#robert hicks

Weekends with Hicks are supposed to be quiet, that’s the rule. Not spoken, not written down just understood. Weekends are for slow mornings, bad coffee made tolerable by proximity, errands that take twice as long because neither of you is in a hurry to be anywhere else.

Today was supposed to be one of those; you’re halfway through a lazy stroll down the outdoor market when it happens.

At first, it’s just a feeling, a shift. Hicks’s hand tightens around yours; not hard, not sudden, but enough that you feel it immediately. His pace doesn’t change, his posture doesn’t stiffen. If anyone were watching, they’d see the same relaxed man in a flannel and worn boots, scanning vendor stalls with mild interest. But you know him.

“What is it?” you murmur, keeping your eyes forward.

“Don’t look,” he says quietly. “Just keep walking.”

Your stomach drops but you do as you’re told. Always have.

“Bob,” you say under your breath, heart already racing, “what’s wrong?”

“There’s a man about twenty feet behind us,” he replies evenly. “Baseball cap and gray jacket. He clocked me.”

Your fingers curl tighter around his. “From work?”

“From a briefing I didn’t want to remember,” he says.

You swallow. “FBI?”

“Yes.”

That makes it worse somehow.

The market buzzes around you: children laughing, someone playing a guitar, the smell of street food drifting lazily through the air. Normal life, happening oblivious and close.

“What do we do?” you ask.

Hicks doesn’t answer right away. You can almost feel him calculating, running probabilities in his head like he’s back in a tactical room instead of holding your hand.

“We don’t run,” he says finally. “We don’t spook him.”

“And you?” you ask softly.

“I’m already where I need to be,” he says.

You glance at him despite yourself. His jaw is set and focused. Calm in that terrifying, steady way that tells you something is about to happen and he’s already accepted it. They always talk about danger like it’s loud like it announces itself with shouting or chaos or drawn guns. This one doesn’t.

The man passes you slowly, brushing by like any other stranger. He smells faintly of cigarette smoke and cheap cologne. His shoulder bumps yours just a little too deliberate. Hicks’s arm comes around you instantly, casual, protective. A lover’s gesture, nothing to see here.

“Sorry,” the man mutters.

Hicks doesn’t respond and you keep walking. Your heart doesn’t slow until Hicks steers you toward a quieter side street, away from the crowd. He doesn’t rush, doesn’t drag you; he just guides, steady and sure.

“Bob,” you whisper, panic creeping in despite your efforts, “are we in danger?”

He stops walking, turns to face you fully and puts both hands on your shoulders.

“Listen to me,” he says, voice low but firm. “Right now, my only priority is you. I won’t let anything happen to you. Do you understand?”

You nod, throat tight. “Yes.”

“Good,” he says. “Now I need you to trust me.”

“I do,” you say immediately.

And you do. God help you, you do.

He exhales slowly and glances down the street. “He’s following, which means he recognized me and means he’s either curious or desperate.”

“Desperate is bad,” you say.

“Yes,” Hicks agrees. “But predictable.”

He steers you toward a small café with outdoor seating, half-empty at this hour. The kind of place no one lingers at for long.

“Sit,” he murmurs, pulling out a chair for you. “Order coffee and act normal.”

“What about you?”

“I’ll be right here.”

You sit, your hands shake just enough that you tuck them under the table. Hicks stands nearby, back to the street, eyes scanning reflections in windows, passing shadows. He looks like a man waiting for his order.

The man appears a moment later and he stops a few feet away.

“Didn’t think I’d see you off duty, Hicks,” he says conversationally.

Your blood runs cold.

Hicks turns slowly, expression unreadable. “Didn’t think I’d see you at all.”

The man smiles thinly. “Lucky day.”

Hicks doesn’t rise to the bait. “You should leave.”

“Or what?” the man asks, eyes flicking to you. “You going to arrest me without a badge?”

Hicks’s voice drops, lethal and calm. “You’re going to stop talking to my partner.”

The word lands heavy and solid.

The man chuckles. “Civilian girlfriend? That’s risky.”

Your breath catches but Hicks doesn’t even glance at you.

“You’re in a public place,” Hicks continues. “You’re unarmed and you’re already boxed in.”

The man’s smile fades just a fraction. “You always were arrogant.”

“Prepared,” Hicks corrects. “There’s a difference.”

Sirens sound in the distance; not close, but close enough to be noticed. The man stiffens.

Hicks leans in slightly. “You walk away now,” he says quietly, “and you might make it to the end of the block.”

The man hesitates and bolts.

Everything happens at once: Hicks moves faster than you’ve ever seen him move. He’s already sprinting before you’ve fully processed what’s happening, shouting into his phone as he runs.

You’re on your feet without thinking, heart pounding and adrenaline flooding your system.

