#top gun

Reuben blinks, his smile faltering as his brow creases. “Nice to see you too, Phoenix.” 

She heads back to the couch, Reuben trailing behind. 

“Why’d you knock?” she asks. “It’s always open.” 

“Wasn’t the other day.” 

You sit up straighter, rolling your eyes. “That’s because it was two a.m. and I was home alone—sleeping.” 

Natasha drops onto the couch, a little closer to you than before to make room for Reuben. “Do we seriously not have boundaries anymore?” she asks him. “What could you possibly need at two in the morning?” 

He plucks the popcorn bowl off the table and settles it in his lap. “Fanboy really wanted to watch The Princess Bride, but Netflix logged us out and we couldn’t remember the password.” 

You lean across Natasha for a handful of popcorn. “Then get your own Netflix account, you fucking freeloaders.” 

Reuben gives you a wounded look. “Okay, rude.” 

You roll your eyes again and flop back against the couch, shoving a handful of popcorn into your mouth. 

“What’s got your panties in a twist?” he asks, peering at you from Natasha’s other side. 

Natasha snorts but keeps her eyes on the TV. 

“Nothing,” you mutter. “My panties are perfectly untwisted.” 

Reuben chuckles and shifts his gaze to the screen. “Then maybe someone should twist them up—get some of that tension out.” 

You flip him off without even glancing his way, your scowl still locked on the TV. He just laughs again, and Natasha shoots you a sidelong, knowing smirk. 

Twenty minutes later—and after Reuben has all but annihilated the popcorn—the front door swings open and Mickey breezes in, making a beeline for the fridge. 

“Have you guys eaten?” he calls out. “Because I’m starving. I skipped lunch and Mav still kept me back.” He grabs a beer and spins to face the living room. “Isn’t that, like, illegal? Something about duty of care? I’m about to pass out, and it wasn’t even my fault I got held back. Hangman was the one mouthing off—I just told him where to stick it. But no, now Mav’s all professional, like he’s a real CO with a stick up his ass. Honestly? I liked him better before.” 

He yanks open a drawer, fishes out the bottle opener, and cracks the beer. “Anyway,” he says, glancing up at the three of you, “pizza?” 

A long beat of silence stretches through the apartment as you all stare at him. 

“Jesus Christ, Mick,” Reuben mutters. “Take a fucking breath.” 

Mickey just shrugs, heading into the living room. “What?” 

He drops onto the floor—figuring the couch is already squishy enough—and sets his beer on the coffee table before reaching for the remote. 

“No one’s watching this, right?” he asks—not that it matters. 

He doesn’t wait for a response—just clicks a few buttons and starts scrolling through Netflix. Frustration simmers under your skin, because yes, you were watching that, but you bite your tongue. You know you’re in a bad mood, and it’s not worth taking it out on your friends. No matter how irritating they can be. 

He finally lands on The Princess Bride and makes a satisfied little hum as he hits play. Then he tosses the remote back onto the table, picks up his beer, and leans back against the couch—his elbow jabbing your knee in the process. Your glass, balanced loosely on your leg, sloshes and spills cold liquid onto your lap. 

“Whoops,” Mickey says, glancing back at you. “My bad.” 

“Uh oh,” Natasha mutters, scooting slightly away from you. 

“Seriously, Mickey?” you snap, eyes narrowing. “Could you not act like a clumsy lapdog for five fucking seconds?” 

His eyes go wide at your tone. 

“How the hell did you even get into the navy?” you bite, rising from the couch. “You’ve got the spatial awareness of a drunk oaf and the grace of a newborn deer on ice.” 

You storm into the kitchen, slam your half-empty glass on the counter, and tear off a wad of paper towels. 

“Very descriptive insults,” Reuben mutters. 

Natasha lets out a dry laugh. “Yeah, that’s how you know she’s in a mood.” 

“Why?” Mickey asks, cautiously glancing toward you. 

You shoot him a glare over the kitchen island, dabbing paper towel at the top of your thigh. 

“Bob didn’t talk to her today,” Natasha says. “Like, at all.” 

“Ohhh,” Reuben and Mickey sigh in unison, the sound laced with realisation. 

You toss the damp towel into the sink before turning toward the fridge and yanking it open, bottles rattling. 

“To be fair,” Reuben offers, “you two were on different drills today. He probably just didn’t get the chance.” 

You whirl around, beer in hand, glare sharp. “He asked Phoenix if she wanted to go for a run tomorrow morning—while I was standing right there.” 

You shut the fridge with more force than necessary, then yank open the cutlery drawer and grab the bottle opener. 

“Oh yeah,” Mickey adds. “He asked me too. Wants to do the Coronado Island Loop.” 

You pop the cap off your beer and let it clatter to the floor. “Great. That’s great. Thanks, Mick. Love knowing I was the only one not invited.” 

Natasha sighs, her eyes following you as you trudge back toward the lounge. “I told you—he probably just didn’t think you were interested. When have you ever wanted to go running?” 

Reuben nods. “Yeah, you hate when Mav makes us run laps. You’re always the first to complain.” 

You flop down into your spot and take a long pull from your beer, eyes on the screen. “Yeah, well,” you mutter, “he could’ve asked.” 

“You could’ve spoken up,” Natasha points out. 

You roll your eyes. “Yeah, and invite myself to something I deliberately wasn’t invited to? No thanks.” 

Mickey shakes his head. “Bob wouldn’t leave you out on purpose. He’s too nice.” 

“Exactly,” Reuben says. “It’s Bob. He probably just got awkward about it.” 

You scowl and gesture to Natasha. “He asked Phoenix.” 

“Yeah, but that’s Phoenix,” Mickey says. “They’re crammed together in the cockpit almost all day, every day. She doesn’t make him nervous.” 

You scoff and sink further into the couch. “I do not make him nervous.” 

Natasha sighs again. “Yes. You do. I’ve told you before.” 

“And I don’t believe you,” you say, despite the warmth creeping into your cheeks. “You’re always saying Bob has a thing for me, but I don’t see it. Wouldn’t he actually talk to me if he liked me?” 

“It’s Bob,” Reuben repeats. “He’s not like the rest of us.” 

“Exactly,” Natasha says. “He’s polite and respectful. Way better than the rest.” 

Mickey turns from the TV, shooting her a wounded look. “Ouch.” 

Reuben shrugs. “She’s right. That’s why we can’t tease him about it. We can’t even ask him if he likes you—though we’re pretty sure.” 

You roll your eyes. “How can you be sure when he’s never admitted it?” 

“Oh, it’s so obvious,” Mickey says with a giggle. “He gets all googly-eyed whenever you’re around.” 

You shoot him a sceptical look, brows furrowed. “I don’t see it.” 

“Well, of course he’s not going to let you catch him staring,” Reuben says, a smirk tugging at his lips. “He’s a gentleman.” 

“Yeah, and he’s not stupid,” Natasha adds. 

“But whenever you’re not paying attention,” Mickey continues, “his eyes are glued to you, like a magnet.” 

You roll your eyes, determined to seem unconvinced, even though you can feel the warmth rising in your cheeks. 

“Oh, and every time you’re brought up in conversation,” Reuben says, “he’s locked in.” 

“Unless we’re talking about you and another guy,” Natasha adds with a knowing look “Then he gets all huffy and weird.” 

You snort a laugh before taking another sip of your beer. 

“Why don’t you just ask him out?” Mickey suggests. “Put us all out of our misery. Bob will stop being so awkward, and you’ll stop being so—” He stops when you shoot him a glare. 

“So what, Mick?” 

He turns his gaze back to the TV, muttering, “Moody.” 

You scoff. “Yeah, okay. So, I’m just supposed to believe you guys when I haven’t actually seen any of these so-called signs myself?” 

Reuben and Mickey nod, but Natasha just watches. 

“I’m not doing that,” you say flatly. “I’m not asking him out just to be humiliated.” 

The conversation dies as you turn your attention back to the movie, taking another generous sip of beer. Mickey pulls out his phone to order pizza, and Reuben heads to the fridge for another round of beers. 

You keep your eyes locked on the TV, even though you’re barely watching. Instead, your mind is replaying the day, wondering if you missed the part where it was ‘so obvious’ that Bob has a crush on you. 

It’s hard not to agree with Reuben when he says, ‘It’s Bob,’ because it just is. He’s nice, considerate, raised to respect women and the navy. He’s the perfect officer and the perfect gentleman, and that’s half the reason you’re so damn attracted to him. A gorgeous guy with manners and respect to spare? Yes, please. 

But, God, sometimes you wish he was just a little more basic. A little more in touch with his primal side, instead of always using the higher-functioning part of his brain that most guys don’t even know exists. You’ve never even heard Bob say a woman is attractive, let alone spew some of the caveman shit that comes out of Jake’s mouth. 

And yeah, sure, you could ask him out. He might even say yes, just to be polite. But you don’t want to put that kind of pressure on him or the squad. Him dating you out of pity would be worse than flat-out rejection. 

An hour later, full of pizza and halfway through your fourth beer, you’re curled up with your head on Natasha's shoulder while The Ugly Truth plays on the TV—Mickey’s latest pick. 

“Man, what’s with you and romantic comedies?” Reuben asks, nose wrinkling as he watches Katherine Heigl flail on-screen. 

Mickey shrugs. “Don’t judge. Maybe I’m feeling a little lonely lately.” 

“Aww, Mick,” you coo, voice dripping mock-sympathy. “Better get used to it. You’re going to be alone forever.” 

His head snaps toward you, a scowl forming. “Okay, Miss-I-Refuse-To-Ask-Out-A-Guy-Who’s-Clearly-Into-Me-Because-I’m-Terrified-of-Rejection.” 

A smirk tugs at your mouth. “That was way too long to sting.” 

“Whatever.” He rolls his eyes. “You’re mean when you’re not getting laid.” 

“Hey!” you gasp. “How do you know I’m not?” 

There’s a beat—a static moment where you realise you’ve just fucked up—before they all burst out laughing. And even you can’t help joining in, despite the embarrassed flush crawling across your chest. 

Then suddenly, Natasha jerks upright, knocking your head off her shoulder. Her laughter halts as she stares wide-eyed at the screen, lips parted in a gasp. “Holy shit. I have an idea.” 

“An idea?” Reuben echoes, brows lifting. 

“Yes!” She turns to you, eyes sparkling with mischief. “I know how we’re going to get Bob to admit it.” 

Mickey swivels on the floor to face her. “Admit what?” 

Reuben rolls his eyes. “That he likes Sunny. Duh.” 

“Oh.” Mickey glances your way, then back at Natasha. “How?” 

“He’s only human, right?” she says, and both boys nod. “It’s obvious he likes her—he’s just too damn respectful. He probably thinks she’s out of her league. Or he’s worried about dating someone in the squad. But deep down? He’s still a guy. He has the same thoughts, the same... tendencies. He’s just better at hiding them.” 

Mickey snorts. “Oh yeah. If the way he looks at Sunny in a bikini is anything to go by, he’s definitely got those thoughts.” 

You shoot him a glare. “Don’t be gross.” 

“No, he’s right,” Natasha says quickly. “I hate it, but he’s right. Every time we’re at the beach and you’re half-naked, he looks like he’s barely holding it together.” 

You try to keep your face neutral, but your heart is thudding too fast against your ribs. 

“Wait,” Reuben says, leaning forward. “I think you’re onto something. Like when she squeezes into the booth at the bar and hovers over his lap for a second—he looks like he’s about to combust.” 

“Exactly!” Natasha exclaims. “That’s it. That’s what we need to do—we need to make him snap.” 

You narrow your eyes, ignoring the spark of adrenaline beginning to curl in your gut. “Okay... but how?” 

Natasha turns toward you, her eyes wide and full of focus. The same look she wears just before take-off. “You need to... tease him. Really make him suffer.” 

Mickey’s grin turns wicked. “Oh, this could work.” 

Your brow lifts. “Tease him how?” 

“Tempt him,” Reuben says, matching Mickey’s grin. “Push every button. Get close. Make him want you so badly he can’t hide it anymore.” 

You snort. “So, seduce him?” 

“Worse,” Natasha says. “You’re going to give this man the worst case of blue balls in naval history.” 

Both Mickey and Reuben flinch. 

“He’s going to end up in the hospital with a permanent boner,” Natasha adds, mischief blazing in her eyes. “Crying. On. His. Knees.” 

“Bob’s a good man,” Reuben says solemnly. “He’s respectful. Polite. Sensible. And we’re gonna have to break him.” 

“We?” you repeat, pulse racing. 

“Exactly,” Natasha nods. “If this were any other guy, you could get it done in a day. But Bob? Bob’s built different. If we want to unleash his inner caveman? It’s going to take a team.” 

Your stomach flips, anticipation stirring beneath your skin. 

“It won’t be easy,” Mickey says, his smirk returning. “But it will be fun.” 

“Sunny,” Reuben says, locking eyes with you. “Are you in or are you out?” 

That spark of adrenaline snaps through you like a live wire. 

You nod. “Okay. I’m in.” 

- 

The plan is simple. Straightforward. One objective. Everyone's clear on it. It’s been mapped out and set into motion—now all you have to do is play your part. Which is probably why your heart is hammering against your sternum like a damn war drum. 

“I don’t know, Nat,” you mutter as the two of you walk across the crunchy morning grass. “This feels wrong.” 

“What does?” she asks. “The thong or the plan?” 

You roll your eyes. “Both.” 

“Well, suck it up. There’s no backing down now.” 

You squeeze your eyes shut and take a deep breath. Then you release it and reel yourself in. She’s right. You can’t be a chicken forever—and it’s not like you’re doing anything overtly humiliating. Besides, you’ve got a team at your back, and they’re not going to let you crash and burn. 

Last night, Natasha had texted Bob to let him know she was inviting you on the morning run. He’d replied with a simple thumbs up—something you found a little rude, but the boys insisted he only sends that when he doesn’t know what else to say. Which, apparently, is a good sign. 

This morning, you’d dug deep into your underwear drawer for a lacy black thong you bought a few years ago—back when you were more optimistic about your sex life. You pulled it on, despite the discomfort, and borrowed a pair of light blue workout tights from Natasha. Yep, that’s a black thong under pale blue, skin-tight leggings. 

“Without being creepy,” Mickey says from a few paces behind, “the plan is looking really good from back here.” 

You shoot him a scowl over your shoulder as Reuben smacks his arm, even though he’s wearing the same mischievous grin. 

The four of you wait at a picnic table in the park where you’d agreed to meet, and it doesn’t take long before you spot Bob walking across the grass—dark grey sweats and an oversized U.S. Navy hoodie, his hands tucked firmly into the front pocket. Quite possibly the most innocent, basic outfit he could’ve worn—a ridiculous contrast to yours—and yet you still find yourself thinking wildly inappropriate thoughts. 

About what’s under those sweats. About how good they’d look on your bedroom floor. 

Even the soft smile on his lips as he approaches makes you want to scream. How is one man such pure, soft boyfriend material... yet still manages to awaken your most primal instincts? It doesn’t make any sense. 

“Hey,” he says, eyes skimming over each of you before settling on Natasha. “We ready?” 

Natasha nods, and the five of you start walking off the grass toward the footpath before breaking into a jog. She and Bob take the lead while you hang back, with Reuben and Mickey flanking you like a private escort. Exactly as planned. You might be trying to fluster Bob, but you don’t need half of Coronado getting a look at your underwear—hence the two-man protection detail. 

Two kilometres later, you all stop for a quick stretch. Bob wanders off toward a water fountain, and you seize the opportunity to move up beside Natasha, placing yourself at the front of the group. Again—exactly according to plan. 

When Bob returns and joins in on Reuben and Mickey’s conversation, you and Natasha shuffle a little closer. She props one foot up on the bench, leaning into the stretch as she gives a subtle nod—the signal to begin. 

You let out a shaky breath, then slip on your best cool-and-confident facade. 

“I’m never doing this again,” you say to Nat—loud enough for the boys to hear. 

“I’m just gonna get a quick drink,” Reuben announces, conveniently cutting off their conversation. Right on cue. 

Mickey busies himself with stretching, leaving Bob to ‘accidentally’ overhear what comes next. 

“What?” Natasha asks. “Running? I told you you’d hate it.” 

“No,” you reply, pretending to lower your voice—even though you don’t. “Wearing a fucking thong.” 

She snorts, the laugh surprisingly genuine. Either she’s a fantastic actress, or she’s thoroughly enjoying herself. 

“Why are you wearing a thong?” 

You roll your eyes, falling deeper into the role. “Because I forgot to do my laundry and it was all I had left.” 

She snickers. “Well, have fun on the next eight kilometres.” 

“Oh yeah,” you sigh, “can’t wait.” 

You glance casually over your shoulder—and bingo. Bob’s face is bright red. His lips are slightly parted. And he’s blatantly staring at your ass like it’s the final clue to finding the national treasure—and Nicholas Cage is depending on him. 

Beside him, Mickey looks like he’s about to lose it. 

“Ready to keep going?” Reuben asks, walking back up—perfect timing. 

Everyone nods, and Bob clears his throat, licking his lips quickly. “Yep. Let’s go.” 

You and Natasha take off first, keeping yourselves in the lead. 

Every few minutes, you glance back—and without fail, Bob is staring. Each time, it sends your heart skittering, your cheeks heating, and your thoughts wandering into very unholy territory. 

Maybe your friends have been right all along. Maybe he does like you. Maybe this will actually work. 

By the seventh kilometre—with only three more to go—Bob looks like he’s hanging by a thread. He ditched his hoodie about two k’s ago, tying it around his waist. His hair his clinging to his forehead, damp with sweat, and his glasses are fogging up slightly near the bridge of his nose. 

You glance over your shoulder and give him a small smile. His lips pop open and he immediately averts his eyes, focusing instead on the pavement beneath his feet. You turn back, grinning to yourself, and that’s when he picks up his pace and jogs past both you and Natasha. 

Natasha nearly bursts out laughing, but she smacks a hand to her face, pretending to wipe the sweat from her upper lip. She shoots you a sideways look and a smirk—and the two of you push forward to flank Bob, jogging on either side of him. 

“Hey,” Natasha says, more than a little breathless. “You trying to make this a competition?” 

Bob shakes his head, eyes locked on the path ahead. “Nope. Just staying focused.” 

“What’s so distracting back there?” she asks, fighting a smirk. 

“Is Fanboy being a pest?” you add, giving yourself a layer of plausible deniability—just in case he starts to suspect anything. 

Bob’s gaze flicks to you, then drops briefly to your chest before snapping forward again. “Yeah,” he says, voice uneven. “He’s breathing like Darth Vader.” 

“Hey!” Mickey calls from behind. “I’m not deaf!” 

The five of you share a short, breathless laugh before settling into a comfortable silence. You’re thoroughly exhausted now and decide to give Bob a break for the last few kilometres—merciful, maybe, but also strategic. 

Soon enough, the group slows to a walk as the café marking the end of your run comes into view. 

“Thank God,” Mickey gasps. “I’m starving.” 

“You’re always hungry,” you mutter, shooting him a flat look. 

The café is busier than expected, and you’re about to start crafting a subtle excuse to avoid going in when Reuben steps up behind you and unzips his jacket. 

“Cover your ass up, Sunny,” he says, smirking. “For fuck’s sake.” 

You try—and fail—to suppress your grin as he hands you the jacket. You roll your eyes and tie it around your waist, grateful for the cover. 

Once you’re feeling a little more decent, the group heads inside to order breakfast and find a table out back on the patio. The food and coffee arrive quickly, and soon everyone is digging in, quiet with post-run hunger. Though judging by how often Bob’s eyes keep darting toward you, his appetite might not be entirely food-related. 

“So,” Mickey says through a mouthful of bacon, “are we finishing the Star Wars marathon this weekend, or what?” 

Bob perks up instantly, eyes going bright, the usual stormy blue softening into something more sky-coloured. “Yes. Tomorrow night?” 

Reuben frowns. “But that’s Sunday.” 

“Mav gave us Monday off,” Natasha chimes in. “Weekend rotation, remember?” 

“Oh, right.” Reuben nods. “Yeah, I’m in.” 

“How many are left?” Natasha asks. 

“Six,” Mickey replies. “Not including spin-offs.” 

“We’re not getting through six in one night,” you point out. “We’ll be lucky to finish the prequels.” 

“Unless…” he says, his eyes gleaming with mischief as they flick between everyone at the table, “we had a sleepover.” 

You snort into your coffee before taking a sip, expecting someone—probably Natasha or Reuben—to shut the idea down. But instead, their faces light up with the same devious smirk that Mickey is wearing. 

“We could,” Natasha says casually. “I think it’d be fun.” 

Bob blinks at her. “You do?” 

She nods. “Yeah. Why not? We could play some drinking games and not worry about getting home.” 

“Drinking games!” Reuben echoes with excitement. “You’re a genius, Phoenix.” 

With the way their eyes keep bouncing between you and Bob, it’s clear now: they’re scheming again. Plotting the next phase of Operation Bob's Blue Balls—and your pulse is already quickening with anticipation. 

“We could do it at my place,” Bob offers, earnest as ever. “I’ve got a spare room. Plenty of space.” 

Reuben grins. “What a great idea, Bob.” 

Bob glances around at his grinning friends, the smile on his face tinged with uncertainty. He has no clue what he’s just agreed to. 

