chin, barely-there, and you feel something low in you tip back.

“Come embarrass me,” Phoenix orders. “I need the humility.”

“Bold to assume you’ll get it from me,” you say, but you’re already following her to the dartboard.

You settle into the lane like your shoulders remember the math of it. Scuffed tape on the floor under your sneaker toes. Weight of the dart, cool, precise, a thumb-length comfort. The board’s cork has a particular smell beneath beer foam and lemon cleaner, like old paper and time. You angle your body and the music ribcage-levels something easy—Tom Petty, because of course it’s Tom Petty—and you can’t help swaying to it.

“I’m calling it,” Phoenix says, and knocks the heel of her hand against the side of the board. “First throw, double twenty.”

“Ambitious,” you say, lining the tip, finding the tiny muscle in your forearm that can be trusted. “First throw, ‘you owe me fries.’”

“Done.”

You throw.

The dart skims wire, kisses red, and leans true in the twenty. Satisfying as closing a good book.

“Disgusting,” Phoenix says fondly. “I hate you. Fries it is.”

“Accept your loss with grace,” you say, and the world, for a minute, is free of the kinds of men who make you explain yourself.

The minute ends exactly when minutes like that always do: on a voice that wants to hear itself.

“Bet you can’t hit bull with me watching.”

He arrives like a cold palm on the back of your neck—close enough to register heat, close enough that his cologne—sweet, high, wrong—edges the air. Not familiar. Not one of Penny’s. Not a Dagger. His jacket is Navy, sure, but the fit is off, shoulders bought too big on purpose, sleeves a half-inch short like the arms he’s trying to fill them with aren’t his. Name tape crooked. Hair an inch over regulation. A billboard face—handsome if you blur your eyes and ignore the text.

“Bad bet,” you say, not looking at him yet, because you were raised on the truth that attention is currency. You glance anyway, quick, because you also learned what happens when you don’t track a threat.

Phoenix doesn’t bother with anything but the line. “She’s taken.”

You add it, a tone warmer because you still believe in starting with kind. “Yeah. I am.”

He smiles like you told him a joke. “Lucky guy,” he says. “Maybe he shares.”

Phoenix’s sigh could peel paint. “Okay. No.”

You step half-right, creating that small you-sized space you carry around like a room key. He matches the step, a mimic movement that makes your skin feel too small. His elbow brushes the loose cuff of your sleeve. Your forearm hair rises like wheat in wind.

“Back up,” Phoenix says, and her voice puts steel under the planks. She plants her bottle on the table with the kind of care that means she’d rather be putting a fist there.

“I’m only talking,” he says. He leans in like the air belongs to him. “We’re only talking, right, sweetheart?”

You hate the word in his mouth. You hate that your mouth wants to be polite and that your bones learned this lesson before your mouth did. You hate all the small, nice ways women try to keep the train on the tracks. You meet his eyes and drop the niceness.

“Not interested,” you say, clear as a bell rung over water. “Back off.”

From the bar: the quiet click of glass on wood as Bob sets his bottle down. It’s such a gentle sound it shouldn’t be loud at all. It lands behind your left ribs like the moment before rain.

The stranger catches the turn of your head and follows it, finds Bob. His smile goes sharp. “That him?” he asks, and there’s a little tilt to it, aimed to provoke. “This your guy?”

Hangman, thirteen feet away, doesn’t look up from chalking his cue. “Buddy,” he singsongs, “you’re about to invent prayer.”

Bob is already moving, not with speed so much as inevitability: stepping out of the eddy at the bar into the flow of people, excusing himself with a hand that barely touches shoulders, not jostling, not forcing. The room parts for him because the room likes him. He arrives at the lane and the temperature drops a degree. He doesn’t puff or posture; he simply exists at the exact point where the stranger is, and suddenly there is not room for both of them.

“She said no,” Bob says. Flat. Even. The tone you use for gravity and tide charts. “Back. Off.”

The stranger looks him up and down like a challenge coin he doesn’t think is worth much. “You gonna make me?”

You can feel Bob breathe. You’ve put your cheek to that chest; you know the measurement of those breaths. Right now, they’re long, controlled—counting things, calibrating, choosing.

