I Dont Even Know Man

“I don’t know,” Bob muttered, shrugging. Across the common room from them, you sat on the bar top swinging your legs, hands flying as you relayed the details of yet another terrible date while Ava nodded along, absorbing, chiming in with the occasional disgusted grunt, laughing where appropriate. Bob shoved a piece of hair behind his ear and went back to pretending—pretending that he didn’t notice things about you, pretending that he didn’t care. Yelena, perched on the right arm of his overstuffed reading chair, shifted as if she might relent and leave him alone. He should’ve let her. Instead, he blurted out, “She goes on dates.”

Yelena snorted softly. Like him, she had opted for sweats and sneaks on a rare day off. Well, all of Bob’s days were off, technically; he was on the bench until he learned how to integrate. That was the word everyone kept using. Integrate. His personality was fragmented. He wasn’t much use to anyone, least of all a superhero team, until he learned to integrate. It would be easier to try if everyone stopped treating him like a puppy with a busted paw.

“Dates shmates,” Yelena said, tossing a glance over her shoulder at the two women gossiping by the bar. “She’s just waiting for you to work up the courage.”

Bob gave her a worried smile. “It’s um, I think maybe it’s better for her if I don’t.”

“I thought we were trying optimism.”

“Like I want to hear about crypto, of all fucking things…” you were saying, to a belabored groan from Ava. “…ruined my chicken parm.”

“Save her, Bob. Save her from the finance bros.” Yelena patted his shoulder, hopping down from the arm of his chair. “They are a menace and a scourge.” She tilted her head to the side, smirking as she flicked her head toward you and Ava. “Doesn’t it sound like she needs…a hero? A super hero?”

Yelena kept trying to walk away, but Bob kept saying too much. He flinched as his jealous mind tattled on him again. “Yeah? Maybe Walker can ask her out.”

“John?” Her brows tugged down along with the rest of her. She knelt beside the chair, folding her arms across the spot she had just been sitting on. Bob opened his book, a reflex, studiously avoiding her more pointed look. “Why do you sound bitter? What do you know about her that I don’t?”

Bob set his jaw, which in his mind projected a supremely tough and firm expression. It did nothing to rebuff Yelena. She went on staring, skipping a hand up the sleeve of his hoodie before poking his shoulder. He winced away from the prod. “Please don’t do that, you’re very strong.”

“You’re the Sentry.”

Bob shook his head. “Just…we should drop this.” His eyes, unbidden, tracked from the page he wasn’t reading, over Yelena’s head, to you. What did he know that Yelena didn’t? Where to start?

When you joined the team, you had gone to shake everyone’s hand without a second thought. Bob had been too distracted by your eyes, your warm smile, your laugh, to stop you before it was too late. Your hand folded into his, a perfect fit, and then you were somewhere else, a room he didn’t recognize, a memory dredged from the darkest shadow of your mind. He had witnessed your deepest shame, a thing he had no right to, a thing he wished desperately to forget.

Or maybe not. He didn’t know. He didn’t like the idea of forgetting any aspect of you, even the difficult pieces. When the vision faded, you stared at him with your lips parted, a muscle twitching in your jaw. Tears filmed your eyes.

“I’m sorry,” he had muttered, looking down at his shoes. “That…sometimes I can’t control that.”

And he would’ve forgiven you if you never warmed to him after that, but you did.

Yelena and Ava were so overjoyed to have another woman on the team that they took you in as a third sister; he was sure they must have filled you in on his whole sordid backstory. The drugs. The wandering. The lab in Malaysia. The vault. The Void. Even more ticks in the What The Fuck column, but you didn’t shun him. Sometimes, when he did the dishes, you just came and stood beside him and waited to help, taking the wet glasses from him and drying them. You didn’t always talk in those times, but the silence was fine, companionable. You calmed him down. He knew your darkness, and it hadn’t frightened him away or turned him into a judgy prick, and he got the sense that was a relief.

You left books out for him, ones you thought he would like, a hobby crumb trail to gauge his taste. You offered to take the pickles off his burger when he didn’t want them. When Walker condescendingly called him “House Husband” after catching him doing chores, you laid into John for it. “Does that mean you’re going to start pulling your weight around here? Pick up your shit?” you had shouted, and Walker’s face turned a hilariously patriotic shade of red. “No? Didn’t think so…”

On and on.

“Bob? Earth to Bob?” Yelena snapped in front of his face, then searched it.

“We shouldn’t…” Bob scrambled for an excuse she would accept so everyone could move on with their lives. Or Bob would try to move on, at least. Someone should move on because that’s what healthy people were meant to do. “Shouldn’t fraternize with teammates."