- 

“Did you pack sexy PJs?” Natasha asks, her fingers drumming against the steering wheel. 

You roll your eyes. “I don’t own any sexy PJs.” 

She shoots you a sly smirk before her gaze flicks back to the road, her silence thick with something unspoken—as if she already has a plan to remedy your lack of Victoria’s Secret-worthy sleepwear. 

Bob’s apartment isn’t far from yours. In fact, none of you live all that far from each other, but tonight, the distance doesn’t seem to matter. No—the real reason for tonight’s sleepover is something far more sinister. 

You know you’re the last to arrive, not just from the cars parked along the street, but from the group chat where Mickey has been demanding you hurry up so he can order dinner. Your heart beats in your throat as you ride the elevator up, and the ding when it reaches Bob’s level startles you more than it should. 

Natasha’s smirk stays plastered on her face until she knocks on the door, and the second it swings open, with Bob standing there, she’s all business. 

“Hey,” she says casually, walking past him like she’s been here a thousand times. 

A stab of jealousy twists in your stomach—completely unwarranted but sharp nonetheless. Has Natasha been here a lot? 

“Hi,” you mutter, offering Bob a small smile as you follow Nat inside. 

There’s a chorus of hellos from the squad scattered around the living room. Bradley lounges across the two-seater couch furthest from the door, and Mickey is sprawled in a bean bag beside him, grinning like a kid in a candy store. Jake and Javy are tangled together on one end of the three-seater couch, probably having just finished fighting over the remote. And then there’s Reuben, sitting in the middle, with Natasha plopping down beside him. 

“Guess I’ll take the floor,” you mutter, dropping your bag beside the pile of everyone else’s stuff. 

“That’s alright,” Jake says with his usual cocky grin, “You can sit on Bobby’s lap for a bit of comfort.” 

Heat floods your cheeks, but you refuse to let him see the effect of his words. Instead, you roll your eyes and flip him off, then plop down onto the makeshift nest of cushions and blankets on the floor. 

Bob reappears from the kitchen with another round of beers, while Mickey takes orders for dinner. Then Bob settles down beside you, his arm brushing yours just enough to send a sparks crackling across your skin. A moment later, Jake hits play on The Phantom Menace, and the room settles into a comfortable, albeit charged, quiet. 

It doesn’t take long before Jake groans that he’s bored, and Reuben’s eyes immediately flick toward Natasha—like they’d both seen this coming from a mile away. 

“We could play a game,” Mickey offers, all too innocently. 

“Yes,” Jake grins, already invested. “Let’s play a game.” 

“What game?” Javy asks. 

Reuben opens his mouth, but Jake beats him to it. “Truth or Dare, obviously.” 

Natasha snorts and slaps a hand over her mouth, but not before you catch it. That was exactly what Reuben had been about to suggest—and Jake is walking right into whatever scheme they’ve cooked up. 

“How old are you?” Bradley asks Jake, brows furrowing. 

“Not as old as you, Grandpa,” Jake fires back. “But you could at least pretend to enjoy fun.” 

Bradley rolls his eyes but shrugs. “Fine.” 

Everyone else falls in line, shifting around until you’ve all formed a lopsided circle on the floor, your back half-angled toward the movie. Jake claps his hands together like the ringmaster of a circus—which might not be far off from what this night is about to become. 

“Alright. If you’re a chicken and won’t answer the truth or do the dare, you drink. Simple. I’ll go first.” He zeroes in on Bob—poor, unsuspecting Bob, who clearly just wanted to enjoy some Star Wars in peace. “Bob. Truth or Dare?” 

“Truth,” Bob says, almost too quickly. 

Jake leans forward with a shit-eating grin. “Who would you rather go on a date with—Phoenix or Sunny?” 

You choke on nothing, smothering the sound behind your hand and pretending it’s just a casual cough. 

Heat blooms across Bob’s cheeks and starts creeping up to the tips of his ears. He glances your way—just for a beat—then over at Natasha, and your stomach knots. Is he seriously having to think about this? Have your friends been totally misreading Bob this whole time? 

Then, after a moment of hesitation, Bob simply lifts his beer and takes a long sip. 

Jake groans. “Ugh, lame.” 

“Don’t worry, Bob,” Javy says with a laugh. “That was a trap. There was no right answer.” 

Bob chuckles—a low, rough sound right next to you that sends goosebumps up your arms. “I know,” he says, voice deceptively casual. Then he shifts his gaze toward Mickey. “Fanboy. Truth or Dare?” 

Mickey’s face lights up. “Dare.” 

Bob smiles—and for the first time tonight, it’s almost a smirk. There’s something sharp beneath the usual softness, and it makes your stomach flip. 

“Text the last person you hooked up with ‘thinking about you’—no context. And you can't reply until tomorrow.” 

Mickey’s grin drops. “What the fuck, man?” 

Bob just shrugs, raising his beer like it’s a toast. “You picked dare.” Then he brings the bottle to his lips and takes a generous swig. 

And holy shit—you might actually combust from the sight alone. Bob being just a little cocky. Bob utterly destroying Mickey with zero remorse. You know there’s a darker edge beneath that quiet, boy-next-door act. You know he’s got a mean streak. And God, you want to find it. Pull it out of him and ask—beg—for him to do things you can’t even say out loud. 

The group erupts into cackles as Mickey reluctantly pulls out his phone, Reuben peering over his shoulder to make sure he follows through. 

“There,” Mickey mutters, tossing the phone face-down on the floor. “You better watch your back.” 

But Bob doesn’t flinch. He just sits there, calm and collected, with that damn smirk still tugging at the corner of his mouth. 

When you finally tear your gaze away from him, you find Mickey’s eyes locked on you—an evil grin stretched across his face. “Sunny,” he says, voice smooth as silk. “Truth or Dare?” 

You steel your nerves, unsure of what’s coming but already sensing the trap. “Dare,” you reply, trying to keep your voice steady. 

Mickey’s grin widens, tipping his head forward like some sinister villain—and you just walked straight into his web. “Google a dirty line from Fifty Shades of Grey... and whisper it slowly in Bob’s ear.” 

Jake snorts, his face twisted with amusement, and the rest of the group follows—dissolving into fits of laughter. All but Bob, who’s already choking on his beer, turning an even deeper shade of red before you’ve even touched your phone. 

You blink, eyes going wide. “Are you serious?” 

“Oh, I’m very serious,” Mickey replies, practically vibrating with excitement. “And no laughing. You have to sell it.” 

You lock eyes with Mickey, your death-glare sharp as your hands shake slightly while you pick up your phone. Then, you reluctantly tap the search bar and type in ‘dirty line from Fifty Shades of Grey.’ Before you realize what’s happening, Natasha leans over your shoulder. 

“Ooh,” she giggles, pointing at the screen. “That one.” 

You glance up at Bob, your expression a mix of apology and warning. He looks much less confident than before, his lips parted, cheeks flushed, blue eyes wide behind his glasses. His throat bobs as he swallows, and a small part of you—one that feels dangerous—stirs with excitement. 

The room falls into eerie silence, and you realize that Jake has paused the movie. All eyes are on you as you shuffle closer to Bob, getting onto your knees beside him. You plant one hand on his thigh to steady yourself, and you feel the muscles in his leg twitch at your touch. 

His breath hitches, his whole body going rigid. 

You lean in close, your lips barely brushing the shell of his ear as you murmur, “I want your hands on me. Your mouth. I want to feel you everywhere until I forget my own name.” 

A beat of silence stretches, and then Bob exhales sharply, his hand tightening around his beer bottle as if it’s the only thing keeping him tethered to Earth. 

“Jesus Christ,” Jake mutters under his breath. 

“Holy shit,” Reuben says, breaking into laughter. 

Mickey is howling, pounding his fist against the beanbag. “Worth it! So worth it!” 

You slowly pull back, biting back a grin as you settle back into your spot like nothing happened. Bob, however, is still stuck in the mental tailspin you just launched him into, blinking hard and adjusting his glasses like he needs a whole system reset. 

You meet his eyes, and for the briefest second, you see it—buried beneath the shock and heat—that glint of hunger. 

God help you, you're not making it out of tonight alive. 

The game moves on, but you can’t quiet your mind. You’re stuck on the way Bob’s thigh had felt beneath your palm, the way the muscles shifted under your touch. You can’t stop replaying the brush of your lips near his ear, the hitch in his breath, or the way he’d smelled—clean, warm, intoxicating. You don’t just want to fuck this man—you want to ruin him. You want him panting and wrecked, bruised and breathless, oversensitive and spent. There are things you want to ask of him that would guarantee you a one-way ticket to hell. But if he said yes—if he gave you those things—it’d be worth it. 

You’ve never wanted a man the way you want him, and it’s starting to feel like a genuine threat to your well-being. 

“Bob,” Natasha says, her voice snapping you back to reality, “Truth or Dare?” 

You’re not sure how many turns you’ve missed, but Bradley and Reuben seem to have swapped shirts, and there’s a bottle of tequila on the table that definitely wasn’t there earlier. 

“Dare,” Bob replies, seemingly recovered from your whispered indecency. 

Natasha grins. “I dare you to pick someone in this room to do a body shot off of—excluding me.” 

Your heart stutters at the last part. Did she say that because she thought he’d pick her? Would he have? Out of comfort, knowing it wouldn’t mean anything—or for some other reason? 

You shake the thought off quickly and join the group’s laughter, mentally scolding yourself for the jealous spiral. 

“Seriously, Phoenix?” Bob sighs, his brows knit. 

She just shrugs, laughing. “You picked dare.” 

He tips his head back and groans, giving you a perfect view of the long line of his throat, the sharp bob of his Adam’s apple as he swallows. 

“Come on, man,” Jake chuckles, “There’s only one clear choice.” 

Your cheeks flush as Jake nods toward you, green eyes sparkling like he’s the one about to do the dare. 

“As if you’re not going to pick Sunny,” Javy adds, watching as Bob’s eyes slowly scan the room. 

Then his gaze lands on you—soft, but laced with something heavier. Something simmering. 

He licks his lips, and you can’t stop yourself from imagining them on your skin. Imagining his tongue dragging over your body, slow and deliberate. The salt from your collarbone, your abdomen… or maybe lower—right above the waistband of your pants. Would he use the glass? Or would he press his mouth to your stomach, lips sealing around your navel, tongue lapping up the tequila while you tremble beneath him? 

Then the lime—between your lips, waiting for him. His mouth brushing yours as he leans in, breath mingling, tasting more than just the fruit. You imagine the sharp burst of citrus, the tease of contact, tequila heat still slick on his tongue. He’d bite down, lips grazing yours, and it would wreck you more than any kiss ever could. 

“Hangman,” Bob says suddenly, his gaze locked on the man across the circle—who now looks a lot less smug and a lot more stunned. 

Jake’s brows shoot up. “Me?” 

The room erupts into laughter. Bradley throws his head back, already fumbling for his phone to record whatever chaos is about to unfold. Mickey nearly falls over, gripping the bean bag for dear life, and Javy is doubled over, laughing so hard he can’t catch a breath. 

“Why would you do this to me?” Jake gasps, eyes wide. 

“You said there was only one clear option,” Bob replies evenly, the ghost of a smirk tugging at his mouth. “I agree.” 

“You bitch,” Jake mutters. 

“Oh, this is so much better than what I thought was going to happen,” Natasha says. “Shirt off, Bagman. Let’s go.” 

“This could be considered assault,” Jake mutters as he sits forward on the couch. 

“Then press charges,” Bradley says, half-choking on a laugh. “But let him finish first.” 

Natasha bolts to the kitchen for lime and salt, and the rest of the group scrambles to clear space on the lounge like they’re prepping for surgery. Jake peels off his shirt with the theatrics of a martyr, glaring at each of his cackling friends. 

Bob, meanwhile, looks cool as ever—far more composed than Jake. And maybe that’s the point. Picking you would’ve set the room on fire. Picking someone else would’ve gotten laughs. But picking Hangman? That’s just cruel and perfect—and from the slow curl of a smirk on Bob’s lips, he knows it. 

“Let’s go, Seresin,” Natasha says, reappearing with lime in one hand, salt in the other. 

Jake lies back with exaggerated misery, like a man about to be sacrificed at the altar. “I swear to God, Floyd, if you do anything weird with your mouth-” 

“I won’t,” Bob says, calm and unbothered. “Unless you want me to.” 

Your stomach somersaults. He didn’t even look at you—but somehow, it still feels like the line was meant for you. Like he knows exactly what he does to you, without even trying. 

Bob Floyd is fucking smooth when he wants to be. 

The room falls eerily quiet as Bob kneels beside the couch, one hand braced on the cushion beneath Jake’s body, the other holding the tequila bottle. He looks serene—like he’s preparing for a sacred ritual rather than licking salt off another man’s chest. 

“This is happening,” Mickey whispers, wide-eyed. “This is actually happening.” 

“Focus, Bob,” Natasha says solemnly, holding the shot glass as he pours the tequila. “We believe in you.” 

Bob sets the bottle down and leans toward Jake slowly, both hands now braced on the couch as he lowers his head to the other man’s chest. The room is absolutely silent, save for the soft rustle of fabric and the charged hush of everyone holding their breath. 

Jake stares straight up, completely stiff. “Don’t look at me while you do it.” 

“I’m not,” Bob says, deadpan. 

He dips his head and licks the salt clean off Jake’s skin. Jake jerks like he’s been hit with a defibrillator. 

“Oh my God,” Javy whispers, clutching his chest. “This is the best thing I’ve ever witnessed.” 

Natasha hands Bob the shot, and he tosses it back like he’s sampling a fine whiskey. Then he turns to the lime Natasha has jammed between Jake’s clenched teeth. 

“Don’t you dare,” Jake warns. 

“I’m just following instructions,” Bob replies calmly, and leans in. 

There’s a ridiculous half-second where it looks like they’re about to kiss—and everyone knows it. You bite your fist to keep from bursting out laughing… or something else entirely. Because Bob? Cool as ice. Smooth as ever. He doesn’t even flinch as his mouth brushes Jake’s, teeth clamping down on the lime and tugging it free. 

Jake makes a choked sound halfway between outrage and existential crisis. 

Then the room explodes. 

Bradley nearly falls off the lounge, still recording, laughter shaking his whole body. Natasha collapses into Javy’s lap, practically wheezing. Mickey is making noises like he’s being exorcised, and you’re on the brink of tears, shoulders shaking with laughter as Bob calmly returns to his seat, lime in hand, mouth twisted slightly at the tartness. 

Jake bolts upright, wiping his mouth. “I need therapy.” 

Bob frowns. “You needed therapy before that.” 

“Yeah,” Jake spits, yanking his shirt back on. “Well, now I need more.” 

You’re not sure you’ve ever felt it before—and you definitely don’t plan on voicing it—but right now, you are incredibly fucking jealous of Jake Seresin. 

It takes a while, but eventually the group settles down and the game fizzles out—mostly thanks to Jake’s relentless sulking. Not long after, Mickey gets a notification that the food is nearly delivered, and everyone jumps into action to clear the table and grab what’s needed for dinner. 

Less than ten minutes later, you’re all crowded around the coffee table, shovelling Chinese food into your mouths and stealing bites off each other’s plates. Jake’s sour mood has mostly vanished, and everyone is focused on the final battle of the movie playing out on-screen. 

By the time the credits start rolling, most of the food is gone. You and Natasha start carting plates, bowls, and empty containers into the kitchen while the guys finish polishing off their meals, scraping the last of the food off their plates and into their mouths.  

“Did I mention I brought dessert?” Reuben pipes up, eyeing you as you stack a few plates in one hand. 

You raise a brow. “Are you about to make a gross joke?” 

“No,” he laughs, shaking his head. “You know Barb, down the hall?” 

“Neighbour Barb with the yappy chihuahua?” 

He nods. “Yeah. She bakes, like… the most amazing stuff.” 

You narrow your eyes, plates now balanced in both hands. “Do I even want to know how you know this?” 

Mickey answers for him, talking around a mouthful of Mongolian beef. “Because we’re nice to our neighbours.” 

You give him a disgusted look before turning back to Reuben. “Okay. Get to the point.” 

He grins, a smug twist playing at the corner of his mouth. “She made a huge batch of cream pies—I mean, puffs. So she brought some over, and I brought them here. They’re to die for.” 

Your eyes widen almost imperceptibly—but Reuben catches it, and you can see the spark of amusement flash across his face. 

“Have you ever had a cream pie, Sunny?” Mickey asks, beaming up at you with sauce smeared on his face. 

Jake and Javy snort, and behind you—you swear you hear Bob snicker. 

“Yes, Mick,” you bite out. “I’ve had a cream puff.” 

You turn sharply back toward the kitchen, but not before catching the small smirk on Bob’s lips, his cheeks pink as he spoons another mouthful of kung pao chicken into his mouth. 

“That’s not what I asked!” Mickey calls after you, giggling like a grade-schooler. 

You roll your eyes and drop the plates by the sink, where Natasha and Bradley are already washing up. 

“Lookin’ a little red there, Floyd,” Reuben teases, his voice carrying from the living room to the kitchen. 

It’s the chicken,” Bob replies quickly—but there’s something in his voice that makes a stupid, lovesick grin spread across your face. 

Once everything is washed up and everyone has returned to the living room, Jake hits play on the next film. You’re back on the floor, this time with your back pressed to the couch beneath Natasha, who’s curled up with her legs tucked beneath her, leaving you space to lean. Bob is further away now, sprawled on his back across a fluffy blanket, a cluster of pillows beneath his head, hands folded neatly over his stomach. 

You try to keep your eyes on the screen—it really shouldn’t be that hard with both Hayden Christensen and Ewan McGregor to enjoy—but your gaze keeps drifting to Bob. He looks so content, so cute, his lips tipped into a soft half-smile and his blue eyes sparkling behind his glasses. There’s something about him that turns your brain to absolute mush, and you still can’t figure out what. 

Maybe it’s the dichotomy of him. How sweet and quiet he is—some might even say shy, but you know better. He’s just overwhelmingly nice, with a pretty face to match. And yet, you have to remind yourself that this man is in the navy. He’s not spineless—in fact, he’s the total opposite. He’s sharp and quick-witted, strong both mentally and physically. There’s not a single thing about him that’s weak, yet he lets people assume otherwise. 

Maybe it’s confidence. The kind that doesn’t need to be loud. He doesn’t care what people think or say. Not that he isn’t awkward sometimes—he definitely can be—but that’s more about being introverted. He doesn’t need to show off or run his mouth like Jake. He doesn’t need to fly like an idiot to prove himself. He’s just Bob. He knows who he is, and he’s not apologetic about it. 

What is it they call that? 

Oh yeah… big dick energy. 

Your eyes drift down his torso, lingering briefly on his hands—the way his long fingers are laced together—before continuing down to the waistband of his dark blue joggers. There’s a bulge in his lap. A notable one. And a slight outline continuing down the left leg of his pants… 

Wait. That’s like… kind of huge. 

A hard nudge to your shoulder startles you, and you whip around to see Natasha staring at you. Her eyes are wide, her lips pulled into a smirk—half disbelieving, half smug. 

Stop staring, she mouths. 

You press your lips together to hold back a laugh, a little giddy from your fourth—or maybe fifth—beer. Your face feels warm, and you know if you keep looking at Nat, you’ll start laughing, so you quickly turn back to the movie. 

“Okay,” Mickey pipes up, scrambling out of the beanbag and to his feet, “who wants cream puffs?” 

“Only if you serve them warm and full,” Jake shoots back. 

The room erupts—half groans, half childish laughter. Mickey just snorts and disappears into the kitchen, Reuben trailing behind him. A few minutes later, they return, each holding a heaping plate stacked with warm, golden cream puffs. 

“Fair warning,” Reuben says, setting one down on the table, “these things are insane. Like... dangerously good.” 

You grab one without hesitation—soft, golden, still warm to the touch. It’s dusted in powdered sugar and practically bursting with cream. You bite into it and—holy hell—the taste explodes in your mouth. Sweet. Rich. Ridiculously creamy. You moan without meaning to, eyes fluttering shut. 

“Oh, wow,” you say around a mouthful. “That’s... actually insane.” 

The group hums and laughs in agreement, but you barely notice. You take another bite—bigger this time—and it squishes a little too easily in your hand. Cream oozes out the side, trailing down your chin and, with an audible plop, lands squarely between your breasts. 

“Oh, shit,” you mutter, trying to swipe the cream away—but all you manage to do is smear it further. 

There’s a beat of silence, and even the movie playing in the background seems to go quiet. 

“Jesus Christ,” Reuben says, somewhere between impressed and scandalised. “You sure you don’t need a minute alone with that thing?” 

Laughter rumbles around you, and only when you look up do you realise how provocative that just was—the heat in your cheeks deepening. But then your eyes catch on Bob. 

He’s not laughing. He’s not even blinking. 

The lazy smile he wore earlier? Gone. He’s sitting upright now, shoulders tense, jaw clenched. His gaze is locked on you like he forgot what movie is playing, what day it is—hell, maybe even his own name. 

“Floyd?” Mickey nudges his leg with a foot. “You good?” 

Bob jolts slightly, as if waking from a trance. He coughs, shifts, and yanks the blanket from the floor to cover his lap—too quickly to be casual. 