“Walk away,” he says.

“Or what?” the stranger laughs, and steps exactly where Bob told him not to. He cuts into you with his shoulder, zipper scraping, breath landing on your neck. His words are for Bob, but his mouth is close enough to your ear that they’re meant to drag you into the wrestling ring he’s building. “You gonna cry? You gonna fetch her leash?”

You could let Bob answer. You could let Phoenix. You could do any of the well-worn things. Instead, you put your palm at the center of his chest and shove. Not a suggestion. A vector change.

“Back. Off.”

The mask slides off. It’s petty how quickly it goes. The friendly curdles. The face narrows. His hand moves.

The first grip is your waist. Hard, yanking you against him like you’re his to place. The second is obscene—one up, one down. A greedy palm crushing your breast through your shirt, fingers digging like he could root there; the other hand seizing a full handful of you with a possessive squeeze that stamps heat and shock and defilement all at once. Your lungs cut out. Your body does that ancient, unfair thing and locks, stilling prey-still, and the little sound that scrapes your throat is a wounded animal you don’t recognize as yours.

An owner of this place and a woman who learned how to take a hit for other women arrive inside the same breath.

Penny’s fingers hook your wrist and haul like she’s yanking a ring from a drain. Phoenix stabs her shoulder between you two, prying his hold open with leverage and anger. Cloth scrapes. Your balance tilts. The light streaks. The oil on his hand feels like it sinks into your skin like stain. The nausea is instant—metal on your tongue, sweat turning to ice on your back.

You don’t see Bob’s first punch, not with your eyes. You feel it in the building.

It reverberates through the bar, a hollow-boned crack that makes the jukebox skip a beat and the bottles on the back shelf whisper against each other. The stranger’s head snaps sideways. His jaw toggles off-centered and the red that blooms at the corner of his mouth doesn’t understand yet that it’s blood.

Bob follows the momentum like it’s a current he’s practiced in. His hand fists in the stranger’s crooked name tape and turns. The man stumbles into the board. Three darts jump loose and rattle down like coins from a slot. Bob punches him in the ribs twice. These aren’t wild haymakers—these are mean, efficient body shots that dent stubbornness. The stranger’s breath leaves all at once like something punctured.

Then the stranger, drunk on ego and beer and the memorized belief that he can, swings at Bob’s face.

It clips Bob’s cheekbone. It is not much of a punch. It is enough.

You have seen Bob in every weather. You have seen him laugh so hard he cried and cry so quietly he laughed. You’ve seen him cross a deck in bad seas and never spill a drop. You have never seen him like this: the exact moment the pilot hits eject.

He goes from precise to inevitable.

The torque is low—hips, not shoulders. He hooks a leg behind the stranger’s knee and lifts a hair, just enough to ruin balance, then throws his own weight forward. They go down like furniture tipping in slow motion until it isn’t slow anymore. Wood cracks. A glass becomes a thousand small knives under them. Someone swears in a useful way and drags a stool clear with a boot.

Bob lands on the man like an answer. Knees pin ribs. His left forearm rides across collarbone, a bar. His right hand draws back. The skin over his knuckles, already thin, already a place you kiss when he’s sleeping, stretches pale and then flushes.

It falls.

You’ve never loved him because of this and you don’t love him less for it. You have a brief, alarming thought that if you had to describe the sound later, you would fail—because bone on bone is not something language wants. The stranger’s nose gives; the cartilage flattens; the skin splits. There’s a spray—small, ugly, a spit of red—and then the second punch digs into the cheek and moves the face in a way faces aren’t meant to move.

“Bob!” Rooster’s voice hits like a flare, bright and somewhere off to the left. “Hey—Bob!”

Bob doesn’t hear. He has a mission and it is now measured in inches and velocity. He hits the same place twice, three times, the way you knock on a door you intend to have open. His knuckles split in a thin curve at the second metacarpal—just a kiss of blood at first, then more, until it looks like someone drew lines on his hands with a brush. He doesn’t register it. You do. You register everything. It’s a curse.