"Fraternize? Who said anything about fraternize?” Yelena scoffed, then laughed, then scoffed again, rolling her eyes. She wiped a nonexistent booger off her nose and lowered her voice to a naughty whisper. “I’m talking about smooching and cuddling and fu—”

“That’s fraternizing.” Bob shrank down into the chair, trying to disappear. She was never going to relent, ordinarily a fantastic quality for a superhero to possess but in this specific case highly irritating. “Look, if I tell you the real reason will you let it go?”

Yelena hummed. “Mm, that depends on the reason. Is it a dumb reason?”

“I’m not her type.” Bob shut his eyes and said it fast, definitively, so he didn’t have to hold the words in his mouth for too long. If he did, he knew they would burn. Across the room, you laughed, and it was like an arrow lodging in his heart. He peeled one eye open at the sound, expression softening.

“Oooh you are down bad bad, I see.” Yelena clucked her tongue, shifted her legs to shake the ants out of them as she continued kneeling beside the chair. “And bullshit, Bob. Bullshit. She tries not to stare at you as much as you try not to stare at her.”

“How can you even tell something like that?”

“It takes a yearner to know one.” Yelena heaved a long-suffering, dreamy sigh, then leaned forward slightly and slapped Bob on the knee. “Why wouldn’t you be her type? You have the beautiful, wounded eyes of a basset hound and the floppy hair of a 90s heartthrob. That is a lethal combination for many.”

Bob quirked his lips to one side, temporarily less interested in vanishing off the face of the planet. “You think my eyes are beautiful?”

“They are beautiful, Bob. I know it, you know it.” She frowned, narrowing her eyes. “I thought self-image work was part of you integration therapy.”

“It is,” he said. “This has nothing to do with that.”

You and Ava had finished your complete evisceration of Crypto Guy and, after a job well done, had wandered off together toward the elevator discussing dinner options. Now that you were gone, Bob felt a little easier about having this discussion right out in the open. God forbid Walker waltz in and overhear something with this super soldier hearing.

Yelena popped up, standing over him, hip cocked, arms folding across her half-zipped hoodie. “She’s gone. Out with it.” Her eyes somehow narrowed further. “You know something.”

“Listen, I’m not proud of it…” Bob cleared his throat, ran one hand through his hair, then both, with greater agitation. “I just…she likes to read, right? She left her Kindle out on the coffee table last week and I thought, hey, her birthday is soon, I can figure out what book to get her and like a total dumb ass I snooped.”

“You snooped.” Yelena repeated it, dry. “Does this story get more interesting? Because—”

“She has all these books about…” He took a deep, centering breath. “Sex.”

“Sex books!? Bob.” Fluttering her hand over her heart, she pretended to faint and swoon. “Oh my God. A grown woman has sex books? Like about sex? Penis vagina sex? How will your pure baby heart ever recover from the shock? Are you okay? I’m glad you’re already sitting down, because--”

“Stop. Forget it.” Bob shook his head, hugged his book to his chest, and stood, bypassing his interrogator as he stormed toward the kitchen and bar. Of course, she followed. Of course, the heckling didn’t stop. She always meant well, but sometimes it was just too much. Nimble and a thousand times more athletic than Just Bob, she beat him to the refrigerator, placing herself between it and him.

“It’s not a problem, okay? It isn’t that it’s sex. Sex is fine. Sex is great.” Bob couldn’t believe the words coming out of his mouth, he sounded like a guidance counselor. But the lines about these things had always been blurry at best. The team gave each other shit like siblings and also like siblings, protected each other fiercely from the criticisms and cruelties of the outside world where normies, like, just didn’t get their whole thing, man, and if there were explicit rules against inter-Avenger romances, he hadn’t seen it in the paperwork, but if something went wrong, if something got messy…

“Sex is fine. Sex is great?” Yelena rolled her shoulders, pursing her lips as she snorted at him. “Sex is cool, maybe? Is it wow neato?”

Bob rocked up onto his toes, trying to remember the box breathing exercises his integration therapist had taught him before she accused him of being a virgin. What do you think is holding you back? the therapist had asked, bouncing the butt of a pen against his chin while he appraised Bob over a pair of thick turtle shell glasses. He didn’t know that such a therapist even existed, but Valentina had insisted it was totally a real thing, and whatever his reservations might be, the meetings were not optional. This is not a humane society, were her words, and you are not a stray kitten.

There were worksheets, homework. Constant, constant questions…

Are you afraid of what will happen if Sentry or the Void become dominant?