“They, uh...” he clears his throat, voice rough. “They look really good.” 

Your stomach swoops as he leans forward, still holding the blanket tight in place, and reaches for a cream puff from the plate right in front of you—still avoiding your eyes entirely. 

Natasha leans in from behind, her voice low. “You are killing him.” 

You press your lips together to hide your grin, eyes flicking back to Bob—who’s now doing everything in his power not to look in your direction. 

The cream puffs disappear in what has to be a record amount of time. You’re pretty sure you watched Javy inhale at least four, and there was an unnecessarily loud argument between Mickey and Bradley over the last one, which ended in a begrudging decision to split it. 

The rest of the movie plays out without incident, and afterward, everyone decides to change into their PJs for the final film of the night. You’re honestly surprised everyone has made it to movie number three, but you’re not complaining. 

The boys start rummaging through their bags, swapping out jeans for boxers or stretchy pajama pants while Natasha grabs her bag and disappears into the bathroom. You keep your eyes glued to your phone screen to avoid catching a glimpse of something you definitely don’t want to see—because these boys? They have no shame. 

“You can change in my room if you want,” Bob offers. 

You glance up, making sure to keep your eyes fixed on him, because just a little to the left is where Jake is still mid-change. 

“Yeah?” 

Bob nods, a small smile tugging at his lips as he gestures down the short hallway past the kitchen. “It’s the door just after the bathroom.” 

“Thanks,” you mutter, pushing to your feet and grabbing your bag as you slip past the others—now teasing Mickey about his choice of boxers. 

The door is open just a crack, and your heart thuds a little harder than it should as you ease it the rest of the way. The smell hits first—clean and warm, with a twist of vanilla that makes you want to wrap yourself in it and never leave. 

You flick on the light and shut the door behind you, dropping your bag to the floor. You know you should just get changed, but… you can’t help it. You’ve only been to Bob’s apartment a couple times before—once to help him move in (because of course the whole squad helped), and once with Natasha to pick him up before a night out. But never in here. Never in his room. 

It’s almost unusually tidy, but that’s navy life for you. His bed is made neatly, topped with a soft baby blue duvet, coordinated beige and cream pillows, and a throw blanket folded at the foot. It’s a little faded and looks handmade, like something passed down through generations. 

On one side of the room, a bookshelf houses a quiet little collection of well-loved paperbacks, a few aviation manuals, and a line of model planes—some pristine and precise, others clearly glued together by a much younger version of him. A framed photo of a beaming, pint-sized Bob in oversized glasses sits on the dresser, nestled between a small baseball trophy and a display of navy challenge coins. 

A pair of worn sneakers sits neatly by the door, and his uniform jacket hangs off the closet handle, the door slightly ajar. The name tag catches just enough light to pull your eyes toward it. Everything about the room feels like him—modest, thoughtful, quietly proud. It’s the kind of unintentional intimacy that makes you feel like you’ve slipped behind the curtain and gotten a glimpse of the real Bob. 

And somehow… that makes your chest ache. It’s just a room. But it feels so much like him—like you could curl up in here with him for hours, doing nothing but talking and dreaming. Getting lost in each other. Letting the rest of the world wait. And then, later, getting tangled together. Soft kisses, whispered pleas, gentle moans—slow and unhurried, learning one another’s bodies until you know each other better than you know yourselves. 

You shake your head hard and take a breath. You’ve already been in here too long. Pull it together. 

You crouch beside your bag and pull out your pajamas—soft lounge shorts and a matching long-sleeved shirt. It’s nothing special, but a step up from your usual: an old, food-stained navy tee and nothing but underwear. 

You change quickly and shove your clothes into your bag before leaving the room. The lounge room has quieted down, everyone now back in their seats—except for Mickey and Bob, who are in the kitchen grabbing another round of drinks. 

Jake hits play as soon as they return, and everyone settles in again. There’s less chatter now, probably because of how late it’s gotten. Bradley is almost definitely asleep, eyes half-shut on the two-seater, while Mickey is having the time of his life seeing how many of Bradley’s fingers he can get stuck in the top of his beer bottle. 

Natasha is curled up behind you, her head resting on Reuben’s shoulder, and his blinks are getting longer and slower by the second. Jake is surprisingly alert and invested in the film, but Javy looks like his head might lull back at any moment. And Bob—Bob is still wide awake, his eyes sparkling with interest as he watches the screen. 

Halfway through the film, Mickey pushes to his feet and offers another round of drinks, prompting a few sleepy murmurs of ‘yes’ from the others. 

“I’ll help,” you offer, stretching as you rise from the floor and follow him into the kitchen. 

You open the fridge and start pulling out beers while Mickey pops the tops off. But when you close the fridge and turn back around, you spot Reuben—now suddenly very awake—watching Mickey with intent. He’s wearing that little smirk that always means trouble, clearly trying to telepathically communicate something to his WSO. 

Your brow furrows as you glance between them, trying to decode the silent exchange. Mickey looks equally confused for a second... but then realisation dawns and a wicked grin curls onto his face. 

He turns to you and mutters, “Sorry about this.” But he doesn’t sound even remotely apologetic. 

Your frown deepens. “What are you-” 

But you don’t get to finish the question before he starts shaking the beer bottle in his hand. 

“Mick—!” you cry, just as he pops the top off and sprays you with beer. 

You shriek, throwing your hands in front of your face like that’ll somehow stop the onslaught. But it doesn’t. You’re soaked. 

“What the hell, Fanboy?” Reuben calls from the living room, as if this wasn’t entirely his doing. 

“Mickey!” you shout, dropping your arms and glaring at him. 

“Whoops,” he says with a grin. “My bad.” 

Natasha snorts and smacks a hand over her mouth. “Sorry. It’s not funny.” 

“Wow, Fanboy,” Jake pipes up, the smirk in his voice unmistakable. “Is that the first time you’ve made a girl wet?” 

Mickey glares—or tries to. He’s way too pleased with himself for it to land properly. 

“Hey, Floyd,” Reuben calls, “you got any spare clothes for Sunny?” 

Bob is already looking at you, lips parted and cheeks flushed. He swallows hard before turning to Reuben and nodding. “Yeah, of course.” Then he stands, eyes flicking back to you. “Do you want to shower?” 

Mickey gasps, scandalised. “Robert Floyd, are you propositioning her?” 

Bob’s blush deepens, colouring his neck and the tips of his ears, but he doesn’t look particularly ashamed. He looks… flushed. Hot. Close to unravelling. His glare cuts back to Mickey, sharper than usual, a little too dark to be playful. And then his gaze shifts back to you—specifically, your chest. 

You follow his line of sight and immediately wrap an arm around yourself. Your nipples are pebbled beneath your shirt, the damp fabric clinging in all the worst ways. Or the best—if you ask Bob Floyd. 

“Yes,” you say tightly. “A shower would be good.” 

The room dissolves into quiet laughter as you follow Bob down the hall. He slips into his room for a moment, then returns with a folded towel and some clothes stacked neatly on top. 

“Here,” he says, offering them to you. “Take as long as you want. You can use whatever’s in there. Not that there’s much.” 

He dips his head—blush still firmly in place—and heads back to the living room. 

You stare after him for a second, dumbfounded. He got embarrassed about his lack of shower products? That’s what embarrassed him? Not the full-body, post-beer-shower eye-fucking he just gave you? 

You close the bathroom door behind you and lean against it, exhaling hard. You’re buzzing. Overstimulated. Untouched and on fire. You feel like you’re being edged and then abandoned, left to squirm. You’re so sensitive it hurts. Bob is teasing you just as much as you’re teasing him—those glances, the heat behind his eyes, the way his mouth hangs open like he wants to say something but never does. 

You might’ve thought you were playing a game, but Bob Floyd is about to kill you without even realising it. 

You strip quickly, trying not to dwell on the fact that you’re naked in Bob’s apartment. You keep the water on the cooler side—a half-hearted attempt to wash away the heat still simmering under your skin. But it doesn’t help. You shower fast and step out even faster, wrapping yourself in the towel Bob gave you. It’s fluffy, soft, and smells just like him—which makes that spot deep behind your hipbones ache. 

You dry off in record time, then turn to the small pile of clothes on the vanity—Bob’s clothes. Your hands tremble slightly as you lift the satin boxers, dark blue with little white stars, and slide them up your legs. Then the shirt: a worn white tee with a faded Star Wars logo across the chest. 

His scent wraps around you the second you slide it over your head—oversized and impossibly soft against your warm skin. You try not to focus on the rasp of cotton against your nipples. God, if he ever actually touches you, you might just combust. 

You take a deep breath, trying to calm the fire burning low in your belly, then scoop up your beer-soaked clothes and open the bathroom door—steam spilling into the hallway as you step out. 

"Finally," Mickey says, popping up in front of you like he’s been waiting, holding out a plastic bag. 

You blink. “What?” 

“For your clothes,” he says simply. 

“Oh.” You take it and shove the damp material inside. 

His gaze dips—just for a beat—before sliding back up. Then he grins, gives you a cheeky wink, and turns back toward the lounge room. You follow, every eye lifting to you the second you reappear. Warmth floods your cheeks. You’re in Bob’s clothes. Bob's boxers. Bob's shirt. 

“Can we play the movie now?” Jake whines, oblivious to the tension humming through the room. “It was just getting good.” 

You nod, unable to speak, your gaze already locked with Bob’s. 

His eyes rake down your body, slow and deliberate. He takes in the curve of your neck, the slope of your shoulder, the hang of his shirt against your chest. His gaze catches there, as if he can see straight through the fabric, then continues its journey down to the hem. The shorts are barely visible beneath the shirt, and judging by the heat in his eyes, he might be wondering why you're wearing pants at all. 

You shift under the weight of his stare, hyper-aware of every inch of fabric against your skin—of how suddenly hot the room feels. Jake presses play, but no one is watching the screen. Every pair of eyes bounces between you and Bob, waiting—expecting—something to happen. 

Bob looks wrecked. His hands are clenched at his sides, knuckles white, jaw tight. Like he has to physically hold himself back. 

Natasha clears her throat, startling you more than it should. You tear your gaze away and flash her a sheepish smile before finally forcing yourself to move, padding back to your spot on the floor. 

Even then, you can feel Bob’s eyes tracking every step. 

The rest of the movie plays out in near silence, broken only by the soft snoring that eventually starts up from Bradley and Javy. It takes a while for you to settle, but you finally curl up on the floor with a pillow hugged to your chest, watching Anakin fall apart on-screen and become Darth Vader. 

Jake is the only one still fully invested in the film. Even Bob seems distracted now, his eyes flicking toward you more often than the TV. He shifts in place, uncomfortable, dragging the blanket higher across his lap and holding it like a lifeline. You try not to smirk. 

You think you know what might be going on under there… but you’re not about to assume. It couldn't possibly be just because you’re wearing his clothes. 

…Right? 

Eventually, the credits start rolling and everyone begins to stir. 

“Where am I sleeping?” Mickey asks, already eyeing Bob like he’s got plans. 

Bob shrugs. “Wherever. There’s the couches and a couple beds in the spare room, but someone’ll have to sleep with me.” 

“I think Rooster’s good here,” Jake says, glancing at the man awkwardly passed out on the two-seater couch. “I’ll take this one.” 

“I’ll sleep with you, Bobby,” Javy says through a yawn, stretching so wide his joints pop. 

“Damn it,” Mickey mutters as he walks past, bumping your shoulder with his. “Missed opportunity.” 

You roll your eyes but can’t help feeling a twinge of disappointment. You know damn well you wouldn’t get any sleep next to Bob—not when he smells like that, looks like that, and keeps looking at you the way he does. So it’s probably for the best, but still, the thought lingers. 

Everyone takes turns brushing their teeth and shuffling off to bed. You end up in the fold-out bed with Natasha in the spare room, while Reuben and Mickey claim the air mattress on the floor. Apparently, there’s no escaping these boys—not even for one night. 

Mumbled goodnights fade into rustling fabric and shifting limbs, then finally, silence. 

Too much silence. 

You lie on your back, eyes on the ceiling, thoughts screaming through your head like they’re in a race. You should be tired—your body aches—but your brain refuses to shut up. You toss the blanket off, overheated, but even with the cooler air, your skin feels flushed. You roll to your side, careful not to jostle Natasha on the creaky mattress, but nothing helps. 

You glance down at the boys, both snoring with their mouths open, and finally sigh. Swinging your legs off the bed, you wriggle out of Bob’s shorts, thinking maybe it’ll help. You don’t usually sleep in pants anyway. 

It doesn’t. 

Ten minutes later, you quietly slip off the bed and tiptoe toward the door, easing it open with practiced care to avoid the squeaky hinges. Then you turn down the hallway, barefoot and warm-skinned, and pad into the kitchen. 

The hem of Bob’s shirt brushes against your bare thighs, stoking the fire already simmering between them as you stop in front of the fridge and pull the door open. A cool flood of light spills across the kitchen tiles. You grab a bottle of water and twist off the cap, stepping back and tipping it to your lips. But the cold rush does nothing to cool the heat thrumming beneath your skin. 

“You always walk around other people’s places half naked?” 

You choke, almost spilling water down your chin as you turn toward the voice—that low, raspy sound that makes your skin prickle and your spine snap straight. 

Bob stands at the edge of the kitchen, leaning casually against the far counter—but there’s nothing relaxed about the way he holds himself. In the dim glow of the fridge light, he looks almost ethereal. His eyes are sharp, lit with something that borders on pain—hunger, maybe, or full-blown starvation—and his arms are crossed over his bare chest. 

Yeah. Bob Floyd is shirtless. 

You register a flicker of jealousy for Javy—the man who gets to sleep next to this—but you don’t let yourself linger on it. Not when Bob is standing right there in nothing but a pair of loose boxers, the fabric doing nothing to hide the impressive shape beneath. 

You don’t know if it’s because he’s a little turned on or just blessed, but damn. 

“You okay?” he asks, though it doesn’t sound like a real question—because he already knows the answer. 

No. No, you’re not. 

You clear your throat, dragging your eyes back up to his. “Yeah, I—uh-” 

Your words falter when his gaze drops to your legs. There’s something almost reverent in the way he looks at you—like he’s trying to memorise every inch. His eyes drag slowly up your bare thighs, pausing at the hem of his shirt before gliding over your waist and stopping at your chest, where your nipples are clearly outlined beneath the thin cotton. 

The heat of his stare burns hotter than any touch. 

“Couldn’t sleep?” he asks, voice quiet, like he’s just making conversation. Like he has no idea what he’s doing to you. 

He pushes off the counter and walks straight toward you—slow, but sure. He stops right in front of the fridge, close enough that if you moved even a breath closer, you’d feel your nipples graze his skin. 

You take a step back—barely. Just enough to let him slip past you. 

He nods slightly—a silent thanks—and ducks into the fridge for his own water. When he shuts the door, the kitchen is plunged into darkness, save for dim moonlight filtering in from the far windows—but you can still see him. His outline, the dips and curves of his lean torso, the tilt of his head as he tips the bottle back and drinks. 

You watch his throat move with every swallow, your lips parting slightly, craving his skin on your tongue. You don’t move. You don’t breathe. You just stand there, watching. 

When he finishes, he turns to the sink and drops the empty bottle in before bracing both hands against the bench. His chin dips toward his chest, and you see the rise and fall of his shoulders as he exhales—hard. 

Before you can stop yourself, your feet carry you forward until you’re beside him, your bare arm brushing against his. You place your own bottle in the sink, then turn toward him and lean your hip against the counter. 

“Bob,” you whisper. 

Every sound in the apartment feels louder now—the faint snores, the creak of the floorboards, your own heartbeat thrumming in your ears. 

He looks at you, only turning his head, not his body. “Don’t—” he says softly. “Don’t say my name like that.” 

You frown, sliding your hand over his. His grip tightens on the bench like he’s anchoring himself. 

“Like what?” you ask softly. 

“Like you want me,” he murmurs. His voice is thick—rough around the edges like it’s been scraped raw. Like he's holding something back with every laboured breath. 

You press closer, your chest against his arm. The contact is electric. Your skin separated only by a whisper of cotton—his cotton. 

“Bob,” you breathe, a little desperate now. 

He exhales sharply and drops his gaze to the sink again, like something there might help him. “This isn’t…” His jaw flexes. “We can’t do this.” 

“Do what?” you ask, playing innocent, even as your fingers trail lightly up his arm. 

You can feel your chest rising and falling faster than it should, your breasts pressing against his arm like some wanton, starry-eyed girl. But you can’t bring yourself to step away. Every inch of you is on fire, every nerve ending singed and tingling. You want him to turn around and take you—bend you over the counter and make you scream his name. Who gives a fuck who’s listening... or watching. You just want Bob. You want him to know how much you want him, how deeply you need him. How desperate he makes you without even trying. 

“Do you have any idea,” he whispers, finally turning to face you fully, “what you do to me?” 

You feel it—hard and thick—pressing against your lower belly. There’s no mistaking it now. 

“Bob…” Your voice is a sigh, wrecked and begging. 

He catches your wrist, his grip firm, nearly bruising. His eyes are wild as they search your face—from your eyes to your lips, down to your chest, and back again—like he’s torn between reason and ruin. 

You hold still. Waiting. Daring. Wanting him to snap. 

But then... he’s gone—his warmth, his scent, the burning look in his eyes. All of it, gone in a breath. 

“Goodnight,” he mutters, so low you barely hear it before the soft click of his bedroom door… and then the snap of the lock. 

You’re left standing there, chest heaving, skin burning. Your eyes sting with unshed tears, and your mind is a mess. What the fuck just happened? Your panties are damp, and your chest aches like you've been torn in two. You want to cry, but you also want to break down his door. How dare he build you up like that? Look at you like that, talk to you like that—and then just walk away. 

It takes several minutes before you can move, your legs shaky, your mind racing. You stumble back to the spare room, collapse into bed, and stare at the ceiling, flat on your back—Bob’s shirt clinging to your skin. 

You don’t sleep. Not at all. 

- 

“He what?” Natasha’s eyes go impossibly wide. “And then he just—he left?” 

You nod slowly, keeping your eyes fixed on your lunch. The mess hall is loud enough to muffle your conversation—one you should’ve had yesterday but couldn’t summon the strength for. So here you are, in the middle of the hall, with the boys a couple tables over, surrounded by lieutenants you don’t know—blissfully unaware of your current crisis. 

“Yeah,” you sigh, stabbing at another piece of pasta you don’t plan to eat. 

You haven’t eaten much in the last twenty-four hours—not since the run-in with Bob. Everything feels bland now, drained of colour and taste, too dull to bother with. Anything that isn’t Bob just feels lacking, and you're starting to worry that one moment—one heated, breathless moment—has completely ruined you. 

“That’s insane,” Natasha mutters. “That’s so... not Bob. How could he be so—I don’t know... rude? I just—I have no words.” 

You shrug one shoulder. “It wasn’t rude. He just seemed... confused, I guess. And I don’t blame him. If I’m not what he wants, then-” 

“Stop right there,” Mickey interrupts, sliding into the chair beside you. 

Reuben drops into the seat next to Natasha, eyeing your tray of food. 

“Sorry,” he says, reaching across the table to steal your apple. “We couldn’t get away any faster.” 

You glance past Mickey, down the row of tables, and catch Bob’s eyes on you—just for a second—before he quickly looks away. Bradley, Jake, and Javy are still deep in conversation with the other guys, oblivious. Bob seems to be the only one noticing Reuben and Mickey’s absence. 

“Start again,” Mickey says. “From the beginning. We knew something happened.” 

Natasha snorts around a mouthful of pasta, and you sigh, knowing there’s no point arguing. They’d get it out of you one way or another. 

Twenty minutes later, when you finally finish recapping the story for the second time, Natasha taps her watch and nods toward the exit. “We better get back before Mav, or he’ll keep us late tonight.” 

Mickey’s brows are nearly touching as he processes everything you’ve said. “What does he mean, ‘you can’t do this’? He clearly wanted to—so why didn’t he?” 

You pick up your tray and follow Natasha toward the return station. “Your guess is as good as mine.” 

“I mean,” Reuben says, brows furrowed, “you said he was... at attention, right?” 

You blow a half-hearted laugh through your nose. “Yeah.” 

“So he definitely wanted to,” he says as the four of you exit the mess hall. “I just can’t think of why he wouldn’t go for it.” 

“I think it’s because you’re in the same squad,” Natasha offers. “He’s probably worried it’ll get weird—or worse, if it doesn’t work out.” 

You roll your eyes as you cross the hot concrete, heading back to the hangar. “But we’re both adults. Why can’t he just sack up and fuck me, and we’ll worry about the consequences later?” 

Your voice comes out louder than you meant, and you don’t miss the odd looks a few passing officers send your way. 

Reuben chuckles. “Maybe you should just say that to him.” 

“No,” Natasha says, turning toward you with a mischievous glint in her eye. “I’ve got a better idea. Call it Plan B or whatever, but now... we’re bringing out the big guns.” 

“So Sunny pressing her tits against him wasn’t the big guns?” Mickey quips with a grin. 

You smack him lightly across the chest before looking back to Natasha. “I doubt anything will work at this point, but... I’m curious. What’s the idea?” 

“How’s your gag reflex?” she asks, tilting her head thoughtfully. 