“Don’t,” he grinds out, breath tearing the word into two. The next punch lands dull—meat on meat now that bone is deeper. “You.” Another. “Ever.” Another. “Touch.” The head snaps back and kisses tile. “Her.” One-two-three, savage staccato, like he thinks force can scrub something off you that soap won’t reach.

The place detonates into the kind of chaos women catalog in slow motion. A stool spins. A waitress drops a tray and catches it with a miracle hand because she’s been doing this for years. A tourist at the pool table puts their hands to their face and then away because they remember they don’t want to catch blood. Penny’s guys—part-time former MPs whose job title is “regular”—launch into motion from nowhere, but they stop three yards short because they are not insane.

And you. You are carried backward—not lifted, not dragged, but moved by Penny like a tide—a bar-rail corner cupping your back. Phoenix is between you and all of it, the whole of her body a shield that doesn’t crowd you. A glass appears in your hand. It sloshes against your fingers because your fingers are shaking so hard you can’t predict where your grip will land. You try to sip and your throat rebels, locks, then forces it down in a shiver that feels like choking on air.

“I told him to stop,” you say. You don’t remember deciding to speak. Your voice sounds wrong in your own ears. “I told him—I told him—”

“You did,” Phoenix says, knife-flat. “I saw you.”

Your arms itch like you rubbed them on fiberglass. You rub anyway, because friction is the only thing that feels like you might erase a handprint. Your skin doesn’t listen. Panic sits on your chest like a cat. It doesn’t weigh much. It weighs everything.

On the floor, Bob is an engine. The stranger is no longer fighting so much as flinching. One eye is closing. Blood strings from his lip to his cheek. His hands reach and fail, grab Bob’s forearm and slide off because blood is lubricant and because Bob’s forearm is set like an I-beam now. Bob’s breathing rasps—not dramatic, not theatrical; this isn’t movie rage. It’s animal. It’s air in, air out, oxygen to fists.

Rooster arrives from behind and hooks his arm under Bob’s chin, hauling. It doesn’t budge him the first pull. Rooster curses and sets his feet and pulls again with the kind of leverage men build working on trucks when their grandfathers taught them with wrenches. Hangman slides in at Bob’s right, clamps a hand on his upper arm near the deltoid and digs talons in—there’s actual indentation when he lets go, you’ll see it later. Coyote goes low on the left, shouldering under and lifting to pop Bob’s weight off the man’s ribs. Fanboy, because he is a lunatic saint, locks his arms around Bob’s waist and sits back, heels scrabbling on sticky planks.

“Floyd,” Hangman says, close enough that their foreheads could meet if this were that kind of story. “Eyes. Eyes on me.”

“Let me go!” Bob snarls. It is not a word so much as a sound with the idea of words in it. “He touched her—”

“We know,” Rooster grunts, voice a rope, a promise. “We know, Bob. We were right here.”

Coyote hitches. Fanboy slides. For a ridiculous, terrifying second, Bob drags all four of them six inches. His right hand is still trying to cycle—down, down—empty air punching because habit hasn’t caught up to restraint yet. He doesn’t see the room. He doesn’t hear his own name. He is one monolithic purpose with a pulse.

Hangman jerks Bob’s chin toward him with a palm to the jaw that would have started a fistfight any other night. “Look at me,” he snaps. “Now.”

Bob’s eyes—wild, black with blown pupils, a storm with a man in it—drag up as if from depth. They land on Jake like the window opens a crack. Then they slide past him. They find you.

Everything stops.

You watch it happen—the soft animal that lives under Bob’s ribs seeing you and deciding, in a single step, to kneel. The fight goes out of his shoulders like water leaving a sail. His mouth opens around a sound he eats. His hands, which were instruments a second ago, remember they are hands. He sags into their holds and then out of them, and the four men, trained to a person to go when someone says go, let go in coordinated clumsy relief.

The stranger breathes a wet rattle. One of Penny’s guys hooks him up under the armpits and his feet try to help but can’t. There is a tooth on the floor like a bead, halfway under a stool leg. The other guy wipes his palms on his jeans and says something gentle to the woman two tables over who looks like she might faint. The jukebox limps back to life like a nervous system rebooting.