Bob flexed his white-knuckled fingers around the book he was clutching like a life preserver. He closed his eyes because he wasn’t sure he could explain it if he had to see her reaction. “The guys in her books are intense. They're tough and they yell constantly. They…they boss the women around. They’re fucking jerks, honestly, and I don’t want to be a jerk.”

The cackle he expected from her never landed. Yelena lowered her arms, then crossed the distance between them and gently touched his elbows. “Bob. Robert. It’s just a fantasy. She doesn’t actually want a jerk, she wants you.”

He shook his head. “No, no, they were all like that.”

“You read them all?”

“No. No. I skimmed. Enough to recognize a pattern. Look, I don’t know how to be like that,” he said quietly, deflating. “Even if it is just a fantasy, I couldn’t give that to her, I’m…” He sorted through all the unkind descriptions that had been hurled at him in his life, the ones he had internalized, the ones that stung, and the ones he could shrug off. “Afraid.”

“My sweet Bob. My darling Bob. My tiny baby sweet boy Bob…” Yelena patted his elbows, sticking out her lower lip.

Bob twisted away from her. “Don’t. Don’t do that.”

He was so fucking tired of everyone patronizing him. Yes, he had problems. Yes, it was taking quite some time for him to figure out his fragmented identities, and yes, he was kind of a dead weight in the meantime. Couldn’t they see that he was fucked up about it? Couldn’t they see him trying?

Are you afraid of what will happen if Sentry or the Void become dominant?

He tossed his book on the bar top and reached over Yelena’s shoulder for the refrigerator door, promising himself a crisp Dr. Pepper could fix this, pulling the panel open with enough force to rip it halfway off its hinges. Yelena leapt back, silent. Bob stared at where his hand was wrapped around the cylindrical handle. A jar of Dijon mustard fell off the lowest shelf and rolled across the shiny floor until Yelena stopped it with a tap of her foot.

“That’s new,” she said, eyes widening.

“I, um…” Bob tried to put the door back, but it hung loose and to the side, visibly busted. “I’m sure we can fix that.”

“Was that Sentry?” she asked lightly.

“I don’t know.” Bob hunched, keeping his eyes turned away from her. “Maybe.”

Suddenly, he didn’t have a choice about looking at her. Yelena soccer scooped the mustard jar onto the top of her foot and flicked it up into her hand, tossing it in the air and catching it as she came toward him, chewing her cheek in thought. She took him by the arm, swinging until they were face to face. “This is a good thing, Bob.”

“It…is? Because I think Valentina is going to be pretty pissed, and—”

She felt along his bicep as if to make sure he hadn’t secretly gotten jacked while they weren’t looking, but she didn’t seem to detect any major changes. “I met Sentry—”

Bob groaned, trying to veer away. “God, don’t remind me, I—”

“And he was kind of a fucking asshole.” She smiled, though, squeezing his arm playfully. “But he could be our kind of asshole. Her kind of asshole.”

Bob froze in her grasp, catching up to her meaning. His mouth fell open as his eyes shifted side to side. “I don’t know about this, Lena. I don’t know if I can control him if he comes out, and if I did something, hurt her, God, if I hurt her, I would never forgive myself.”

“Which is why you won’t.” She said it so simply. Honestly? It was kind of refreshing, and certainly more direct than the constant loops he went in with the integration therapist. “You are Bob and Bob is Sentry and Sentry is Void and Void is Bob, and so on, yes? If you want to keep her safe, they will keep her safe.” She poked him hard in the chest, and Bob jerked backward. “The heart of one man, but the, uh, diverse skillset of three. So maybe Sentry would…be a bit more flexible when it comes to playing the jerk. Just for her.” Yelena waggled her eyebrows and winked. “Just in the bedroom.”

“I thought you hated this stuff.”

You watched Yelena tear through your bookshelf with the zeal of a sheltered Mormon teen, fingers like claws as she dumped romance novel after romance novel into the growing pile at her feet. She was certainly organizing her night around a theme. You glanced at the titles with a knot tightening in your stomach. The Storm and the Stallion. The Sellsword’s Bride. Mounted by the Warlord.

“I’m broadening my horizons,” Yelena said flatly. She picked up Mounted by the Warlord and gestured toward you with it, eyes dark and dubious as she considered you and then the book. “How’s this one? Intellectually stimulating?”

“Is this a cry for help?” You joined her by the bookshelf. Previously, you had been observing her 180-degree personality shift from the safe harbor of your bedside table and the multicolor reading lamp there. Walker said those were for insomniatic autistic kids, but you had shot him such a poisonously withering look that he had stumbled on to say there was nothing wrong with that and maybe he should get one and oh look the Yankees game was on…

You studied Yelena, growing more suspicious by the second.