You rear back, eyebrows raised—and both Reuben and Mickey choke on laughter. 

Natasha sighs, rolling her eyes. “Not like that. I mean you’re going to need a strong stomach and a Juilliard degree to pull this off.” 

You frown, slowing just slightly as the hangar looms into view. “Okay...” 

She straightens up and faces forward, a proud smirk tugging at her mouth and her chin tilted high. “We’re going to make Bob jealous.” 

- 

Out of Mickey and Reuben, you all collectively decided that Reuben was the more convincing option. Not that you don’t think Mickey’s gorgeous—you do, and so does he—but his acting skills are questionable at best. You at least have a little more faith in Reuben’s ability to fake flirt without making it weird. 

The plan is simple. Convince Bob that he’s lost his shot—or that he’s just about to. Make it clear you’re happy to move on. If he wants you... well, now he’s going to have to fight for it. Because tempting him wasn’t enough—apparently—you need to dig deeper. Tap into something primal and pull it to the surface. Exploit what lingers under the skin of every man: jealousy and competition. 

You’re going to make this a game he can’t afford to lose. 

“You ready for Phase Two?” Natasha asks as you cross the base, the sun still barely above the horizon. 

You take a deep breath of fresh morning air. “Let’s do it.” 

She and Mickey take off ahead of you and Reuben to arrive in the training room first. It’s a known fact that Bob is always ridiculously early—so you know he’ll already be there. You hang back with Reuben, rehashing the plan and trying to get used to flirting with him without cracking up. 

At exactly ten past six, Natasha texts you to give the green light—no doubt having casually pointed out to Bob that you’re not with her, which you always are. 

“What if he doesn’t care?” you ask Reuben softly as you climb the stairs. 

He rolls his eyes like you’ve said something utterly insane. “He’ll care, trust me. He might be Bob, but he’s still a guy. And he’s obviously down bad for you—just needs a little push.” 

You snort. “Little?” 

Reuben chuckles. “Okay, more than a little. It’s Bob.” 

You laugh too, quietly, and then steel yourself as you reach the door—slipping on your game face. You glance at Reuben, catching the smirk tugging at his mouth. 

Then you both nod. It’s show time. 

“So, you’re saying eye contact makes it better?” he asks as you step through the door, voice pitched perfectly. 

You nod, casual but with a hint of something else. “Yep. A thousand times better. And bonus points if you know where to put your hands.” 

He raises a brow, lips twitching. “Where do I put my hands?” 

You giggle, soft and flirty, pausing a few steps into the room. “How about I show you later?” 

His grin breaks loose. “Promise?” 

“Promise.” 

You head toward the rows of seats, sliding into your usual behind Natasha—not missing the way Bob’s gaze locks onto you like he’s been caught mid-thought. His head swivels as Reuben sits beside you instead of next to Mickey. 

“See,” Reuben says, leaning in a little, “all these years I thought speed was the key. But you’re saying it’s finesse?” 

“Oh, definitely finesse,” you say, holding his eyes. “Go too hard and too fast, and it’s just... messy. Sloppy. Unimpressive.” 

Reuben licks his lips, his eyes flicking sideways to Bob—just for a second. “So, you’re offering me private lessons?” 

You lower your voice slightly, knowing it’s still perfectly audible to the rest of the room. “Depends. Can you follow instruction without getting too flustered?” 

Reuben’s grin sharpens. “I don’t fluster, sweetheart. I excel under pressure.” 

You pause, your pulse a little too quick—partly from Bob’s stare, which he’s not even trying to hide now, and partly from the fact that yeah, it’s been a while. And if this whole plan does blow up in your face... well, Reuben doesn’t seem like the worst option for a little stress relief. 

You fight down a laugh at the idea and finally drag your gaze toward the front of the room. Bob—just one row ahead—snaps his eyes forward like he’s been caught eavesdropping, but the bright red of his cheeks, the tight set of his shoulders, and the way his jaw flexes say it all. He’s tense. He’s listening. And he’s absolutely not okay. 

A moment later, Maverick strolls in, completely oblivious to the emotional warfare brewing right beneath his nose. 

The rest of the week passes in much the same way. Each evening, you regroup with your friends to scheme and strategize, brainstorming new antics to pull off the next day. Nothing over-the-top—just enough to catch Bob’s eye. 

On Wednesday, you get Reuben to help you into your flight suit. You both time it perfectly: he exits the locker room just ahead of Bob, and you appear a second later, flashing a flirty grin before asking sweetly for his help. You giggle and call him a sweetheart while Bob nearly trips over his own feet, glancing back with a clenched jaw and a look that could burn a hole through steel. 

Thursday morning, Reuben brings you a coffee—exactly how you like it—straight to the briefing room. You proclaim, not so quietly, that he’s giving total boyfriend material before he drops into the seat beside you and you both giggle over a (completely fabricated) inside joke. 

That afternoon, during a short break between drills and the next briefing, he offers you a bite of his protein bar. You take it right from his hand, licking your lips and throwing him an innocent little wink before sauntering off like it’s nothing. 

By Friday, Natasha warns you that the others are starting to notice. But you’re in too deep to pull back now—not when Bob looks like he’s about to unravel. He’s been tighter than ever, watching you like a hawk, eyes dark and stormy instead of their usual calm denim blue. You’re close. So close. And honestly? You’re kind of having a little too much fun. 

That afternoon, during post-flight checks, Reuben sidles up behind you under the guise of pointing out something ‘mechanical’ on your jet. You’re not actually doing anything with it, but that doesn’t stop him from standing unnecessarily close, guiding your hand with his as he gestures toward something supposedly critical. The two of you are seconds from cracking up, but Bob doesn’t know that. Bob, from all the way across the hangar, looks frozen—eyes locked, breath held, jaw tight—as Reuben presses flush against your back. 

Natasha really shouldn’t be enjoying this as much as she is, but honestly? She can’t help it. It’s too damn entertaining. 

“Hey,” she says, nodding at Bob as she approaches. “You good?” 

He blinks, then turns his sharp gaze on her, jaw tight. “Yeah.” 

She snorts. “That was very convincing.” 

He rolls his eyes and turns robotically back to the maintenance logs he’d been filling out. 

Natasha glances at the paperwork, noting the hard press of his pen and the uneven ticks and crosses—some scribbled over multiple times—down the checkbox column. 

“Wow,” she mutters, raising a brow. “You sure you earned your pen licence? Or should you still be on pencils?” 

Bob’s blue eyes flick up, darker than usual beneath his furrowed brow. “Ha. Ha.” 

“Okay,” she says, biting back the laugh rising in her throat. “So, bad day?” 

“Bad week,” Bob grumbles. 

Natasha nods slowly. “Well, hey, why don’t we fix that by hitting up The Hard Deck tonight?” 

He snaps the logbook shut and tucks the pen into his pocket. “Pass.” 

“Oh, come on,” she sighs. “It might make you feel better.” 

His eyes flick toward you again, watching as you and Reuben dissolve into giggles beside your jet. 

“I doubt it.” 

“Sunny’ll be there,” Natasha says, her voice light and teasing. 

Bob doesn’t respond. Just keeps packing up his things—every motion a little too sharp, a little too fast. 

Natasha exhales. “Come on, dude. Just come for one drink—it doesn’t have to be beer. Blow off some steam. If you hate it, you can bail early. But it won’t be the same without you.” 

He takes a breath and closes his eyes for a beat before letting it out slow. “Fine. One drink.” 

Natasha grins, her eyes sparkling even in the dimming light of the hangar. “Perfect.” 

Later that night, Natasha drives the four of you—Reuben and Mickey included—to the bar. Everyone else agreed to meet there, and she insisted on driving so you could have a few drinks. Not just to loosen up for another round of torturing poor Bob, but to actually let loose a little. She can tell this whole thing is winding you up, and she figures a few beers and a night with friends might help ease the tension—and the guilt—and maybe even the gnawing fear that this whole plan could blow up in your face. 

“Nat, are you sure this dress isn’t too short?” you ask, holding the hem down against the curve of your ass as you follow her toward the main entry door. “I haven’t worn it in years.” 

“There’s no such thing as too short,” Mickey says, deadpan. 

You roll your eyes and step inside, into the warm glow of golden lighting and the low hum of half-drunk conversation. You let go of your dress now that there’s no breeze threatening to lift it, and try to relax, even with the strange sensation of bare legs in public. You’re used to flight suits, not feeling this on display. 

“Ready to put on your best performance yet?” Reuben murmurs, slinging an arm over your shoulder. 

You take a deep breath, feeling it rattle faintly in your chest. “Let’s do this thing.” 

Natasha shoots you a wink over her shoulder, already striding confidently across the bar, her gaze locked on the usual booth where the rest of your friends are waiting. 

There’s a chorus of greetings as the four of you approach, and you all grin and wave, waiting as Bradley, Jake, Javy, and Bob shuffle around to make room. Natasha pointedly takes the spot beside Bob, with Mickey sliding in next to her. You claim the seat beside Jake—which puts Reuben on your other side. Just as planned. 

It’s a little squishy, but after so many nights like this, none of you really notice. Except Bob. He’s noticed tonight. His eyes are locked on the way your side is pressed to Reuben’s, his arm is slung casually over the back of the booth, fingers just barely grazing your shoulder. 

“He looks like he wants to kill me,” Reuben whispers in your ear, low enough that you can barely hear him over the chatter of the bar. “Pretend I said something funny. Laugh like you’ve got a secret.” 

You blink slowly, resisting the urge to roll your eyes, and let out a soft giggle as you lean toward him just a little. 

“You’re a pretty good actress,” he mutters before pulling back slightly. 

You glance up at him through your lashes, feeling more at ease with the close proximity after the past week. Then you straighten your spine and lean in, your lips grazing his jaw as you whisper in his ear. 

“You’re annoying.” 

He chuckles quietly, though you know he really wants to snort and smack you on the shoulder. You’re both enjoying this just a little too much, getting a kick out of your undercover roles. 

When you turn back to the rest of the group, Natasha is very deliberately not looking at you—and you know it’s because she’ll laugh if she does. Mickey, on the other hand, is watching with wide eyes, as is Javy. Jake and Bradley are still arguing about something on your other side, and Bob… Bob still looks like he’s ready to commit first-degree murder. 

“Drink?” Reuben asks after a beat, his smile smooth. 

You nod. “Absolutely. I’ll help you.” 

You both stand and offer a round to the rest of the table, most of whom accept—which makes it less suspicious that you’re going together. At the bar, you make sure to stand just a little closer than necessary as he orders a round of the usual from Penny. 

“Are you sure we’re not pushing it?” you ask, your voice laced with quiet worry. 

Reuben shakes his head. “Nah, not yet.” 

You frown. “Yet?” 

“He’ll snap one way or another,” he says, leaning casually against the bar. “He’ll either lose it and blow up over something totally unrelated—and that’s when we’ll know we’ve gone too far. Or he’ll wake the fuck up and fight for what he wants.” 

You open your mouth to voice another concern, but Penny is already sliding the tray of drinks across the bar. Reuben thanks her with an easy smile as you grab the two beers that didn’t fit, flashing her your own grateful grin before following him back to the table. 

When you set the beers down, you feel the neckline of your dress slip just a little lower. Your eyes flick up to see if anyone’s noticed—and of course… Bob. His gaze is dark and locked on your chest, clearly able to see right down your dress. He doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t even try to look away. He just stares. 

But then he blinks and glances aside, not flustered or ashamed—just determined not to meet your eyes. 

You straighten up and clear your throat. “I’m just going to duck to the bathroom.” 

Then you turn and begin weaving your way through the bar, desperate for a moment to yourself—even though you haven’t been here that long—and to check that you don’t look completely ridiculous in the dress Natasha convinced you to wear. 

You take your time in the stall, then rinse your hands under the cool water for a little longer than necessary. When you glance at your reflection in the full-length mirror, you’re surprised—and a little impressed. Because damn… you do look good. Maybe this dress deserves to see the light of day more often. And if Bob’s stare is anything to go by, it’s definitely not a bad idea. 

You take a deep breath before pushing open the bathroom door, ready to continue your little charade—but you barely make it a few steps before someone blocks your path. You blink and stumble, stopping short before you run right into him. 

You sigh when you realise who it is, that cocky smirk etched across his face. “What do you want, Hangman?” 

“I want to know what’s going on.” 

Your pulse spikes, but you do your best to keep your expression calm. “What do you mean?” 

“Between you and Payback,” he says, narrowing his green eyes. “Because I know that’s not real.” 

Your breath catches—too quickly—giving you away as your gaze flicks to the side. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” 

He rolls his eyes and leans in slightly, keeping the conversation low and private in the hum of the bar. “Don’t try to gaslight me, Sunny. I’m not an idiot. I know Phoenix is in on it—because of course she is—and Fanboy too, judging by the way he giggles every time you and Payback so much as look at each other.” He quirks a brow, daring you to challenge him. “The only reason Coyote hasn’t said anything is because he’s too polite, and Rooster hasn’t noticed because he’s too wrapped up in his own shit.” 

You cross your arms and narrow your eyes, matching his bravado. “You missed one.” 

He frowns. “What?” 

“You listed all the members of the squad… except one.” 

“Right,” he chuckles dryly. “Bob. That’s the funny thing, because ever since we got to this island, you’ve been starry-eyed over Floyd, and he’s either too clueless to notice or too stupid to ask you out.” He pauses, letting it sink in, then leans just a bit closer. “Which is exactly why I’m not buying whatever you and Payback have been trying to sell this past week.” 

You stare at each other for a beat, both stubborn and scowling, waiting for the other to fold first. 

Then you sigh. “Okay, fine. But you have to swear yourself to secrecy.” 

His smirk stretches into a full grin. “I knew it.” 

“Swear it.” 

“Okay, okay,” he says, holding up a hand. “I swear. I won’t even tell Coyote, and my pillow won’t hear a thing about it.” 

You nod. “Good. Now come over and pretend to pick a song so this doesn’t look suspicious.” 

You grab his wrist and tug him toward the jukebox, leaning over it and pretending to scroll through options while you give him a quick summary of Operation Bob’s Blue Balls—leaving out a few of the more... intimate details. 

“So there,” you finish. “It’s underhanded and immature, but that’s what’s going on.” 

His expression barely shifts the entire time, just the usual entertained glint in his eye and that ever-present smirk. 

“Underhanded and immature?” he says. “I’m surprised I wasn’t in on this sooner.” 

You roll your eyes. 

“I want in.” 

You blink, brow furrowed. “What?” 

“I want to help,” he says, plainly. 

You narrow your eyes, sceptical. “Why?” 

He sighs and braces one hand on the jukebox, leaning in like he’s about to reveal some classified information. “Believe it or not, I’m not the worst guy in the world. I have a few ideas, and I think you two would be cute together.” He pauses, then adds in a quieter voice, “Besides, I’ve been going through a bit of a dry spell, and I figure helping other people get laid might buy me some good karma.” 

You snort softly as he pulls back, his cheeks faintly pink. 

“Alright,” you say. “You can help. But nothing obvious and nothing stupid. The last thing I need is Bob figuring this out and hating me for it.” 

He rolls his eyes, that signature smirk firmly back in place. “Bob could never hate you. But I’ll be subtle.” 

“Good.” You glance past his shoulder toward the booth across the bar. “We better get back before they get suspicious.” 

“Wait,” he stops you with a hand on your shoulder. “One more question.” 

You raise your brows, prompting him to go on. 

“When you fantasise about Bob, is he the top or the bottom? Because I just think you should manage your expectations—ow!” 

He winces, rubbing the spot on his chest where you smacked him, watching you with a wounded look as you shove past with an exasperated sigh. 

Great. Now Hangman is involved... 

You spend the rest of the night practically glued to Reuben’s side, as planned. But now you’re a little on edge. You keep half an ear tuned to Jake’s voice, waiting to see when he might strike—and what he might say when he does. You trust him not to blow the whole thing, but you’re more than a little nervous about what his version of ‘helping’ might actually look like. 

“Another drink?” Reuben asks, just as you finish the last of your third beer. 

You nod, a bit too eagerly. “Yes, please. Maybe something stronger this time.” 

He chuckles and slides out of the booth, offering his hand. You take it, letting him guide you up toward the bar. You’re so wrapped up in your thoughts that you barely register the feel of his hand slipping from yours and settling at the small of your back, his thumb rubbing slow, comforting circles there. 

But Bob notices. 

And Jake notices Bob noticing—taking special joy in the way Bob’s hand tightens around his bottle of Coke, knuckles going white. 

Jake clears his throat and casts a glance toward the bar, leaning forward slightly. “They’re cute, don’t you think?” 

There’s a beat of silence as Bob swallows—hard—and Natasha just blinks, clearly trying to catch up. Then the lightbulb goes off, and a wicked grin stretches across her lips. 

“Yeah,” she says, her eyes following Jake’s. “I think they’d make a good couple.” 

Bob snorts. Actually snorts. But he keeps his gaze fixed on the label he’s been picking at on his bottle. 

Natasha arches a brow. “Something funny?” 

Bob shakes his head. “No.” 

“Really?” Jake presses, grinning. “Could’ve sworn you just laughed, Floyd.” 

“It wasn’t a laugh,” Bob mutters. “More of a… breath.” 

“Oh, a breath,” Natasha echoes, clearly amused. “Because it sounded suspiciously like judgment.” 

“Or jealousy,” Jake adds, leaning back with a smug grin. 

Bob’s gaze flicks to the bar—and to you—then just as quickly snaps away. “I don’t care who she dates.” 

Natasha hums, fighting a smirk as she lifts her beer to her lips, “Didn’t say you did.” 

Shortly after you and Reuben return to the table, giggling like idiots, Bob leaves. He mutters something about not feeling well and ducks out before even saying a proper goodbye. Part of you feels wrecked with guilt—but another part… is quietly hopeful. Because Bob isn’t like this. He’s good at regulating his emotions, even better at staying calm under pressure—he’s a fighter pilot, for God’s sake. But this? This is different. He’s never stormed out on the brink of losing control. Sure, he can get a little frustrated sometimes, maybe throw a snarky comment—usually at Jake when he pushes too far—but that’s as far as it goes. 

If you didn’t know any better, you’d say he’s starting to unravel… 

You spend most of the next day on the couch with the aircon blasting, while Natasha works through some paperwork at the kitchen table. It’s too hot to go outside, and you’re too distracted to do anything that requires even an ounce of brainpower. So instead, you let your mind rot with cartoons, obsessively checking your phone for signs of life in the group chat. 

“I can’t believe Hangman is in on this now,” Natasha mutters, not even glancing up from her papers. 

You sigh and roll from your side onto your back, staring up at the ceiling. “I can’t believe he hasn’t cracked yet. If the roles were reversed, I’d be like a feral cat in heat by now.” 

She snorts and lifts her head, flashing you an amused smirk. “You were already like a feral cat in heat for that man. Hence this whole situation.” 

You laugh softly. “Yeah, not wrong.” 

Your head drops to the side as you half-watch the TV screen, until the apartment door swings open with a dramatic gust of air. 

“I hate to say it,” Mickey says as he breezes in, eyes wide, “but the man is a genius.” 

Reuben follows close behind, and then Jake—grinning like he just solved world peace. 

“Oh, God,” Natasha mutters. “They’re multiplying.” 

“I don’t know why you didn’t come to me sooner,” Jake says, strolling toward the couch. “I’m the king of seduction.” 

You sit up, curling into the corner to make room for Reuben and Jake as Mickey heads straight for the fridge. 

“I wouldn’t go that far,” you mutter, narrowing your eyes at him. 

“Just wait until you hear the plan,” Reuben says, practically buzzing. “It’s perfect.” 

Intrigued now, Natasha gathers her papers into one neat pile and joins you on the lounge. “Alright, Bagman. Let’s hear it.” 

Jake’s eyes sparkle with mischief as he settles in beside Reuben. “Tomorrow, we’re going to the beach.” 

“You’re already way off,” you cut in. “Bob won’t agree to hang out again. Not after last night.” 

Natasha nods. “She’s right. He needs to cool off before we wind him up again.” 

“Absolutely not,” Jake snaps, brow furrowed. “You need to strike while the iron’s hot. You need to push his fucking limits.” 

Mickey appears from the kitchen, a bag of pretzels already open in his hand. 

Natasha frowns. “Okay, but how? He won’t agree to go if he thinks Sunny and Payback will be there.” 

Jake grins. “Which is exactly why he’s going to think they won’t be there.” 

“You want us to lie?” you ask. 

He gives you a flat look. “After all this emotional warfare, now you’re drawing the line at lying?” 

You shrink back slightly. “I guess not.” 

“Exactly.” He leans forward, elbows braced on his knees, hands clasped. “So—I’ll pitch the idea in the group chat. Sunny, you reply immediately that you’re busy—before Bob gets a chance to decline. Then Payback says something vague, like he might come or might not. That way, it looks like low numbers. And if Bob says no, the rest of us can guilt-trip him into coming. Which he will, as long as he thinks you’re not going to be there.” 

Natasha tilts her head. “So... she will be there though?” 

“Yes,” Jake says. “Just not right away. Give him time to relax, have some fun. We’ll play games—I’ll rile everyone up and get that competitive energy going.” 