“Bob!” you shout.

He doesn’t look back but he hears you.

“Stay there!” he calls.

You don’t. You follow keeping distance, ducking behind cars, every instinct screaming at you to run but pulling you forward anyway. The man cuts into an alley and Hicks follows. You reach the corner just in time to hear a scuffle; metal clanging, a grunt of pain. Then silence.

You round the corner carefully. Hicks has the man pinned against the brick wall, arm twisted up between his shoulder blades, knee braced firmly behind his leg. The man is bleeding.

“S.W.A.T,” Hicks says calmly into his phone. “Suspect secured.”

He looks up then and sees you. Relief flashes across his face so quickly it nearly undoes you.

“Are you hurt?” he asks immediately.

You shake your head, breathless. “Are you?”

“I’m fine,” he says, already checking you with his eyes anyway. “You weren’t supposed to follow.”

“I know,” you say weakly.

He exhales, tension bleeding out of him now that it’s over. “We’ll talk about that later.”

Agents arrive minutes later, weapons drawn and voices sharp and professional. The man is hauled away, shouting half-coherent threats that fade as he’s pushed into a vehicle. The alley empties; it’s just you and Hicks.

He turns to you fully this time, hands settling on your arms, grounding and warm. “You okay?”

You nod; then shake your head and laugh shakily. “I think so.”

He pulls you into his chest without hesitation, arms wrapping around you like he’s afraid you might disappear if he lets go.

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs into your hair. “I didn’t want you anywhere near that.”

You cling to him just as tightly. “You handled it.”

“I had help,” he says softly.

You pull back enough to look at him. “I didn’t do anything.”

“You trusted me,” he replies. “That matters.”

Later, much later, you’re home, wrapped in a blanket on the couch, a mug of tea cooling untouched in your hands. Hicks sits beside you, close but not crowding, like he’s giving you space to feel what you need to feel.

“You didn’t sign up for this,” he says quietly.

You glance at him. “For what?”

“For danger,” he says. “For my job following us home.”

You set the mug down and turn toward him fully. “Bob.”

He meets your eyes.

“I choose you,” you say simply. “All of it, even the scary parts.”

His expression softens, something vulnerable flickering beneath the stoicism.

“I won’t let it become normal,” he promises. “I won’t ever stop protecting you.”

You smile faintly. “I know.”

He leans in, pressing his forehead to yours. “I love you.”

You close your eyes, safe and shaken and held. “I love you too.”

- This man is going to take such good care of you.

- He loves to draw you a bubble bath when you’re not feeling well, adding in your favorite essential oils and bath salts, and bubbles to spruce things up.

- He’s helping strip you down and neatly sets your clothes aside, making a note to start the laundry while you’re sick. He has to take care of his baby.

- He’s kissing your cheek and forehead before helping you into the tub, watching you sink into the bubbles and smiling when you ask him to join.

- He undresses slowly, taking his time because he knows you’re watching and admiring, even as you’re sniffling.

- He sinks down behind you and wraps his strong arms around you, husky voice in your ear. “Just relax, sweetheart. Close your eyes and relax.”

- At first you’re dozing on and off, the warmth and feel of his strong chest behind you making you sleepy. But he has other plans to make you feel better.

- He showers your neck and shoulder in kisses, hands sliding over your stomach and squeezing the soft flesh before letting a hand dip between your thighs.

- Your legs spread instinctively, eyes still closed as you bend a knee and give him access. You can feel his smile against your skin as his fingers ghost over your clit, circling slowly and speaking low in your ear.

- “That’s my good girl. Keep those legs spread for me.”

- A soft whine slipped past your lips, your sounds hoarse from being sick. He hummed softly and eased a finger into you, curling it and stroking at your inner walls.

- “That’s it, baby, just relax. Let me take care of you.”

- You moaned softly and opened your eyes, looking up at him from where your head rested on his shoulder, jaw going slack and toes curling as a second finger slid into you.

- His eyes studied your face as a smirk curled his lips, pushing his fingers deep and grazing that sweet spot relentlessly.

- Your juices coated his fingers as he pleasured you, his palm grazing your clit as he hummed and kissed your cheek, voice soft in your ear.

- “That’s my sweet girl, let me hear you.. Taking it so well.”

- Your breathing picked up and hitched in your throat, a choked groan filling the bathroom as he kept up the relentless pace. Your hands held tight to his arm as your hips ground down on his fingers.

- “You gonna cum? Go ahead, baby, let me hear you.”

- His voice was so low, so assertive and in control, the knot finally snapped in your gut as you came. Moaning and whining as you writhed in his arms, his voice purring in your ear as his fingers pumped relentlessly into your soaked cunt.

- “That’s it, such a pretty girl. Cumming all over my fingers..”