“Don’t worry about me, worry about you.” She put the novel back down on top of the stack, and pivoted, puffing the hair out of her eyes.

“Me? What did I do?” you asked, mirroring her defensive posture. “Did Bucky say something about bugs in the Britta filter because if so, I had nothing to do with that…”

“What bugs?”

“It’s not important.” You wiped impatiently at your eyes. Valentina had volunteered you for a charity fundraiser the following evening, and you had hoped to take all of the hours between now and then to prepare, decompress, practice your calming mantras before wading into a sea of politicians and paparazzi. You did not expect the Oprah’s Book Club treatment from someone who thought Pedro Páramo was a taco joint. “Can we skip to the part where you lovingly berate me?”

“Sure. Fine by me.” Yelena dusted off her hands as if touching all of your smutty books had left a physical residue. She squared up to you, placing her palms on your shoulders, giving her best frustrated big sister sigh. “Why are you wasting your precious time with finance bros when our dear beloved Bob is right there? I know you are not stupid, so what’s the problem?”

You opened and closed your mouth a few times, wondering if a stiff headbutt would be enough to knock her out. Anything to escape this conversation.

“There is no reason to torture yourself with Wallstreet coke heads, my love, Bob is single and ready to awkwardly mingle, and we would all cheer you on. Even Walker, which is saying something.”

“Please stop talking.” You covered your face with both hands, forcing out a groan through the crack between your palms.

Bob. Oh God, Bob. You had just survived twelve rounds of merciless interviews, a background check that would make even Steve Rogers sweat, and a compulsory media training camp that made you self-conscious about everything from your teeth (showing too much, too little) to your ankles (showing too much, too little) and—exhausted, terrified—Bob’s guileless smile had felt too good, too kind, to be true. It was, of course, because thirty seconds later he touched you and you were blasted back to the most traumatizing day of your life, but somehow you had known he didn’t mean to do it. He fell all over himself apologizing. He found you, hours later, and offered to order you a pizza or shawarma, or whatever, and that shame room thing didn’t always happen, and he mostly had it under control…

When you came home from your first mission, high as balls on adrenaline and public adoration but sporting several new battle scars, you found that he had cleaned off a corner of the main bookshelf in the common room. A place for your stuff. There was a crooked cardboard placard there, handmade, with your name scribbled on it.

In the storm of egos and anti-social behaviors that were the team, he was an oasis.

Yelena did not stop talking.

“—if it’s about the pot head sweaters, I know, I hate them, too, but we could just take him shopping, it will take like ten minutes and then you two can finally--”

“It’s not about the fucking sweaters.” The walls shook from the unnatural clang of your voice. Yelena froze, gently plucking her hands from your shoulders and holding them up in mock surrender. You heaved for air, getting control of yourself, of your power. “He’s sweet. He’s gentle. I’m not that.”

Yelena nodded along, but you could tell she was coming to unrelated conclusions in her head.

The admission toppled out of you before you could stop it. “I’d ruin him.”

“You can’t ruin Bob,” she stated. “You weren’t there; you didn’t see it--he almost destroyed Manhattan through the sheer, terrible power of self-loathing. Bob is as ruined as he’s going to get, and we all suffered for it, but he’s trying to be something else now.”

“That’s the problem,” you said, curling your hands into fists. “You’ve met those other parts of him. I haven’t.”

“I’m working on it. But trust me, you really don’t want to meet the V-Man--”

You squinted, shifting closer to her. The hair on the back of your neck stood on end. “What does that mean?”

“He’s working on it, I mean, of course,” she hurried to correct. “With his state-sponsored therapist.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Just…don’t write him off, okay?” Yelena asked, doing that puppy dog, pouty pleading thing that was annoyingly effective. She bent down and scooped up her stack of books. You had assumed she would forget them, that it was just a pretense to get you alone for this conversation. You tracked the novels in her arms as she shuffled toward the door. “Promise me you won’t write him off.”

Never. Never.

“No promises,” you said, and went to bed.

Sometimes Bob liked to take his book to Carlo’s and sit at the bar, eat a slice or two, and just watch the world go by. HQ was nice, of course, and they were gradually making it feel more lived in, but sometimes there was still a soulless, corporate quality to it that was a real god damn bummer. Carlo’s was real. The bathrooms smelled like the stuff they used to clean high schools, the coasters were mismatched, the pepperoni cups on the pies were always wrinkly and spicy, and they still had the red, bumpy plastic cups that somehow made the water taste good but also thrifted. The Rat Pack and only the Rat Pack crooned in mellow swells from the juke box, because Carlo’s grandson and the current owner would kick out anyone who tried to switch up the vibe.