Everyone nods along, faces weirdly serious, like this is some highly classified mission briefing. 

“Then, you two show up together,” Jake continues, gesturing to you and Reuben. “It’ll throw Bob off, but we won’t give him a chance to leave. We’ll keep the games going. Something with contact. You need to get right up in his space. Go all in. Because then... you’re going to knock him off his feet.” 

“Literally,” Mickey mumbles, chewing a mouthful of pretzels. 

You frown. “What?” 

“Bump into him,” Jake says. “Literally knock him over. Skin-to-skin contact. I’ve seen the way he looks at you in a swimsuit—it’s borderline pornographic. Touching him? It’ll fry what’s left of his self-control. And then, when there’s a moment—just a second where you could apologise for being too competitive or whatever... you’re going to say something that makes him snap.” 

You lean in, heart pounding now. “What am I going to say?” 

- 

The sun is high and brutal in the sky, and you’re already sweating—even though you’re still sitting in Reuben’s car with the aircon blasting. 

“Do you really think this is going to work?” you ask, nervously bouncing your knee. 

Reuben snorts. “If it doesn’t, the man isn’t human.” 

“I feel bad,” you mutter, eyes scanning the stretch of gold sand through the windshield. 

“You won’t feel bad when you finally see what’s in his pants,” Reuben says, barely paying attention as he scrolls through his phone. 

Your eyes go wide and your head whips toward him. “So it is huge? I wasn’t just imagining that?” 

He chuckles and looks up. “Oh yeah, he’s big. Like... big big. I remember the first time in the locker room—no one’s trying to look, obviously, that’s just not the vibe—but... damn. We couldn’t not look. Then everyone lost it. I think Hangman nearly cried.” 

You press your lips together, trying to hold back a grin, but it’s no use—your cheeks are on fire, and your whole face feels like it's bright red. 

“Damn,” you murmur, turning your gaze back to the front as your heart slams against your ribs. 

Reuben laughs again, then cuts the engine, killing the aircon. “Alright. Pull yourself together. It’s go time.” 

You climb out of the car and immediately wince at the lick of heat curling across your skin. It’s blistering—almost hostile—but at least you’re at the beach. Worst-case scenario? You’ll drown yourself in the ocean. Just walk into the surf and keep going. No one would blame you. 

“Relax,” Reuben says, sliding a hand into yours like this is nothing. “This is going to work. Hangman might be insane, but I’m pretty sure it’s because he’s an evil genius.” 

You roll your eyes, exhale hard, then square your shoulders and lift your chin. 

You let Reuben lead you onto the sand, legs already working overtime to stay steady in the heat-softened grains. You can hear the chaos before you see it. Shouts and thuds echo over the sand as your friends tumble and crash around in a messy game of what looks like overgrown keepy-uppies. 

“No hands!” Javy yells, just as Mickey swats the ball to avoid a direct hit to the face. 

“Damn it, Fanboy!” Jake shouts. “You’re giving away points.” 

Mickey drops his hands to his knees, panting. “Can we play literally any other game? I hate this.” 

“You only hate it ‘cause you suck at it,” Natasha says, catching the ball like it’s second nature and bringing the game to a halt. 

You swear you can see Mickey roll his eyes from here. You and Reuben are still on approach, trudging through the soft sand, unnoticed—so far. 

“What about football?” Jake offers, tossing the round ball aside and already pulling a proper football from their pile of gear. “Dog-fight football?” 

“Three versus three?” Javy asks, sceptical. 

“What about four v. four?” Reuben calls, hand cupped to amplify his voice. 

Everyone turns, and there’s a beat of stillness as they clock you. Then Natasha flashes a wide grin beneath her sunglasses, and Jake’s face lights up like a very satisfied evil villain—his plan falling perfectly into place. 

“Well, if it ain’t Sunny and Payback!” he calls, spinning the football lazily in one hand. “You two done playing your own games already?” 

You ignore the jab and focus on not rolling your ankle in the damn sand. At the pile of bags, you stop to drop your stuff and hesitate at the button of your shorts. 

Jake’s eyes are practically gleaming. “How about a swim to cool off first?” 

Reuben strips his shirt with a single tug. “You read my mind, Seresin.” 

The guys—already in their swim trunks—bolt for the water, crashing into the surf in a chaotic stampede. Natasha peels off her shirt and shorts, shoots you a wink, and strolls in after them like she owns the ocean. 

Reuben doesn’t say anything before he leaves you, but he gives a barely-there nod—directed past your shoulder. 

You don’t need to turn around to know who it’s aimed at. 

Bob’s still standing where he was when the game fizzled out, statuesque. His hair is tousled and his lips parted just enough to make your stomach flip. You’re at least ten feet away, but you can see the rise and fall of his chest—too fast, too hard. But he’s not out of breath. He’s not flustered. 

He’s furious. 

And those blue eyes? Laser-locked on you. His entire focus narrowed like a sniper sight. Not a blink. Not a breath wasted on anyone but you. 

You swallow and force your body into motion, unbuttoning your shorts and shimmying out of them before pulling your loose shirt over your head. You drop your clothes on Natasha’s pile and turn toward the water, steady on the lumpy sand. 

And then you hit the firm part—wet, packed, perfect footing—and you dig in. Hips swaying, deliberate and lethal. 

You don’t need to look back. You can feel the heat of his stare on every inch of exposed skin. It’s scorching. Possessive. Almost punishing. Like if he could touch you right now, he’d brand you. 

Hangman might be a genius after all. 

You hit the water with a sigh, not even hesitating before diving beneath a wave before it can knock you off your feet. It’s the perfect temperature—delicious against your too-hot skin. 

You dive under the next wave, cool saltwater rushing over your body, and come up laughing as you slick your hair back. Natasha is standing beside you, arms outstretched as the water laps at her waist, her eyes fixed on the shore. 

You wade closer, smirking. “Did you see his face?” you ask breathlessly, heart still pounding from the walk down the beach—or maybe from the way Bob had looked at you like he was plotting your murder. “I thought he was going to spontaneously combust.” 

She doesn’t answer. Just keeps staring past you. 

You frown as her jaw goes slack and her brows creep up, sunglasses slipping down her nose as she stares at something on the shore—expression caught somewhere between shock and awe. 

You freeze. “What?” 

She still doesn’t speak—just tips her chin the slightest bit, silently gesturing toward whatever has her stunned. 

You twist around. 

And promptly forget how to breathe. 

Bob Floyd is pulling his shirt over his head. 

Bob Floyd, the man who never takes his shirt off. The man who wears it in the ocean and somehow isn’t bothered by the soaking wet material clinging to his body like a second skin. 

And holy shit. 

It’s glorious. 

Sure, you’ve seen him shirtless before. Once. That night. But that was in the dark—his body tense, your mind scrambled, neither of you thinking clearly enough to appreciate what was right in front of you. 

But in the light of day? 

Alabaster skin. Broad shoulders. Deep-cut abs like he walked straight off the set of a Marvel movie. Lean muscle rippling across his chest and arms in a way that feels criminal on someone so quiet and careful. Droplets of sweat cling to his torso like even the heat doesn’t want to let him go. 

The sudden silence behind you confirms it—everyone else is staring too. 

You blink, dumbfounded, mouth dry. “That’s illegal.” 

Natasha huffs out a laugh like she’s short-circuiting. “I mean, I knew he was strong but—wow.” 

You swallow. Hard. “I think I’m going to pass out.” 

Your eyes follow him as he drops his shirt and turns toward the water, cutting through the waves like they’re nothing. He doesn’t glance at any of you. Just keeps his gaze locked on the horizon, jaw set tight, his body moving with single-minded purpose. 

Before you can say something—or even blink—a surge of water smacks you in the face. 

But it’s not a wave. 

You cough and splutter, wiping the salt from your eyes and checking to make sure your sunglasses are still intact. When your vision clears, Jake is standing right in front of you. 

“Wipe the drool off your chin,” he says, deadpan. “You’re supposed to be teasing him.” 

You narrow your eyes, resisting the urge to shove him aside and keep watching Bob. “How did all of you know how cut that man is and not tell me?” 

Jake blinks, thrown for a beat, then grins like the devil. “Wait—you’re mad because we didn’t tell you how ripped Bob is?” 

You nod, arms crossing tight over your chest. “Correct.” 

He lets out a disbelieving chuckle, shaking his head. “Well if that’s got you steamed, you’re gonna be beside yourself when you find out he’s got a massive-” 

“I know,” you cut in smoothly, a wicked smirk curling at your lips. “Payback told me.” 

Jake gapes at you, brows knitting—but before he can get another word out, you shove his shoulder and send him sprawling into the water. 

When he resurfaces, sputtering and grinning, he points at you like a man on a mission—then lunges. 

You squeal, laughing as he barrels toward you, sending up waves in every direction. The two of you splash around like kids, Jake playing it up—grabbing you, poking at your sides, both of you pretending to wrestle. All for show. Because you both know Bob is watching. 

Eventually, the others join in, playful chaos erupting around you. And before long, you’re panting and breathless, dragging yourself back to shore, your cheeks and chest aching from laughter. 

Everyone settles for a few minutes, drinking from their water bottles and trying to knock water from their ears. But then Jake stands up, football in hand and a wicked smirk on his lips, ready to commence Operation Bob’s Blue Balls – Phase Three: Straddle and Conquer. 

“All right, I’ll pick teams,” he announces. 

Normally, this would cause an uproar. But since most of you are in on the plan, everyone just nods in agreement. 

“Phoenix, Payback, Bob,” he says. “You’re with me. The rest of you are on Rooster’s team.” 

You narrow your eyes and cock your hip—it would seem strange if you didn’t challenge Jake just a little. “Why are you two always team captains?” 

He winks. “Because we’re the best.” 

You roll your eyes and turn away, joining the huddle with your teammates as Bradley and Javy argue over what your game plan should be. 

After a few minutes of strategizing, the game kicks off. You’ve never loved dog-fight football—not like some of the others—mostly because it can get a little rough. But today… it’s more than just a game. It’s a full-blown performance. 

You hang back for a bit, letting Jake and Bradley rile each other up and fire up their teams. Bob is still shirtless, which is a tactical advantage he isn’t even aware of—because every time he has the ball, every time he runs or blocks or is just generally in your line of sight, your knees wobble. 

You’ve nearly forgotten what you’re supposed to be doing when Reuben jumps in front of you and snags the ball before you can—thrown by a very disappointed-looking Javy. 

“Getting tired, Sunny?” Reuben teases, his grin smug. “I’m just getting started.” 

Right. The plan. Flirting. Banter. Teasing Bob. 

You step closer, slowing the game down a touch as you stretch onto your toes and drop your voice—but not too low. “Tired? Please. I’m still waiting for you to make me sweat.” 

There’s a beat where you worry Reuben might break, might laugh—high on adrenaline and endorphins. 

But then Jake hollers, “Cut it out, you two! Save the dirty talk for the bedroom!” 

And the game is back on. 

The sun beats down mercilessly, making every flexed muscle shine, every drop of sweat slide in slow, glistening trails. The sand is hot beneath your feet, but it’s nothing compared to the heat building as you and Reuben turn the game into one of Bob’s personal nightmares. 

You dart to the left, brushing past Reuben with a smug grin, your fingertips dragging across his chest like you’re checking his heart rate. 

“C’mon, hotshot,” you tease. “You could try a little harder.” 

He laughs—low and amused—but gives chase, throwing a hand around your waist as you pivot. It’s all too easy to make it look a little too intimate, a little too tight. He lifts you off the ground to ‘block’ your goal and your head falls back in a laugh that’s just shy of indecent. 

And Bob sees everything. 

You feel it—his stare like hot coals dragged across your skin. When you glance up between plays, he’s standing at the edge of the group, jaw tight, shoulders tense, hands flexing like they’re ready to throw a punch. His eyes follow your every move like he’s marking a target, and if looks could kill, Reuben would already be six feet under. 

You catch a toss, and Reuben crashes into you to intercept, spinning you both until you fall together into the sand. You land side by side, giggling like idiots—some might even say lovesick idiots. 

He pushes up first and grins down at you, tipping his head suggestively. “Need a hand?” 

“Oh, I don’t mind being on my back,” you say sweetly, just loud enough for everyone to hear. 

You take Reuben’s hand and let him haul you off the ground, pulling you into his body just a little more than necessary. 

“Damn, Sunny,” Jake calls from the other side of the makeshift field. “Takin’ a few hits today. Hope it doesn’t affect your game.” 

You scoff, rolling your eyes dramatically as you dust sand off your body like everyone else paid to watch. “You know I like it rough, Hangman.” 

There’s a chorus of oohs and a whistle from Mickey, laughter rippling through the group. 

Except Bob, of course. He’s suddenly very interested in the sand, eyes locked on the ground—even though his rigid posture is telling you everything you need to know. 

The game revs up again, and after a few scuffles, you snag the ball off a fumbled toss and break into a sprint, cutting across the sand with laser focus. Reuben’s behind you, winded, and the others are tangled up with the second ball—leaving only one person standing in your way. 

Bob. 

“Stop her!” Jake shouts, too far behind to intercept. 

Bob plants his feet like he’s ready to block—muscles tensing, arms coiled. It’s almost enough to distract you. But you’re feeling competitive. A little reckless. And you’re seconds from a goal. 

He hesitates when your eyes lock, just long enough for your wicked grin to register as you blow past him and skid to a halt—well over the line. 

Your team erupts into cheers behind you, and you throw your hands up, chest heaving as you catch your breath. When you turn back around, he’s still watching you—eyes wide. 

You flash him a slow smile as you walk past, brushing close enough to feel the heat rolling off his skin. 

“Don’t worry, Lieutenant,” you murmur. “I’ll go easy on you next time.” 

After a breather and a drink of water, everyone lines up for another play. Jake and Bradley drop the footballs into the sand, crouched and ready. Jake turns his head your way and gives you a subtle nod. 

This is it. 

Your heart thunders behind your ribs as you sprint and block and laugh along with the others. The competition hasn’t cooled—everyone is still hungry. Even Bob has snapped into focus, finally playing like it matters instead of just standing there watching. 

And for a moment, it is just fun. No schemes, no strategy. Just friends, shouting and stumbling and laughing too hard to score. 

But then the ball is in your hands again—and it’s time. 

Bob is on defence—Jake made sure of that. You just have to get past him again. Or at least… make it look like you’re trying. 

You tear forward. Jake is already behind you, Natasha lunges and misses by a breath, and Reuben very dramatically wipes out in the sand. 

It’s just Bob now. 

He sets his stance, head tipped down in focus. He’s going to stop you this time. Poor thing. He has no idea that’s exactly the plan. 

You charge, feet kicking up sand, heart in your throat. His eyes widen just a second before you collide—your body slamming into his with just enough force to topple you both. 

The ball flies from your hand as you hit the sand hard, clutching at whatever you can—his shoulders, his arms, solid and warm beneath your grip. You spit sand from your mouth and sit up fast—only to freeze, breath caught in your throat. 

You’re straddling him. Hips locked against his. Chest heaving. His hands on your waist. 

You don’t move. 

You’re both panting. The air between you buzzes like static, and everywhere your skin touches his feels sunburnt and alive. His blue eyes are locked on yours—wild and stunned. Bright enough to drown in. 

Your chest rises and falls with ragged breath, but you stay put. 

“Does this count?” you ask, voice low and rough with adrenaline. 

His lips are parted, soft and pink, breath coming in short bursts. His curls are wild, tangled with sand, and his glasses—crooked from the fall—are still somehow on. He looks wrecked. Shattered. Like you’ve stolen every coherent thought out of his head. His gaze flickers—searching your face, desperate not to meet your eyes. 

You lean in just a little. 

“If anyone else looked at me like that, I’d probably kiss them,” you murmur, squeezing your thighs around his waist. Then you bring your mouth dangerously close to his ear. “But we can’t do that... right?” 

His breath catches—and his eyes finally snap to yours. 

They’re wide and stormy now, brows drawn tight. He doesn’t breathe. He just looks. His mouth parts a little further, and you can see it all happening behind his eyes—every thought, every realisation. 

Everything falls into place—the flirting, the giggling, the deliberate touches, the stolen glances. All of it. You’ve been baiting him. This whole time. 

Before you can say anything else—before you can blink or breathe— 

He snaps. 

He flips you, smooth and fast, moving your body like you weigh nothing. Suddenly, you’re on your back, pressed into the sand, and he’s the one on top—straddling you, his weight holding you down. 

And the look in his eyes could burn the sky. 

He leans in, gaze sweeping over your face—your lips, your eyes, the pulse at your throat. He watches it thrum, just for a second. 

You’re frozen beneath him. Every nerve on fire. Every inch of your body sparking. Your lungs are screaming for air, but you don’t know how to breathe. You can’t think. You can barely feel anything except him. 

His breath ghosts your lips as he whispers, “Oh, you’re in trouble now.” 

And then he kisses you. 

Hard. 

It’s not careful. It’s not sweet. It’s months of tension and stolen glances and aching want—every second of restraint finally unravelling in a dizzy, reckless crash. His mouth claims yours like he’s starving, like he’s waited too long and can’t wait another second. 

His chest presses into yours, slick with sweat and dusted with sand, and you arch into it with a gasp. He groans against your mouth, a low, broken sound that feels like fire in your veins. You can feel every inch of him—solid and hot and so hard against your hip, unmistakable and unignorable. 

You shift beneath him, dragging your leg up around his waist, just enough to tease. His breath hitches, and then he’s kissing you deeper, hungrier, like the noise you just pulled from him unspooled something he can’t reel back in. 

You claw at his back—muscles tense and trembling under your fingers—trying to pull him closer when there’s no space left between you. The kiss turns feverish, tongues sliding, lips parting in desperate sync. You’re panting into each other’s mouths, completely lost. 

There’s sand in your hair, in your mouth, sticking to your sweat-slick skin, but none of it matters. All that matters is the way he moves against you, the way he feels—like every bit of control he’d been clinging to has shattered. 

When he finally tears his mouth from yours, he doesn’t go far. His forehead drops to yours, both of you gasping. He’s pink-cheeked and wide-eyed, lips swollen, pupils blown. 

“Jesus Christ,” he mutters, voice wrecked, “you’re gonna kill me.” 

And the way he says it—like a confession, like a prayer—makes you want to do it all over again. 

“YES!" Mickey shouts, loud enough for all of North Island to hear. 

Your friends erupt into cheers and screams, laughter lacing their gleeful proclamations as they jump and dance just a few feet away. 

“Well, fuck me,” Jake drawls. “That was the hottest thing I’ve ever seen.” 

You both slowly—reluctantly—turn your heads toward the noise. 

“I can’t believe it worked,” Reuben mutters, grinning wide, eyes sparkling. “Phase Three actually worked.” 

You’re still pinned beneath Bob as they all close in, every face lit up with smug satisfaction. 

“You named it?” Bob asks, closing his eyes as his cheeks somehow grow even hotter. 

“Oh yeah,” Mickey says, beaming with pride. “Operation Bob’s Blue Balls. Phase One was the run and the sleepover. Phase Two, Reuben. And this—” he gestures wildly at the two of you tangled in the sand, “this is Phase Three: Straddle and Conquer.” 

Bob makes a noise. Somewhere between a strangled groan and a whispered prayer for death. 

“You planned this?” he rasps, forehead dropping against yours again like he might just burrow into the sand and disappear. 

Reuben shrugs, all innocence. “Worked like a charm.” 

“Honestly,” Natasha adds, “we were starting to think you’d never get there. So… you’re welcome.” 

You bury your face in Bob’s shoulder, mortified. He’s burning up beneath your hands—still—and breathing like he just ran a mile with you on his back. 

Jake snickers. “Glad we could help you two get laid.” 

“We haven’t—!” Bob blurts, redder than a stop sign. 

You slap a hand over his mouth, grinning wickedly now despite the embarrassment. “Yet.” 

There’s a beat—a millisecond of silence—before they all burst out laughing again. 

Mickey curls over, clutching his stomach. Reuben walks away, cackling with his head tipped back. Natasha mutters, “Jesus Christ,” but she’s definitely smirking, and Jake claps his hands once as he says, “God bless the U.S. Navy.” 

Bob drops his face into the crook of your neck and groans again, muffled, “I hate all of you.” 

“Even me?” you ask, voice soft and teasing. 

He lifts his head, chuckling softly. “No. But for all that? You’re definitely still in trouble.” 

You lick your lips. “There’s no place I’d rather be.” 

He sighs like you’re actively trying to kill him, then sits up and pushes to his feet—only to glance down at the massive bulge in his shorts, which looks borderline painful. 

“Shit.” 

You scramble up after him, stepping in close and pressing your body to his, barely able to contain your giggles as you shield him from the rest of the beach. 

“Need a minute?” you tease, laughter lacing every word. 

His eyes flash—dark, hungry. “You and I are gonna need more than a minute to deal with this.” 

Heat floods your face and pools between your legs, thick and insistent. 

“But,” he says, glancing toward the water, “I’m just gonna go for a quick swim.” 

You nod, eyes wide and dreamy, watching him from beneath your lashes like an absolute idiot in love. 

And he looks at you like you hung the sun. Like you’re everything. It’s enough to make your heart stutter and your pulse race. He has no business being this beautiful—this sinful—a perfect contradiction of sweetness and respect, with just enough hunger in him, just enough darkness, that you know you’ll be walking funny tomorrow. 