Bob looks at his hands and blinks like he doesn’t know where they came from. They’re blood-slick, their own and someone else’s, a glossy sheen that shines in the lamplight. The splits over his knuckles are starting to pucker, skin swelling in little crescents. He curls them like he means to hide them and checks the instinct, fingers splaying open, palms forward: see, empty.

He crosses to you carefully, like you might scatter if he moves too fast. He stops exactly where he should. He lifts his hands and then sees you see the blood and stabs them back down at his sides like he burned himself.

“Sweetheart,” he says, and his voice isn’t a voice, it’s a relief map of everything that just tore through him. “Can I— Are you— I—”

“Come here,” you manage. The words cost something. You spend it.

He doesn’t touch you until you put his palm where it belongs: flat to the middle of your chest, the anchor point of your body. His hand shakes. Yours does too, but not as much now. His eyes blow wide and wet and then clear, focus narrowing to the square inch of you where his skin meets your skin.

“I’m sorry,” he says, and he means everything and anything and nothing and you don’t let him run away with the blame.

“You were there,” you say. “You were there.”

Penny’s hand sketches quick on your shoulder. “Bathroom,” she says. “Let’s get the worst of it off.”

Phoenix skims her palm along your back, the kind of touch that says I saw and I’m here and it wasn’t your fault without requiring your nervous system to work. You let them shepherd you, and Bob shadows the way moons do, gravitational without crowding.

The bathroom is too bright, merciless fluorescent, but the mercy is in the lock on the door and the way the mirror shows you your own face and not his. Penny flips the tap to cold and it shrieks then hushes. She folds paper towels like origami—habit, practice, the thousand small priesthood tasks of women who tend a place where men drink—and presses them into your hands without looking at what you’ll do with them. Phoenix leans on tile with one ankle crossed over the other and a posture that could kill.

A knock, gentle. “Pen?” Bob. “It’s me.”

Penny cracks and lets him in. He’s washed quick at the men’s sink—pink streaks at the webbing of his fingers, red trapped in the canyons of split skin. He doesn’t look at himself. He looks at you the way you look at a runway in fog: carefully, entirely, like there’s a landing to be made and you will make it together.

“Let me—” he starts, and doesn’t finish because he doesn’t know the verb he’s asking for permission to do. Help? Hold? Undo the night? He offers his hands instead. You accept them.

You overwrite what got written on you—your shoulder where fingers dug, your sternum where heat pooled like a stain, the edge of your jaw where his breath landed—with Bob’s palms. Forehead, temple, the safe spaces that have always been his, gentle, mapping your atlas back to you. You didn’t know until now that his hands have a temperature, a signature, a way of moving that makes your adrenaline ratchet down like a dimmer switch. You feel your breath try to match his and succeed.

“I hate that I froze,” you say, small because the shame is older than your ability to name it. “I hate that I made that sound.”

Phoenix slices a look into the mirror, catching your eyes with hers. “You didn’t freeze. You assessed, minimized damage, called for backup. You did great.”

“You did,” Bob says, and his voice has iron under the shredded edges. “You said no. You pushed. You had your team. The rest was mine.” He swallows. “I’m…not sorry for that.”

“You don’t have to be,” you say, and you mean it even if there’s still a tremor running down your forearms like a current.

You rinse his knuckles because tasks are a bridge back to a life without crisis. The iodine bite makes his mouth twitch. He doesn’t hide it from you. The gauze tape wrinkles under your fingers and you smooth it flat the way you smooth sheets. You think about the way those same knuckles were in your mouth once and your stomach turns, not because of him but because some memories are incompatible with others and take time to be friends again. He sees that thought flash across your face and winces even though you haven’t accused him of anything.

“I can still feel him,” you say. Saying it makes it real; real things can be moved. “I know it’s in my head, but—”

“It’s on your nerves,” Penny corrects, brisk and kind. “Bodies remember for a bit. Let them. They file it away.”

“He doesn’t get to leave anything on you,” Bob says again, the words soft enough to be sewn into fabric. He stamps you the way you let him: temple, hairline, the hinge of your jaw, your shoulder—a liturgy of reclamation. “He doesn’t.”