And probably for the next few weeks while you learn how to handle his massive dick. 

“Don’t look at me like that,” he mutters, a shy smile curling his lips. “You’re making it worse.” 

Your jaw drops. “It gets bigger?” 

He laughs, then leans in to press a kiss to your open mouth—chaste, but lingering. Like it physically pains him to pull away. But he does. And when he flashes you that boyish smile—equal parts sexy and shy—it knocks the breath out of you. 

Then he turns and jogs toward the water. 

It takes you more than a minute to remember how to move—how to function—but eventually, you manage to drag yourself back to the others, who are still laughing and chatting like the beach hasn’t just tilted sideways. 

Natasha passes you your water bottle. “What’s Bob doing?” 

You glance over your shoulder, catching sight of him ducking under a wave. A smile tugs at your lips. 

“Cooling off.” 

A few months earlier...

"Ma, yes, I'm still coming," Bob spoke into the phone pressed against his cheek and shoulder. His hands were folding his fresh laundry as it lay out on his bed.

"And your older brother needs to know if you're bringing someone with you, honey. There's no shame in coming home alone again..." his mother said in a sweet voice, but Bob knew what the underlying tone meant. All his life, he never had anyone to bring home. It was like an ongoing joke inside his family at this point. No high school or college girlfriends seemed acceptable at the time, but now he was a Navy pilot and couldn't get a girl? Well couldn't get the girl he really wanted.

Before he even thought about what he was saying, he blurted out a response, "I'm bringing someone."

What.

"What?! Robert Floyd, you better not be messing with me!" his mother squealed over the phone. "Jim!" Bob had to pull the phone away from his ear with a grimace as his mother shouted for his father. "He's bringing someone!"

"About time," he could hear his father's gruff voice on the other end of the call. "Was gettin' worried about him out there in California. That boy's not built for the beach."

"Oh, you hush! Honey, I'll go ahead and let Mark know. I love you!" his mother's excitement could be felt through the phone, her voice all high and pitchy.

"Bye Ma, I love you," Bob huffed out. What did he just do?

"How's she doing?" Bob jumped at the sound of your voice, quickly turning to you. You lounged against the door frame of his bedroom, wearing nothing but a sports bra and some running shorts. He hadn't expected you to be home from your run with Phoenix so soon.

"Ma? Oh, uh, yeah, she's good. She's good, nothing new, y'know," he fumbled through a response, trying to not to look at the way the beads of sweat ran down your neck.

You hummed at him, "That's good. Are you still up for Thai food tonight? The new place on 4th?"

Of course, he was. When you first mentioned it last weekend, he had almost jumped at the opportunity. Sure, he liked Thai food, but sitting across from you and sharing a meal was what Bob really cherished. "Yep! Yeah, that sounds good. Ready in an hour?"

"You read my mind, Bobby," you said with a grin as you backed into your room across from his.

Present time…

“What’s wrong?” you saw the scowl on Bob’s face as he stirred the pasta like he had a personal vendetta against it.

“Huh? Oh, um, just thinking about my brother’s wedding,” he said like even the thought made him sick.

“You say that like it’s a bad thing,” you said as you prepped the various vegetables on the countertop around you. “I love weddings. The outfits, the candles, the flowers! I can’t wait to get married. And I don’t want to have a big wedding, y’know? But like more of a backyard, summer barbecue type of vibe. Oh! And I want all my bridesmaids in different color dresses!”

Bob watched you as you described your perfect wedding, mentally taking notes. The way you had set down the knife to wave your hands around was adorable. You were always so animated, unafraid to show your emotions.

“But Bobby, the best part about weddings is…” you left the ending open for him, ushering him to fill in the blank.

“The cake?” he questioned. To be honest, he was trying to appeal to your sweet tooth.

“I mean, yeah, that’s pretty high up there. But no, it’s the look right before the first kiss. So many people say it’s the first look or the actual kiss, but for me it’s that moment where everyone knows what’s coming next and the purest emotions are on the bride and groom's faces,” you explained in pure joy and awe, like you had experienced this feeling yourself. It was sweet to watch. Your wonder and love for the simple things were something Bob loved about you.

“But, why is that moment better than the first look?” he asked innocently.

You sighed wistfully. "Just that moment when you can see the excitement on the groom's face, and he can barely contain himself. And the bride is usually so bashful, but always so excited. It's just so sweet, Bobby."

It did sound sweet. If Bob and you were getting married, he doubts he'd be able to contain his eagerness before the first kiss. No, he'd be way too focused on you to even listen to the officiant of the ceremony. Surely, he'd forget what to say, and he'd be a mess through his vows.

Bob was quiet for a minute or two, and you wondered what was going on in his head. You saw the way he had a small smile on his face, like it was hidden and just for him at this moment. And the way his shoulders relaxed, going more and more slack as time passed.

"You're thinking about it, aren't you?" you asked him with a teasing smile.

"Yeah, maybe," he chuckled and went back to stirring the pasta. Bob wanted to stay in this moment forever with you. It was so domestic. Cooking together in the kitchen you shared, laughing and throwing each other playful looks, talking about weddings. Maybe one day you'll talk about your wedding. Anything you wanted for the big day, Bob was sure to agree.

Living with you had been both the best and worst thing for Bob. A few months into the program, your lease was about to let up, and you were scrambling to find a new place. Bob hadn't known you prior to the mission that brought you all down to San Diego, but you had become close very quickly. Being two of only a few backseaters in the squad, you and Bob had spent a lot of time together in training and going over mission briefs. He had met a handful of WSOs in his time in the Navy, but knowing you was like a breath of fresh air. You never diminished your position or your knowledge, even when other pilots would question your place in the military. It was a learning curve for him to be around at first; seeing you go toe-to-toe with cocky pilots was daunting. He learned that's where your call sign came from, Bee. You were sweet, but could sting when you wanted. Soon, he got used to it, becoming more confident in himself in turn.

When you joked about bumming it on Phoenix's couch until you found a new place, Bob chimed in, "You can stay at mine. I have a spare bedroom, never really got around to using it."

"Wait, really?" you asked, fully turning your body towards him. You always did that, too, gave your full attention to whoever you were talking to. It was a bit intimidating. Bob was only now getting used to it, but still felt his heart beat pick up.

"Yeah, I wouldn't mind having a roommate," he said with a soft smile.

"Oh, Bobby, I could kiss you right now!" you said with a big grin, squeezing his forearm. He wished you had.

It wasn't until you had fully moved in that Bob realized the full consequences of his actions. You were horrible to live with.

Not in the way that you left dishes in the sink to "soak" all week, or you forgot to switch your laundry out for hours on end, or even in the way that you would blast music loudly at 2 in the morning. No, you didn't do any of those things. In fact, you always cleaned up after yourself, and Bob too, taking his plate right from his lap before he could protest. You cleaned the whole apartment, top to bottom, on Sundays. Your music carried throughout the hallways as you moved from room to room. Best of all, you baked! Every week! Trying a new recipe and being a little messy was your favorite way to unwind from a hectic work week, and lucky for Bob, he was your taste tester. Sure, you brought in your treats for the entire squad on Mondays, but Bob got to sit at the counter and watch you work. You would always gravitate towards him during this time, either letting him try the new brownie batter before you added more sugar or asking him how many chocolate chips are too many.

You were a great roommate. Always so courteous and kind. Anyone would be lucky to share a space like this with you. But it was torture actually living with you.

Too many times, Bob has caught a glimpse of you walking around in nothing but a shirt and some panties. To be fair, it was almost always after you had showered and were walking to your room. But as Bob watched you track down the hallway, he cursed himself for offering up the room in the first place.

And since moving in and getting closer, you had become even more touchy than usual with him. You were quick to give out hugs and other normal affectionate gestures to everyone on the squad, Bob included, even when he had only known you for a few weeks. But now, it was like Bob's personal space was your personal space. You always pressed into him when maneuvering around the small kitchen. Bob always held his breath, feeling you up against him, reaching for the oregano or paprika. Recently, too, your hand would work its way into his windswept hair after long days at the beach. The way your nails would drag against his scalp made him want to groan every time.

But worst of all were busy nights at the Hard Deck. On multiple occasions, barstools would fill up quick, only leaving the squad with two or three seats. It was fine for most of the night, with everyone so invested in the latest match of pool between Bradley and Jake. But after a few hours, you needed a break and always found your way into Bob's lap.

"I can get up, so you can sit," Bob stammered out the first time you sat on his lap. The rest of the squad shared amused looks, careful to hide them from both of you.

"It's okay, Bobby, I know you wanna sit too. Plus, you're comfy," you said, wiggling around trying to find the best position like he actively wasn't about to combust.

A bump of your hip snapped the man back into your kitchen. "Everything okay over there, space cadet?" you asked, tilting your head to look at him better.

"Mhm, yeah. I'm okay," he said in a small voice, the smile on his lips not quite reaching his eyes.

Furrowing your brows, you wondered what was making Bob so distant tonight. "You know you can always talk to me, right?" you offered with a small smile. People say that but rarely mean it. But you meant it, and you wanted him to know that. He just nodded his head and continued stirring the boiling pasta. "Okay, Bobby. I'm here when you want to talk," you said as you rubbed up and down his back. You swore you saw a chill run up his spine.

You watched the way his face continued to fall as you worked on dinner. Bob was always quieter than you, so gentle and sweet. But you hoped whatever was bothering him would go away, or that he would talk to you about it at least. As the night continued, he gave you those small smiles, and your worry just grew.

જ⁀➴

"Why don't you just ask Bee?" Phoenix questioned as she grabbed the drink Penny put on the bar top. The Hard Deck was busy with patrons in all corners of the joint.

"I can't just ask her!" Bob squeaked out; he felt his cheeks flush at the thought of it.

"Why not? Because you have a crush on her? Come on, Bob," she teased him with a shit-eating grin on her face. She watched him slump against the bar as if she had just punched him in the gut. "If you won't take me, then why not Bee?"

Bob sighed, given that they had this conversation almost every day. Before training, after training, and even during training. Even the clear blue skies weren't safe from Natasha's questions. "It's not like I don't want to take you. But my parents know you. They're expecting me to bring someone home, y'know."

"Someone to give them grandchildren," Phoenix cackled as Bob groaned loudly. Penny placed his fizzy soda on the bar with a smile, knowing all about the man's debacle. Natasha thanked her, and they made their way back to the squad.

"Don't say that! I don't even, I can't even think- Oh jeez, Phoenix. No more talking about this. I've decided." The pilot swore she had never heard his voice that pitchy before. Bob shook his head as he wove through the crowd of people.

Once they had settled back into the fray of the squad, Natasha finally took to giving actual advice, not just teasing her back-seater. "I think you should just be honest, tell her. It's Bee."

"Oh yeah, let me just tell her I've been in love with her for months on end now. She's gonna think I'm a creep! Luring her into my apartment, making her live with me," he half shouted, half whispered at her. "And I also said, I didn't want to talk about this. Especially with her right there." Bob glanced at you laughing freely with Bradley, head thrown back. Your energy was contagious to the people around you, as he saw Bradley and Mickey spotting matching smiles. Bob found himself smiling to himself, too.

"She wanted to live with you, idiot. And I'm not saying confess your love. Just ask for this favor. You don't have to give anything away if you don't want to," she said matter-of-factly. If only it were that easy. Within minutes of you being in his childhood home, Bob would surely fold and show all the feelings he's been trying so hard to hide. One conversation and approving nod from his mother, and he'd propose on the spot.

The pair were too entrenched in their conversation to see you making your way over. You didn't mean to snoop, but you couldn't help overhearing snips of their chatter.

"I just don't know what I'm going to do. I have to tell Ma I'm not bringing anyone," Bob muttered, dragging a hand down his jaw.

"To the wedding?" You whipped around and saw Bob's eyes almost pop out from behind his glasses. Phoenix, however, let a mischievous glint dance on her face as she watched the two of you. Directing your attention back to Bob, you continued, "Sorry, I didn't mean to eavesdrop. But if you need someone, I'll go."

Natasha let out the biggest cackle you had heard; it even caught a few of the other aviators' attention. She looked to Bob, who seemed to be frozen in time, and decided she would do her best friend a solid.

"His family is expecting a girlfriend. That's why Bob is having such a hard time," she explained. But you just furrowed your brows further at this.

"I'll be your girlfriend," you said. At this, Bob nearly fell off his barstool. "I mean, I can be your pretend girlfriend for a week. I'm really good with parents and family and stuff. And we know each other well, too! I'm sure we'd be a convincing couple. So, yeah. If you need someone." Suddenly, you felt awkward under his gaze. You definitely gave it away. Who just proclaims they'd be someones fake girlfriend?

You met Jake's gaze from across the pool table and saw him biting down on his bottom lip, trying to suppress the grin on his face. Flashing a 'Help me!' face in his direction, the blonde man made his way over to you.

"Offering your fake girlfriend services again, Bee?" he asked with a raised brow. Both Phoenix and Bob shot him quizzical looks. "Bee came out to dinner with my folks when they were in town a few weeks ago. They were on me about not settling down, but she quelled those fears. Swear I've never seen my mom fall in love faster."

"Really?" Bob asked, looking between both of you. "You met his parents?" A flash of hurt crossed his face. You had missed it completely, but both Hangman and Phoenix caught the distress on his face.

"That's perfect! Right, Bob? Bee would be great," she hit his arm, trying to snap him out of what Jake had just said. The three of you looked at Bob, waiting for his response.

He nodded slowly before responding, "Yeah, I mean, if you're okay with missing the full week. I'd love to take you." Natasha grinned at his recovery, mentally noting to pat him on the back about it later.

"I can talk to Maverick about it tomorrow. I'd love to come," you said bashfully. Jake smiled knowingly at your response. He locked eyes with Natasha and winked. The woman just rolled her eyes but got the signal.

"When was the last time I beat you in pool Hangman? I think my trophy needs a little dusting off," she challenged, gaining the attention of the squad and taking it off Bob and you.

"Looking for a rematch? I'm happy to oblige," Jake said in a sickeningly sweet tone. He stepped closer so only she could hear the next part of his sentence, "I'll win this game, just like I'll win our bet."

"In your dreams, Seresin," she scoffed. "Rack 'em!"

જ⁀➴

Jake's couch had become a second home to you at this point. Its cushions surely remembered the way you would slump into them every weekend. Being Jake's back-seater was a challenge at first; you were never one to back down, and neither was Jake. It wasn't until you both had figured out that instead of going up against each other, you could turn your focus on the pilots around you. So as time went on, you bonded over your love for college football, dad rock, and surprisingly, the Great British Bake Off.

"Oh come on, Tom! No one is going to win with a ganache like that," Jake exclaimed from the end of the couch. There was no quippy response from you, and Jake raised an eyebrow in your direction. You had been like this all week. Mopey and weird. Your usual trash talk to other pilots or Maverick was replaced with a stone-cold face. It was just as intimidating, but Jake knew something was up.

Clutching the throw pillow in your arms, you couldn't even focus on the monstrosity that was Tom's cake on your screen. No, all that ran through your head was how you were going to contain yourself around Bob and his family. In just two days.

With a whack, fabric came flying on top of your head.

"Ow! Jake!" you exclaimed, immediately putting your arms up to protect yourself from further attacks.

"Jake! Don't Jake, me," he sassed you, only making the pout in your lips grow deeper. "What is going on with you? Is this still about Baby on Board?"

"Don't call him that," you grumbled, taking your pillow and whacking him across the chest.

He just rolled his eyes and continued, "Seriously, you need to get it together. Baby on Board and his family are expecting a perfect girlfriend, and right now, you're this."

You scowled at him as he chastised you. "Jake, that's mean. I just," you sighed before continuing. "I just don't know how I'm going to do this. A whole week? He'll know!"

Your dramatics were nothing new to Jake, but when it came to Bob, it seemed like you dialed it up tenfold. "This opportunity has been placed in your lap. I think you should take advantage of it, embrace it," he suggested.

"That's easier said than done," you mumbled.

This upcoming week made you queasy just thinking about it. It wasn't that you didn't want to go to meet Bob's family. No, you wanted all of it. But not like this. From the first day you met Bob, you knew you were in for it. His cute glasses and sweet smile almost had you confessing by the end of the first week.

When he asked you to move in with him, you had happily agreed. But as the arrangement unfolded, you realized what kind of agony would be in store for the near future. The way he always carried in all the groceries, not letting you lift a finger. How he always drove you, never letting you sit behind the wheel, no matter what kind of day he had. And he was so handy around the apartment, too. One day, the garbage disposal in your kitchen stopped working, and just as you were about to call someone, Bob brought over his tool kit and got down on his knees. It was way more attractive than it needed to be.

But these little daily pains were nothing compared to what you had walked in on about a month ago. You were about to go on your daily run with Phoenix when she called you from the car to cancel. Turning your keys and walking back into the house, you slipped off your sneakers and began padding down the hallway towards your room.

Just as you were about to head into your room, there was an odd sound. At first, you thought it was the apartment, settling, or something that people always say when a building makes noise. But as you paused, clutching your shoes and phone close to you, you knew it was something else. It was him.

His moans were unmistakable, so vocal and loud. And you froze. For a few seconds, you just stood there, listening. Listening to Bob falling apart. The schlepping of his hand against himself was unmistakable. The rocking of the bed, too. You had to peel yourself away from this. Away from his noise. So that's what you did.

You tried to forget it. But a part of you wanted to remember, as horrible as that sounds. You hadn't been able to look Bob in the eye for a few days after, and when you did, the heat in your tummy would start again.

The thought of sharing this week with Bob was more daunting than any mission you had ever faced.

"Hey! Are we going to watch this episode, or are you just going to sit and stew the whole night?" Jake's voice snapped you out of your thoughts.

"Sorry, just a little worried still," you said quietly. Jake had never seen you like this before, so in your own head.

He slid down the couch and placed an arm around your shoulder. "Hey, it's okay. Everything will be okay, I promise. Your biggest worries right now should be if Tom can figure out his presentation for the judges."

You giggled at his teasing. "Fucking, Tom," you murmured under your breath.

"Yes, fucking, Tom! God, he's selling it!" Jake boomed next to you, throwing you into another fit of laughter. "Seriously, Bee. Don't worry too much about this week."

"I will be texting you live updates every hour, I hope you know," you said with a grin.

"Wow, only hour updates. I was expecting every 5 minutes," Jake teased, poking into your sides. You just swatted his hands away, fighting off a smile.

જ⁀➴

Stepping onto the packed dirt and smelling the fresh Montana air was a relief to Bob. The picturesque mountain ranges were illuminated by the strong moonlight, and the sky was lit up by thousands of twinkling stars. It was something to get lost in, and that's exactly what Bob found as he turned to look at you. "It's so beautiful," you said, eye going a little wide, and your voice was quiet. Bob figured it was from your hours of traveling, maybe partly from the awe of the view.

Without looking away from you, he responded, "Very beautiful."

Bob's moment of peace with you was interrupted by a swift closing of the front door and a cheery voice. "Bob! Oh, honey, you made it safe!" an older, but spry woman ran up to Bob. You looked at the pair as they embraced and caught a look at them, side by side. Bob was much larger than the woman, towering over her. His arms stood out against her frame as your eyes trailed across his large muscles and hands without even realizing what you were doing. And his nose, it was the same as the woman who stood next to him. The cute button was something you always caught yourself looking at when tracing the map of his face.

A squeal snapped you out of your daze, and you were quickly met with a tight hug and a rushed introduction of Bob's mother's name, Pam. "Oh wow! You must be Bee! You are so gorgeous. I don't know why Bob kept you hidden from us for so long." She leaned back a bit and took you in, dragging her hands across your frame and face. You giggled at her ministrations.

"Thank you for having me this week. I'm so excited to get to know you all," you said with a sweet smile.

"Oh, we are so happy to have you, Bee! Such a cute little nickname, you don't mind?" she asked, but continued on anyway. "We were a little worried about Bob for a while there. Honestly, never thought he would-"

Bob's eyes widened, knowing the long list of stories his mother could tell you. "Alright! Alright, let's not talk about all that just yet," he cut her off with a blush that dusted his cheeks.

"Honestly," you started, gaining the attention of both Bob and his mother. "Bob is the best thing that's ever happened to me. You raised such a kind and thoughtful man. I'm so thankful for him." Your eyes met his as you spoke, sharing a look of genuine care. Pam caught the way you looked at her son and smiled knowingly.

"Well, you two had better head on up to bed. Your Pa is sleeping, but he'll be up bright and early. And everyone will be over tomorrow night to meet you, Bee," Pam said, finally letting you out of her grasp. Instead, she placed a hand on your lower back to guide you inside.

You turned to grab some of your bags to take inside, but instead saw Bob balancing all of your luggage in his hold, just the same as when you left the apartment and at the airport. He shot you a look, telling you to head inside. You rolled your eyes, but mouthed 'thank you' as you kept walking with his mother.

She led you to a small bedroom upstairs in the rustic-looking house. It was cosy, a queen bed with golden colored quilt, a small adjoining bathroom, and a small window with lace curtains. She gave you another quick hug and whispered 'goodnight' before heading back down the stairs to bed.

Bob set down your bags and let out a deep breath.

"You okay? Wanna shower first? You had a long day," you said, a hand coming to his shoulder and rubbing it sweetly. He melted into your touch, unconsciously leaning into you.

"No, no. You go first, I'll be okay," Bob said softly, trailing off a bit towards the end. You had been traveling since that morning, and you could tell how tired the man in front of you was. Your flight was a few hours long, and since his family didn't live in Bozeman or Billings, Bob had to rent a car and drive 3 more hours out to the small town.

"Bobby, go shower and get ready for bed. I'll unpack and lay out the clothes for tomorrow." You took your hands and placed them on both sides of his shoulder, pushing him into the bathroom as he chuckled lowly.

Bob gave you a tired, but grateful look before he closed the bathroom door carefully. Today had been long, but seeing the way you interacted with his mother made it all worth it.

Stepping under the warm stream of water, Bob felt his muscles relax instantly. He didn't want to take long in the shower, knowing you were waiting for him, but he also needed a few moments to himself. Reflecting on your day together, Bob felt himself getting half hard at the thought of you.

On the plane ride over, you had fallen asleep against his shoulder, your body angling into his. With your odd positioning, your tits were pressed right up against him for the majority of the flight. It took everything in him to keep his gaze straight ahead on the action movie playing on the little screen in front of him and not your soft, full chest.

His right hand drifted down, gripping himself firmly.

And your hair. You had been tucked right under his chin, and the scent of your shampoo was overwhelming. Sometimes, Bob would catch a whiff of it floating down the hallway after your showers, but now it was coming at him in waves. He felt like such a creep, but what was he supposed to do? Push you away from him? Bob didn't know the next time you would get so close to him.

Now, his cock stood proud under the stream.

In the car ride over, you had made it a point to keep him company since it was so late at night. Finding a radio station that played old country music, you began to sing along to almost every song that played. After the fourth song, Bob knew it wasn't a fluke that you knew all the lyrics so well. You explained that your college roommate was from Wyoming and was constantly playing her music in the dorms.

Bob knew he needed to keep his eyes on the road, but he couldn't help the way he looked over to your figure sitting beside him. Your lips moving along to whatever song was playing, your thighs pressed up against the leather seat of the truck, and the way your hand would occasionally find its way to his upper back, rubbing soft, smooth circles into it, all drove him to glance over at your sweet face.

His pace was steady now.

Bob felt so dirty, touching himself like this with you, only a thin wall away. But he knew if he didn't do it now, he wasn't sure when he would get a chance this week. So he hunched over the corner of the shower, trying to focus on anything but you. But like every time before this one, Bob's mind only wandered to thoughts of you.

What would you look like with water cascading down your tits? Or how your back would arch into the tile of the shower as he fucked you from behind. Best of all, how your face would twist with pleasure as he drilled into you, making you cum all over his thick cock.

That's what always got him to finish. Thinking about you, your pleasure. He caught the groan in his throat before it sounded, instead biting down on his free fist, whining lowly.

After cleaning up fully, Bob looked around the bathroom and realized he hadn't brought any clean clothes in with his. Wrapping the towel around his waist, he stepped out sheepishly.

At the creak of the bathroom door, you looked up from your place on the ground. You were met with Bob's nearly bare form. Water droplets from his hair were dripping down his shoulders, finding their way down his chest and waist. As you tracked one of the droplets, your eyes stopped when they met his waist. Bob's v-line was even better than you had imagined, and you had thought about it a lot.

He had an aversion to taking his shirt off around others, and that was reasonable. Especially in front of a bunch of macho, testosterone-fueled Navy men. But you had always wondered what he looked like under the kaki uniform he wore so often. Seeing it up close almost had you drooling.

"Forgot a change of clothes," he explained in a quiet voice. You just hummed, not trusting your voice. Pushing up off the ground and padding over to the dresser, you opened a drawer, and Bob found all of his clothes folded and set perfectly. His heart warmed at the thought of your delicate fingers working across all the clothing he had packed for the week. You had obviously taken care of his stuff first, as your luggage was still open on the floor.

Bob grabbed a change of clothes and kept his voice at the same quiet tone, "Thank you, Bee." You smiled up at him, staring a bit too long. But quickly, you fumbled to grab your nightwear from your bag and made your way into the bathroom.

Bob dropped the towel from his waist and began to dress. He didn't miss the way your eyes trailed down his body, and honestly, it made his stomach flip. Just as he was about to lie down and call it a night, he realized you hadn't discussed the bed situation. Bob would never want to make you uncomfortable, so he shuffled down the hall and found his way into the spare linen closet, grabbing a fluffy comforter and some blankets to lie down on the floor beside the bed.

Not too long after, you emerged from the bathroom and furrowed your brows at the sight of the empty bedroom, expecting to see Bob knocked out on the bed from such a long day.

"Down here," Bob's voice startled you as his hand shot up in a lazy wave from the other side of the bed.

"Bob? What are you doing?" you asked the man, walking over to see him laying down on the makeshift bed he had set up on the hardwood floor.

He rubbed the back of his neck, not quite meeting your eyes. "Didn't want to make you feel like we needed to share the bed or anything like that."

"We've literally fallen asleep on the couch together," you said, narrowing your eyes as a teasing smile made its way to your face at his chivalry. "I don't mind sharing the bed at all, Bobby. And that can't be comfortable."

"No, no. Ma's got the best blankets. Feels like a cloud," Bob explained with a soft smile.

You narrowed your eyes at the man before speaking, "With you back? Do you remember earlier today when we got off the plane?"

Bob recalled the moment of weakness. He had stretched out a bit too far after sitting for hours on end and felt a tug throughout his body, wincing a little. You had fused over him for the next 30 minutes, almost refusing to get in the car if you couldn't drive. But Bob, of course, got his way.

He looked as if he was about to argue with you. Bob was hardheaded sometimes, but you knew just the right thing to say to knock him out of it.

"Plus, if your mom comes to wake us up and she sees you sleeping on the floor, everything would be ruined," you offered. Seeing a look of recognition flash across his face, he nodded slowly, like he was considering your words. "Come on, Bobby. I'll help you fold everything and put it back."

You giggled as he sprang up from the floor, a hand already coming down to his lower back.

"I knew your back was going to hurt! Comfy my ass," you said, smacking him lightly across the chest. He just smiled at you, joining in with some soft chuckles that warmed your heart.

Curling into bed, you felt sleep hit you almost immediately. Letting your eyelids droop, part of you wanted to stay up and think about tomorrow. To pick Bob's brain about who might show up. Worry about what they would think of you. But the sound of Bob's voice made your heart slow and breathing even out.

"G'night, Bee. Thank you again for coming with me," Bob told you, not even sure if you were lucid enough to hear him.

"Anything for you, Bobby. Goodnight," you said in the softest voice he thinks he's ever heard from you. Your words slurred a little and were definitely muffled by the pillow, but he still heard you. He saw your eyelashes flutter across your cheeks as you settled into sleep. The way your mouth opened slightly, lips parting so delicately. How your body seemed to curl into itself, making you look so small and fragile.

Wishing to hold you close to his chest like earlier today on the plane or to grasp your hand to hold in his sleep, Bob just stayed up for a few minutes longer to watch your sleeping form. Soon enough, his thoughts of you became muddy and distant as sleep took over, claiming you both now.

જ⁀➴

Bob had awoken to soft beams of sunlight streaming through the lace curtains. Everything was quiet, and Bob let himself lie for a moment, taking in the peace. Just as he was about to stretch and get up, he looked to his side and saw you.

Your cheek was still flushed up against the pillow, and your hair was in a bit of a mess as it rubbed on the fabric. It wasn't rare that Bob got to see you relax, but it was rare to see you completely void of all concerns. Usually, you were still holding some type of resistance in your shoulders or furrowing your brows slightly, even when lying across the couch at the end of the day. But now, you looked completely free. He smiled a bit at this.

Like you had sensed him mentally tracing the outline of your nose or the apples of your cheeks, suddenly your eyelashes fluttered, and you opened your eyes.

"G'morning, Bobby," you half mumbled-half whispered into your pillow. You weren't sure he understood you until hearing his telltale chuckle that was seemingly reserved for you.

"Morning, Bee," he said softly, voice a little deeper than usual. You chalked it up to the morning hours, but it still made your tummy flip. "Did you sleep well?"

"Mhm," you hummed. Bob saw that you made no effort to move from your comfortable position and chuckled again.

He often teased you for being so out of it in the mornings, but Bob had never seen you so unguarded. On the weekends you had off from training, you would usually pad into the kitchen, eyes still a little puffy and your movement still a little soft. There was one time Bob had to quickly intervene before you poured your coffee into your cereal bowl instead of your mug. But right now was different.

"Don't laugh," you grumbled. "Need like five more minutes. Or maybe ten."

Just as Bob was about to say okay and lie back under the covers with you, he heard a familiar pattern of steps making their way up the hallway.

"I'm afraid you're not going to get that, Bee," he spoke, seeing your brows fold in on themselves at his words. But soon, the bedroom door opened, and Pam was rushing to hug you good morning.

"I can see Bob has been soft on you, letting you sleep in," she joked as you shot up in the bed to meet her embrace. "We Floyds are early risers! Better start building the habit now."

"Oh, I know. Bob's up every morning at the crack of dawn, it feels like. Always hear him trying to be so quiet around the apartment," you said with a yawn as she drew away from you. Bob's cheeks heated at the thought of you being so in tune with his morning routine.

"Well, I won't rush you this morning, but breakfast will be ready in 20 minutes. Then we'll head into town afterwards, alright, Bee?" she said with a fond smile on her face. You nodded your head, saying a quick thank you as she closed the door and left.

The room was silent for a few seconds as you and Bob shared a small smile and knowing look at what had happened. "I'm only getting up early for her this week, Floyd. Don't expect any new habits when we're back home," you joked, a teasing smile on your face.

"Oh, I know. Wouldn't want to disrupt your morning routine of inside-out jeans and backwards shirts," Bob said with full seriousness as he pushed the covers off his body.

"Whatever that happened like one time," you said, pursing your lips. Hearing his laughter fill the air made your face flush with embarrassment. "One time! It was one time!"

Your protests at his teasing had no effect. Instead, Bob's laughter seemed to increase ten-fold as he doubled over in the bed.

"Bob, stop! It was one time!" you whined now. "You said it wasn't that bad."

His laughter subsided as he began to speak, "I know, I know." There was a silence that lasted for a few seconds until he spoke again, "But it was so funny, Bee." With that, Bob burst out laughing again as you half groaned, half laughed loudly.

From the kitchen, Pam smiled to herself, hearing her son's laughter carry throughout the house.

જ⁀➴

That night, like Pam had promised, Bob's extended family was over. Honestly, Bob was a little worried for you. His family could be a lot, and given that this was the first time he had brought anyone home, he expected everyone to poke and prod at you. But as his family filed into the house, your bright smile had never faltered.

Sometime after dinner but before dessert, Bob had lost you in the crowd of Floyds. He had walked through the house about ten different times at this point, looking for you, but you were nowhere to be found. Seeing the worried look on his face, his father gently grasped his son's shoulder to gain his attention.

"She's outside," he said lowly. Bob nodded and walked with purpose towards the back porch. His mind racing, thinking of all the possibilities that would've pushed you to escape outside. Were you crying? Was this all too overwhelming? Did someone ask you a rude question? Had you finally gotten sick of him? Sick of this role you were playing?

Right as he was about to push the door open, Bob paused. He saw you outside, but you weren't alone.

Gathered around you in the grassy field was a gaggle of small children, all laughing and smiling. Bob couldn't tell exactly what you were playing with the children, but after one of his younger cousins ran up to you and tapped your hip, he understood immediately. Bob smiled to himself, seeing you take off into a run as all the children screamed joyfully.

"She's sweet. Reminds me of your mother." Bob was snapped out of his trance as his father spoke. "Good job, son," he added, hand coming to clap softly on Bob's back.

Bob felt his heart race watching you. He knew you were perfect, living with you and being best friends had proven it to him. But he had never seen you like this, so carefree and thoughtful. Sure, there were nights when Jake or Bradley would get a bit too carried away at the Hard Deck, and you would be right by their side, taking care of them. But it wasn't even close to this.

Bob saw you chase around the children, never gaining too fast on the younger kids, but still giving the older ones a run for their money. He watched as all the kids gravitated towards you, all of their smiles and laughs being thrown your way. And Bob understood this feeling deeply. He had always felt a pull towards you. It came out in various ways, like always finding your eyes when Coyote would say something outrageous during training. Or bursting out into synchronized laughter whenever Jake would ultimately lose another game of pool to Nat. And his favorite was the way you would find your way over to Bob whenever you were in a large group. You could talk to Jake or joke around with Bradley, but whenever the full Dagger Squad was together on a crowded night at the Hard Deck, you were glued to Bob's side. These moments let him know that you were undeniably in each other's orbit.

Finally, Bob pulled open the door and walked out to you and your new friends.

"Uncle Bob!" one of the children exclaimed. You whipped around, seeing Bob walking up to you with a small smile on his face.

"Thought I lost you in there," he joked. You smiled, not speaking but walking closer to meet him in the middle. He met your kind eyes, but upon looking into them further, he squinted a little at you. Just as he was about to step back, you lunged forward.

"Tag! You're it!" you blurted out, giggling as you sprinted in the opposite direction. The children seemed to follow your example, all shrieking and laughing as Bob took off.

Suddenly, you heard little cries of your name. Turning around, you saw Bob gaining on you. Before you knew it, his hands grasped your waist, picking you up a few inches off the ground, bringing you into his chest.

Tucked close into him now, you felt his breath on the back of your neck. The heaving of his chest against your back had you squirming. "Can't get away that easily," his voice close to your ear. Biting down on your lip, careful to not let the whine out, you felt your tummy flip at the position he had you in.

You had come outside to escape, yes. But not from Bob's never-ending list of uncles or aunts. From him.

During dinner, he had been nothing but kind to you. Caring. Attentive. And it had been like that all day. From when you left the house and went into town with him and his mother, you hadn't as much as blinked before Bob made sure you didn't have to lift a finger. Sure, he had done this to a certain extent back in California, not letting you open the door or always opening glass jars for you when in the kitchen together. But today was a different level.

Pam insisted on getting you a pair of real, genuine cowgirl boots. She marched you into "Jesse's Boots & Shoes" and immediately sat you down on one of the little benches. After gathering what seemed like half the merchandise in the store, she came back to you with stacks of boxes full of different types of boots.

As you began to bend down to untie your shoes, Bob suddenly appeared in front of you. On his knees.

"I got it, don't worry," he said, before delicately unlacing your shoes. His large, warm hand flew up underneath your calf, and the other shimmied off your shoe. Then he looked up with that sweet smile and repeated the whole process on your other foot. You could've sworn you saw Pam snap a picture.

Later in the day, you made it back to the house and were helping Pam fix up some lunch. She handed you a big yellow onion and a kitchen knife, but before you could even take hold of the wooden handle she had outstretched to you, Bob had rushed into your view. Stealing the onion out of your right hand and gently pushing you out of the way of the cutting board, you looked at him incredulously.

"I know how watery your eyes get. I got it, just go sit down," he offered with that same sweet smile.

"I can cut one onion, Bobby," you said, playfully trying to grab the onion from his hand. He just raised his hands above his head, ensuring you wouldn't be able to reach him.

"I got it, Bee. Don't try to argue," he challenged, raising his brows. Huffing, you rolled your eyes, but couldn't help the small smile that was creeping on your face.

Pam once again snapped a picture. This time, giggling to herself a bit like she knew this was going to happen.

The third time was right before everyone had arrived. You were upstairs, checking your hair one last time and making sure your outfit looked okay, when you noticed you had forgotten to put your necklace on this morning.

After retrieving the delicate piece from the bathroom, Bob had seemingly appeared. Seeing the jewelry in your hand, he walked forward with purpose, holding out his palm. You raised an eyebrow at his actions.

"Seen you do it a million times," he started. "Let me."

You nodded, not trusting your voice once again, dropping the piece into his hand. Softly, his free hand came down to your hip, guiding you to turn around.

Then, you felt his arms go around your shoulders, not touching, but there. It was so quiet in that moment. The only noise you could hear was the creaking of the old house and Bob's soft breathing close to your ear. It was distracting. Maddening, after the day you had.

Clasping the necklace around you, his hands dropped. Turning back around, you were met, once again, by the same sweet smile.

"You look beautiful, Bee," he told you before backing out of the room. "I'll be downstairs whenever you're ready."

Driven outside, you had wanted to sit on the porch for a bit. Think about what this weekend really meant for you. For Bob. For your friendship. But your plans were quickly interrupted after feeling a little tug on your leg and hearing a quiet invitation to a game of tag.

"Robert Floyd, you'd better let go of that girl! We've got apple pie coming out the oven!" Pam's voice drew you back into the heart-racing position you were in. Bob was quick to set you down, smoothing his hands over your hips in an effort to fix the creases in your dress that his hold had caused. But you saw the raging blush that crossed his face and burst out into a fit of giggles, and soon, all of his younger cousins were doing the same thing.

"I think this might be your inside-out jean moment," you teased with a smile, seeing the blush turn to a darker shade.

"Not funny," he said sternly, but you could tell he was trying to hold back a laugh.

"Mm, I recall saying something earlier this morning like that." You grinned at him, walking closer to the house, but your body was still fully facing the man in front of you. "But Bobby, it's so funny!" you laughed, throwing your head back. Bob couldn't help but smile, even if it was at the expense of his own actions.

What neither Bob nor you realized was the crowd of onlookers peaking through the windows, watching as Bob Floyd was struck with a look of love.

જ⁀➴

You had been right. The look before the first kiss was the best part of a wedding. Bob doesn't remember the last time he'd seen his older brother so giddy.

You, on the other hand, had missed it completely. Looking at the man who sat next to you instead. You saw the way the corners of Bob's mouth pulled upwards, smiling brightly.

The week had gone smoothly, both of you getting away with touches that were a little more lingering than usual or looks that called for a deeper conversation. To Bob's family, this looked like restraint, manners, and control. To you, this was torture, heartache, and suppression. You didn't know how many more instances of Bob's big hand on the small of your back you had in you before you broke completely. His gentle guidance and care throughout the week had been something that you reveled in. Returning to California, returning to normalcy, it all seemed so distant.

Sipping some champagne, you sat with Bob at the reception. Stringed bulbs lit up the night. Bright colors popped from all of the flowers that seemed to be placed on every table. And sweet music filled the air, inviting everyone to dance.

Bob studied your face under the night sky and limited lighting. You were the most beautiful thing he had ever seen. Dread filled his heart, though. The thought of this week just being a glimpse into what life would be like if he got up the courage to ask you to be with him weighed heavily on his heart.

Going to bed with you every night was something Bob didn't even know he was missing, but now he craved it so deeply. Being able to talk to you and share his thoughts with you right before bed. Getting to hear you ramble on, either about your worries or joys, was something he began to love more than anything. The way your voice would begin to taper, become gentle, when you were truly tired and ready for sleep. How you supported your face under your small palm while talking with him in the dark. How your eyes would become glassy and glazed over as you finally hit the pillow. These moments became precious to him.

"All couples! Head to the dance floor now! Tell your partner how much you care about them, and let's dance!" The DJ's voice broke Bob's train of thought. Without thinking, he rose out of his seat and offered you a hand.

Sheepishly, you took it, letting him guide you.

A soft, slow melody filled the air as you began to take your place with Bob. His hands brushed your hips, stiff, like he was in middle school, and it was his first time slow dancing. You chuckled a little under your breath.

"What's got you laughing now?" he asked, soft and sweet. Eyes searching yours with intensity you had only seen from him this week.

You looked at him for a moment and just grinned, like you knew something he didn't.

"Just so stiff, Bobby. Relax," you told him, pushing into his space a little more. Your hands found their way around his shoulders, palms settling on the broad plain of his back. Now, your face met his chest, and you melted into him.

Bob felt the sway of your hips and the light movement of your feet. If it wasn't for you, he would've stood still, not knowing what to do with you like this. Sure, he had danced like this before. But it was never this intimate. This deep. This connected.

At any moment, Bob felt like he was going to let the words spill out of him. Tell you how he was really feeling. It seemed so easy.

The way you interacted with his family. Cooking with his Ma, talking about college sports with his Pa. Even the way you talked with his brother and sister-in-law. Though it was brief, you made an immediate connection. You and his sister-in-law, chatting away like you had grown up together. And he didn't miss the way his older brother shot him a look of surprise, but approval.

But it wasn't just about them. It was also about the way you just fit so well into his life. Sure, you weren't an early riser, and Bob had learned this weekend that you weren't the best with large animals, but he didn't mind. If being with you meant slow mornings where you would coax him back to bed, hands grasping for him to come lie with you beneath the sheets, he'd be okay with that. More than okay. And if the biggest animal you owned was a chocolate lab, that would be okay by him, too.

Slowly, his large hands came around your waist, more secure and grounded. And Bob closed his eyes, letting out a deep breath. Taking in this moment with you was the most important thing to him.

You danced under the twinkling lights and stars, no concern for the people around you. No concern that this was fake, that it was all pretend. Because right now, it felt real.