When you open the bathroom door, the bar has stitched itself back together in the way living rooms do after a fight: quiet, slightly rearranged, pretending nothing tore. Penny’s regulars have ghosted the stranger out into the night, into whatever consequence is his. A mop bucket squats where red once was. The jukebox remembered where the song left off and meanders back toward the chorus. The Daggers are exactly where you expect: occupying space like a firewall. Hangman gives you the tiniest salute from the brow like you two haven’t almost killed each other in pool for months. Rooster’s mouth tucks, small and real. Coyote and Fanboy are arguing about the physics of a hook versus a straight like they’re on a podcast that nobody asked to hear and that you love more than you can say.

Penny sets a fresh water in front of you. She puts something dark and not alcoholic under Bob’s hand and meets his eyes. “One freebie,” she says. “Don’t make me make it two.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he answers, the kind of yes that says Sorry and Thank you and I understand the rules of your house.

The next stretch of time is an animal you tame minute by minute. Your hands still tremble, but your elbows stop vibrating. Your voice returns in full sentences. Phoenix rolls her neck and the crack sounds like an exorcism. Somebody comes over to check on you and you let them but you don’t let them touch you until your body says yes. Bob does not hover and does not vanish. He becomes a wall that obeys physics: present, supportive, cool against your back if you choose to lean.

Penny checks the lane. The darts are on the floor. The chalk is crooked. The Polaroid that jumped its nail is face-down under a stool. She tucks it back into the frame with a bartender’s tender competence and leaves it crooked on purpose. Rooster re-racks the balls like returning rosaries to a bowl.

“Take her home,” Phoenix says, thumb skating over your arm: a blessing, a benediction, a nudge.

You nod because the night is not going to heal by being stared at. You stand. Bob stands with you, appropriate distance, waiting. Outside, the air is fresh, and the bay keeps hitting the pilings like the world has been doing this longer than men have been idiots. The parking lot is gravel and your shoes whisper on it. Bob opens the passenger door but doesn’t touch your back as you climb in because he has always understood that doors are doors, not hands.

The truck smells like him and a ghost of iron. He drives like he was taught to bring airplanes home—smooth and humble and not trying to prove anything. You don’t turn on the radio. The quiet is generous. Your heartbeat keeps doing that hiccup it does when adrenaline won’t flush. He doesn’t point it out. He adjusts the air so it brushes your face.

At the sink—home lamp set to low, the color of honey—he washes his hands again, better than before, working the last brown-red out of the seams. The gauze darkens where water runs, so you peel and rewrap and tuck. His fingers flex. He says “ow” once and acts like he’s not pleased you heard it.

You don’t do the next day. You don’t do the next morning. You don’t do pancakes or sunlight or any neat stitching. You do the slow unwinding of a clenched coil: a couch, a blanket, a pair of bandaged hands that learn, along the course of a quiet hour, to be soft again. You do the way the worst part of a night fades not by being denied but by being outlived, breath by breath, in the company of the person who put himself between you and a touch that lied about what touches are for.

At some point, your hands stop shaking. At some point, your skin stops buzzing. At some point, you realize you haven’t thought about his hands on you for an entire five minutes. When your breath hiccups once more for no reason, Bob doesn’t say are you okay? He says, “Here,” simple as a house key, and places your palm on his sternum where his heartbeat is a better metronome than anything on the jukebox.

“You scared me,” you say, because truth is the only thing you intend to take out of this room.

“For a second,” he admits, because he doesn’t lie to you either. Then, steadier: “He touched you.”

“And you took him off,” you answer, and leave it at that.

He nods. You rest your head against his shoulder and let the weight of it mean more than language. His bandaged hand lifts and hovers and, with the glacial patience of a man who refuses to rush your skin, settles in your hair.

He does not say it won’t ever happen again. You do not say you’ll be fine tomorrow. Penny’s text arrives and says what needs saying: You did nothing wrong. Feel what you feel. Come back when you want. Phoenix’s knife-heart shows up as two emojis that mean I love you and I will end him again if necessary. Hangman’s message is obscene and stupid and makes you laugh in a hiccup that doesn’t hurt.

He doesn’t get to leave anything on you. That belongs to you and the man beside you, who knows how to stamp gentleness over violence and means to do it as many times as it takes.