Hearing the thump of Bob's heart calmed you. It was grounding you, just like the gentle guitar in the background. You swayed like that for a while, but eventually the pounding of his heart and the steadiness of his figure became all too much. While the music swelled, so did your chest. Heaving up and down at a much more rapid pace.

Bob, feeling the sudden shift in your energy, pulled back, but just slightly. Still close enough to hear the hitch in your breath, to see the quiver of your bottom lip.

Your eyes blinked rapidly. Looking up at Bob seemed like an impossible task. But with a gentle touch to your chin, you did.

"Bee?" he asked softly. Concern written across his face.

"I'm sorry," you said, even quieter. With slow moments, you pressed your lips to his.

Your lips were softer than he imagined. The way your lips slotted between his was like second nature. And before you could pull back, he learned in deeper. Taking the hand that was under your chin and pressing it into the back of your head. Meeting you in the kiss, he pressed closer to you, and you felt the strong hold he had on your hip.

Bob wanted so badly to lick into your mouth, to mix your spit. But he restrained himself upon feeling the slight jump below his waist.

The solid kiss made your tummy turn in a way you didn't think was possible. Something deeper took hold of you as you melted, once again, into the man in front of you. The heaving of your chest was still present, but now it was fueled by want rather than anxiety.

Pulling away slowly, your breathing was heavy. Your eyes searched his, trying to see what he was thinking. What would his reaction to your impulsivity be?

Before your question could be answered, you were being pulled by one of Bob's cousins, urging you to go line up for the bouquet toss.

Bob watched as you were ripped away from him. His hand came up to grab onto you, but his fingers slipped against the fabric of your dress. Your eyes widen, head whipping around to look at him. But just as quick, you broke your gaze.

જ⁀➴

As soon as the door to the guest bedroom clicked shut, you immediately began apologizing.

"Bobby, I'm sorry. I don't know what came over me, and I'm so sorry. I wasn't thinking," you said, hands coming up to your face in an attempt to hide from him.

"Bee," Bob tried to cut in, but you could barely hear him over the sound of your racing heart and rambling words."

"I didn't mean to ruin this. Ruin this weekend and make you feel uncomfortable. Ruin what we have. Our friendship," you kept going, stomach now turning at the thought of losing Bob from your life.

"Bee," he started again, but still you weren't hearing a thing he said.

Your hands now rubbed nervously down your dress, like you were trying to wipe off what had happened earlier that night. "I'm gonna go take my stuff and sleep in the bathroom or something. You don't have to share a bed with me tonight. And if you want me to move out, I will. I'm sorry, I just, I don't know-"

"Bee!" Bob's voice startled you into silence. He stepped closer to you, reaching for your hands, trying to quell your nervous energy.

Bob's hand closed around your wrists. Your heart was beating out of your chest as you looked at your best friend.

"Tonight," he started, hand rubbing softly against yours. "What did the kiss mean?"

He took a deep breath as you just stared at him.

"I'm sorry, I shouldn't have. I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable," you said, feeling tears well up in your eyes.

"I'm not mad, and I'm not uncomfortable. I just," he took another deep breath before continuing. "I just want to know what it meant to you. Why you did it."

A tear slipped down your cheek at his soft-spoken words.

"I love you," you said quietly as more tears fell from your eyes. "I kissed you because I love you. Because I'm in love with you. I'm sorry, Bobby."

You felt your world crumbling around you. Years of friendship, laughter, and good memories all seemed to blur past you. Surely, when you got back to California, Bob would ask you to move out. The thought made you sick to your stomach.

Bob stared at you, silent. He felt like he was dreaming. All week, he had been trying to tell you how he felt. Been trying to get the words out. And here you were, saying everything he was thinking.

His hands quickly came up to your face, wiping the tears away. You couldn't look at him, eyes closed and body closing in on itself.

"Bee, will you open your eyes, please. I just want to talk to you," Bob pleaded. "I need to tell you something. Need you to look at me."

You shook your head, starting to feel like everything was all too much. Of course, he was still being sweet to you. After everything, after all of what you said and did. The thought made more tears come to your eyes.

"Please, please look at me," he asked again, thumbs now stroking your cheeks. Bob could see the internal debate you were having as your lips pushed deeper into a pout.

But after a few seconds, you opened your eyes. Blinking away the last bit of tears, you tried to look at the man in front of you.

As soon as your eyes met his, Bob smiled at you sweetly. "I love you. I'm sorry I didn't say it sooner. And I'm sorry about this week. I should've told you how I was feeling, but I thought everything would go okay. That we could just go back to being normal after all this."

Your shoulders relaxed with his admission, your mouth opening just a bit to look at Bob in awe.

"But we can't," you said, voice still small. It made Bob's heart ache thinking about all that you were feeling this week, knowing he was feeling the same way.

"No, I don't think we can." His eyes dropped to your lips for a split second. If you weren't watching him so closely, you would've missed it.

Something in your stomach turned at the thought of kissing him again. Your chest began to rise and fall much like it had earlier.

Still holding your face in his hands, Bob leaned in slowly. Slow enough to let you pull away if this was something you didn't want. Slow enough that seconds felt like minutes.

Finally, your lips met for the second time that night. Less rushed than before and softer. Your eyes flutter shut at the feeling.

The kiss was sweet. Bob's heart was racing out of his chest, having you like this. He was content letting your lips brush up against each other in a soft manner. But each time you kissed, he got hungrier. It wasn't until you let a soft sound slip past your lips and into his that he pressed into you harder.

Suddenly, Bob was walking you backwards into the bed. You felt one of his hands leave your face and come down to the small of your back, pressing you closer to him.

"This okay?" he asked breathlessly as you nodded, not trusting your voice.

With that, Bob got to work on the zipper at the back of your dress. He felt your hands in his hair, on his arms, pulling him in closer. Finally, the dress dropped and you let it fall to the floor.

Bob's eyes scanned your body. Wearing the prettiest set of black lace underwear and a matching bra, he felt his stomach turn. You were perfect.

Quickly, his hands were all over your body as you fell back with him on the bed. Feeling his hard length grind down on your barely clad heat had you biting down on your lip. Bob worked his mouth against your neck, looking for the spot that would make you moan against him. His licking and biting made your legs tighten around his waist, pulling him even closer if possible.

"Please, Bobby. Need you," you whispered. His head shot up to take you in. Your eyes were blinking quickly, like you were struggling to keep them open. Your mouth parted slightly, like you couldn't take deep enough breaths. Your hair splayed out around you, like you were an angel come down from heaven.

"Want me to touch you?" Bob asked as you whined, head nodding. "Gonna have to be quiet for me, okay? I wanna help you."

"Okay, I'll be good. Promise," you said, eyes searching his. Waiting for his movements to change. Waiting for him to help you feel good.

His hands moved from your hips down to your heat. Only one hand cupping it at first, while the other worked at the back of your bra. Pushing into your underwear, Bob's big hand began to feel you everywhere. His thumb quickly found your clit, and you thought you were seeing stars as he rubbed it softly.

You felt the tightness of your bra loosen, and Bob's other hand quickly moved to take it off you completely. Seconds after, his mouth came down to your pebbled nipple, swirling his tongue around it, sucking it into his mouth.

Your jaw dropped at the feeling. His kisses and ministrations made your hips jump up into his hand. "Need more, wanna feel your fingers," you said softly, trying to keep your promise to him.

Popping his lips from your tits, Bob looked at you with darkened eyes. "Being so good for me. I can feel you, so wet for me," he praised you, but still, his hand made no effort to move further into your heat.

Your brows furrowed at this, and you propped yourself up to look at the man lying above you. "Bobby, please," you whispered, kissing his cheek sweetly.

There was no way he could resist you when you asked so sweetly. His hand made its way towards your opening, stretching your underwear a bit. Bob played with you a bit more, and you whined into the pillow next to you.

"Sorry, honey," he whispered into your ear. "Just love your little pussy so much."

Your jaw dropped at his dirty words and at the feeling of two of his fingers stretching out your heat. They felt so thick, and Bob knew exactly what he was doing, moving them with expert precision. Pushing in slow and deep, reaching your spot almost immediately, your back arched off the bed into his touch.

Bob watched as you crumbled at his touch. It had to be a dream. The way your tits heaved up and down made him dizzy. Your face, now driven into the pillow next to you, silencing your noises, made his cock jump from beneath his trousers. You lying on the bed, almost completely naked, and he still fully dressed, made him bite down on his lip hard.

He was trying to take his time with you. Be gentle. Get to know your body. But every noise that escaped you and every look of longing you shot him made his resolve crumble. He could spend hours like this, with you at his disposal to play with. But sweat beaded down his forehead in restraint. Bob had to know what your tight pussy felt like around his cock.

A hand on his bicep pulled Bob from his thoughts. He felt your pussy clench up at his fingers, and he instantly moved his thumb back up to your clit. The reaction was immediate. Your body curling off the body and into him, Bob leaned into you, taking one of your tits into his mouth again, sucking harshly this time.

"Oh, fuck," you whispered as your orgasm ran through you. You never knew your orgasms could be so intense, but with Bob's constant attention to your body, you had never felt better.

Delicately, he pulled his fingers from your entrance and leaned down to kiss you sweetly.

"You're so beautiful," Bob said breathlessly. Then he brought his fingers up to his mouth, and you felt your pussy throb all over again at the sight of him licking your slick from his fingers. "Taste so good, too," he said, popping his fingers from his mouth. "Can I taste you?"

You nodded, but apparently, this wasn't enough for him anymore.

"Wanna hear you," Bob spoke softly. "Killing me, not being able to hear all your cute noises."

"Sorry," you said bashfully. "Yes, please."

"Don't gotta say sorry. Doing so good for me, my beautiful girl." Bob leaned in to kiss you again, making you feel his want and warmth as he licked into your mouth. His mouth traveled down your body, stopping to suck dark marks into your throat and all over your tits. But you didn't stop him, not really caring about how you would cover them up in the morning. His nips and licks were much more convincing than anything your brain told you.

Finally making his way down to your heat, Bob pushed your underwear to the side. Licking a broad stripe with his flat tongue, he tried to feel all of you. Your thighs worked to close around him, but his strong hands came up to grip them just hard enough to remind you of his strength, but not hard enough to hurt you. Continuing, he kissed all over your heat, much like he had just licked into your mouth. The movements made you dizzy.

Focusing on your clit, you felt one of his hands leave your thigh and dive into your heat again.

"Bobby," you whined. Quickly slapping a hand over your mouth, remembering what you had promised him. He looked up at you, chuckling a bit at your movements. But the vibrations against your heat only made you squirm and cry out more.

Removing his mouth from your heat, he kissed your thighs sweetly.

"Need me to help you, honey?" he asked, voice low and eyes dark as they looked at you.

"Mhm, please," you whispered, still moving your hips against his fingers.

He smiled at your movements. "So needy," he whispered more to himself than anything. "Didn't think you'd be that way."

Your tummy flipped at his admission. Even if he hadn't explicitly said it, just thinking about Bob touching himself to the thought of you made your pulse race like crazy.

Pulling your underwear away from your heat, Bob tossed them across the room. His hands now moved to your waist, picking you up effortlessly, flipping you on your tummy softly.

Your neck craned back, a puzzled look on your face. But he was already meeting you half way, coming up to kiss you again and ask a question.

"This okay, honey?" Bob asked, one hand coming to raise your hips. Another guided a pillow beneath them. Your stomach turned at the thought of what he was about to do.

"Yeah, it's okay," you whispered. He smiled at this, placing a sweet kiss on the crown of your head. But soon, his hand was pushing your head into the pillow, tucking your hair behind your ears, making sure you were comfortable. But still, his hand came down to guide you into the plush surface beneath you.

Not seeing Bob and only feeling him was something you never thought you would love. But the way his hands dragged down your body, fingers toying with your body, and firmly kneading your ass made your breathing sharp and shallow. Bob made his way down to your heat once more, licks more confident and sure now.

Sure enough, you whined into the pillow underneath you, pushing your hips back into Bob as he continued to work at your entrance. His tongue pushed in and out of you, sucking harshly. Hands spreading your ass, allowing him to kiss you better, get deeper.

It was quick for you to feel the familiar tug in your tummy return, ready to snap at any moment. Snaking a hand under your tummy and to your clit, Bob worked diligently to make you feel good, rubbing tight, small circles.

Your hand flew back, trying to grasp at anything you could. Your fingers found his golden locks, and you gripped them tightly as you came for the second time that night.

After a few last licks, Bob kissed up your back, letting his body sink into you a bit. It wasn't until his kisses reached your neck that you felt his hard length straining against your ass.

"So good, honey," he whispered, placing sweet kisses against your hair once more. "Gonna go get a towel to clean you up, okay?"

Soon, he moved to shift off the bed. But you shot up, grabbing his forearm.

"What's wrong?" Bob asked, concern evident on his face as he looked at you. He wondered if it had been too much. He had indulged a little bit, but he thought that you were feeling good. Or maybe he was pulling away too soon, maybe you wanted to cuddle a bit more before he got up. But what you said next made his heart jump.

"Wanna feel you. Do you not want to?" you spoke softly, forehead creasing in on itself.

Bob smiled at your question, coming back into your space, pressing his lips to yours. You smiled into the kiss, too. Something about them was so sweet and gentle, but so deep and longing at the same time.

"Course I do, just didn't want to push anything," he spoke, pulling away a bit. "And, I don't have anything here. I didn't bring any condoms," Bob whispered the last bit, like it was a secret.

"I'm clean and on birth control," you offered with a small smile that Bob swore would be the death of him.

"Me too," he said, immediately backtracking at the sound of your giggles. "I mean clean. No birth control."

Your smile grew wider at his words. Even when Bob didn't mean to, he made you laugh, always making you feel good.

"Can I see you? Think it's a little unfair you're still dressed," you teased him. Even with the faint glow of the moon and the soft bedside lamp, you were able to see the way Bob's ears turned pink.

Without a word, he began to unbutton his shirt. Scooching toward him on the bed, your hands made quick work of his belt, button, and zipper. Bob would've laughed at your eagerness if he weren't feeling the exact same way. Kicking off his pants and underwear and whipping the shirt off over his head, Bob stood before. Your tongue peeked out a bit at the sight of him.

His abs are sculpted and molded to perfection; you were able to gawk at them more openly now than a few nights ago. As your eyes traveled further, you saw his V-line, prominent and defined. And his length stood proud in front of you. Chills ran down your spine at the thought of taking all of him. You leaned down, falling on your elbows before him. Kissing his pink tip, your tongue began to kitten lick at his head.

Bob groaned audibly at the sight in front of him. Your ass up, mouth working against his length, and eyes looking up at him for approval. This wasn't real, surely. Any minute now, he would wake up in bed, spoiled underwear once again. But as you moved to take his length further in your mouth, Bob couldn't deny what he was feeling.

Knowing that if you sucked his length much longer, he wouldn't last, Bob softly grasped your head in his hands, moving you away from his length and instead onto the bed like you once were.

Lying back on the bed, you watched as Bob moved over your body. Settling on top of you, you found yourself face-to-face with him. Smiling at him, your eyes met, and you couldn't help but laugh a bit to yourself.

"What's got you so happy?" Bob asked, leaning down to kiss your neck as you let the giggles flow freely. He smiled at you, the kisses sweet rather than searing like they were before.

"I just love you," you whispered. Bob's head shot up, dopey grin now on his face.

"I love you," he whispered back. Leaning down to kiss you again, you thought about how you would never get used to this. Just a few hours ago, you were anxiety-ridden with thoughts of losing your best friend to a dumb mistake. Now, all your nerves were still on fire, but for a different reason. Bob's lips worked against yours until you felt your tummy flip again, and it seemed he felt the same way; one of his hands moved down to grip his length. Guiding himself to your heat, you felt Bob shudder in your embrace, but his lips never left yours.

Bob groaned against your lips as he pushed into you. Only a few inches at first, seeing the way your body would react to him. Your chest heaved, and your eyes screwed shut at the unfamiliar feeling. But your hands pawed at his chest and back, trying to bring him closer to you.

"Doing okay, honey? Feel good?" Bob asked, watching your face for any signs of discomfort.

You whinnied a little as you answered, "Feels good. So good. You're so big."

"You can take it, can't you, honey?" Bob asked, pushing a bit more into you as your jaw dropped at the feeling. He was now kissing up and down your throat again, unable to keep himself away from your soft, dewy skin for too long.

The man felt you pulsed around him. Your heat seemingly needing more from him. Before Bob could ask, you spoke in a breathless whisper.

"More, please. I can take it."

With that, he pushed into you fully. Balls settling against your ass, pelvis meeting yours. His arms came around under your back, bringing you tight into his embrace. Bob made sure to hold onto you, made sure he was taking care of you.

When he started moving, it was filthy. The sounds couldn't be masked as he moved in and out of your heat at a steady pace, deep enough to be hitting your spot in just the right way. Your bodies began to sweat and shine under the soft bedroom light.

You tried biting down on your lip, tried to not let the sounds escape you, but it was no use. The way that Bob moved above you drew out soft, airy noises. Bob saw that you struggled to control yourself and fully feel pleasure, so he took matters into his own hands.

Placing a large hand over your mouth, Bob met your eyes. They shot wide open at first, maybe a flicker of embarrassment, but soon they became droopy again as you focused more on his thrusts into you.

"It's okay, honey," he leaned down to talk near your ear. "Know it feels good. Just gonna help you a little."

You nodded at his words, clenching around his length again. Your moans were now muffled behind his big hand. The feeling of Bob asserting himself over you made you dizzy. You knew he was confident and could take charge if need be, but this was something else. Bob worked with precision, seemingly adjusting to your every move. It wasn't long until his other hand left its spot on your hip and made its way down to your heat once more, circling your clit in what you now learned was your favorite way. His big thumb moved in tandem with his thrusts, and you opened your eyes to look at the man above you.

Bob, seeing the way your eyes glossed over, kissed your lips, briefly moving his hand before placing it back and speaking, "It's okay, I got you. Wanna feel you cum around me."

With that, the knot in your tummy unraveled. Shaking against Bob, you pushed your body as close to his as possible. Still working into you, Bob felt the way you squeezed his length and couldn't hold back anymore, coming to his high with you.

Slowly, Bob moved his hand from your mouth and instead stroked your hair, placing a kiss on your hairline. You smiled at his actions, despite being exhausted from your rigorous activities.

"I love you," Bob told you. He watched as you relaxed against the bed, shifting slightly to hold you better.

"I love you, Bobby. Thank you for inviting me this week," you said sweetly, sharing another kiss with him as he was still nestled inside you, neither of you moving to get up just yet.

He smiled at your words. Thinking back to this week and all that had happened, Bob was grateful you were by his side. From his rambunctious family to the quietness of rural Montana, you fit in perfectly. Bob couldn't wait to bring you back, properly this time.

જ⁀➴

Like always, you and Bob went along with the squad's outstanding Saturday night plans at the Hard Deck, not caring that you had just gotten back to California a few hours prior. Jake grinned at the sight of you walking into the Hard Deck, hand in hand with Bob. He watched as Bob carefully guided you through the crowd of people, delicately holding onto your waist and shielding you from the rowdy patrons.

"Well, well, well," Jake teased as soon as you had both made your way over to the pool table full of aviators. "Looks like my plan worked."

Bob's brows furrowed at this, immediately looking to you.

"No way, Bagman, you aren't getting the credit for this," Phoenix chimed in, abandoning the game of pool.

Now it was your turn to look at Bob with confusion on your face.

"I was the one who sold Bee about the parents thing," Jake argued. You felt your face flush at his admission of your white lie.

"Well, I was the one hyping Bob up for weeks about getting her to come," Phoenix fought back. Bob closed his eyes, not thinking he could survive the look of amusement on your face.

Suddenly, both of your pilots turned to you.

"So who did it?" Phoenix asked. Both you and Bob looked at each other, puzzled.

"Oh come on," Jake said exasperatedly. "You know what were talking about. Who made the first move?"

The squad was silent, watching both you and Bob under a microscope, it seemed. A slight tilt of Bob's head in your direction made Jake cry out triumphantly, pumping his fists into the air.

"I knew it! I knew it! Suck it, Phoenix," Jake whooped as onlookers watched with amusement at his antics.

"Knew it?" Bob asked, almost scared for the answer.

Jake grinned at the both of you. "Yup!" he said, popping the ending syllable in a way that made Nat's eye roll even farther back into her head. "I knew Bee would make the first move. She's gutsy! No offense, Baby on Board."

"Jake," you chastised, but knew the nickname was all in good fun now.

"Where's my twenty dollars? My wallet seems to be missing something," Jake faux-questioned, turning his attention to Phoenix.

Digging into her back pocket and sifting through her wallet, she slapped a crisp twenty-dollar bill into Jake's outstretched hand with a groan. Jake almost giggled in delight, a sound you had only heard come out of him once or twice.

"I just want to say," he started, raising his glass to the group, "that I, Jake Seresin, best pilot among us, was instrumental in ending our suffering. That is, watching these two dance around each other forever like little lovesick puppies."

The group groaned at his statement, but raised their drinks nonetheless. You giggled into Bob's shoulder, and he smiled widely at the sound. His eyes found yours and saw a playful look on your face. Before he knew it, you leaned into his space, pressing your lips to his.

The group watched as he melted into your touch, half-cheering and half-whistling.