The elderly Italian lady who bartended made sure there was a spot at the bar for Bob. She called him “sweetie” and refilled his sodas before he was even halfway done. It was a hidden gem, something he kept just for himself, which was why he was more than a bit surprised to see Yelena there on a Friday evening. This was usually the time when she and Ava took over the common room for their horror movie nights, but here she was, frolicking toward him with a book bag slung over one shoulder and enough mischief in her eyes to sound the early warning system in his head.

“This place is cute,” she said, settling in beside him.

Bob wedged a bookmark between two pages to hold his spot, watching as Yelena took the pizza crusts left on his plate and wolfed them down without asking. He didn’t want them, but still.

“How did you--”

“We have trackers, Bob. We all wear them?”

“Oh. Right.”

“I have something for you,” she said, heaving the bag onto her lap with a grunt. Just from the way it dented her thighs, Bob could tell it was heavy. “Start with this one.” Yelena reached into the bag and pulled out a worn, tattered paperback, shoving it toward him.

Bob looked around to make sure the elderly bartender didn’t see him holding a tattered copy of Mounted by the Warlord.

“It’s hers,” Yelena said before he could ask, then, pointing a finger at him, added teasingly, “do not sniff it.”

“Jesus, I wasn’t going to…”

“Phase One of the plan is go—read these and do some visualization exercises. Probably don’t tell your therapist about Phase One.”

Bob flipped the book over on his lap, afraid just touching it would put a scarlet letter on his forehead for the rest of time. “Okay, I won’t tell him because I never agreed to a plan or any phases--”

“Bob, please just try.” Yelena swiveled to face him on her stool, chin working side to side as she sized him up. “You never said you didn’t like her, by the way. You just gave me a bunch of excuses for why you hadn’t done anything about it.”

He fell quiet, spinning his cup in place and watching the pool from the condensation spread. “I wouldn’t be good for her. I’m not even one whole guy, I’m just…pieces.” Simply for something to do, something to keep his mind occupied, he flipped to a random page in the book. He squinted down at it.

The warlord loomed over her, and she was helpless before his power. “You are mine to take. I have no patience for your modesty, girl. Remove your tunic and spread yourself, show me all that is mine by rights to claim.”

Bob flopped the book toward her, pointing. “I can’t be this guy.”

Yelena quickly read the passage in question, clearing her throat. She didn’t even blush. “No, but Sentry?”

“I don’t think Sentry, Earth’s mightiest protector, should be this guy.”

Bob slammed the novel shut and tried to push it into her hands, but she dodged, grabbing him by the wrists until he had no choice but to relent and keep it.

“You keep sidestepping the pretend part,” Yelena pointed out, lifting a brow. “It’s okay to try different things, play dress up, put on different hats--unless you’re Walker, in which case hats are to be avoided at all costs.”

At that, Bob allowed a grim smile.

“Keep the book for now,” she said, leaving the bag behind on the stool that she slid down off of. He would, and further, he knew he would cave and read it. Probably that night. Probably in one sitting. God damnit. “I worked really hard to get that. I thought she was going to stomp me into paste when I asked to borrow them all.”

Bob fidgeted, fixed his hair. His temperature flamed just at the thought of you. He ran his fingers through the condensation pool to try and cool down. “Did she…” He glanced to the side. “Did she say anything…”

“Just that she’d like to meet all of you, Bob.” Yelena leaned in and tapped his knee before turning to go. “All of you. Me personally? I think you should let her. I think you won’t get anywhere unless you push yourself a little.”

Bob paid his tab, hooked the book bag over his shoulder, and drifted through the night to the subway. Maybe it was okay to try a different kind of homework, one that wasn’t worksheets and self-affirmations that filled him with thoughts and questions but not much else.

Bob stared out the window as the train ca-shookt ca-shookt over the tracks; two girls in their clubbing clothes whispered behind their hands across the aisle from him. The car shook, jostling the overfull bag on his lap. A novel fell out from the commotion, hitting his foot. Bob leaned down, making sure his hand covered the title as he jammed Mounted by the Warlord back in with its mates. Jesus. He shook his head, feeling ridiculous, his gaze unfocusing as he watched the dim lights in the tunnel flash by. It had a lulling effect, turning off the constant stream of checks and admonishments that dominated his mental landscape. And for a moment, his mind was empty, a smooth blank, before an image flashed before his eyes—an image of you on his bed, half-cloaked in shifting silver as rain pelted the window, his shadow falling across you, your eyes filled with excitement that verged on fear; all the power of the world was in his hands, and you knew it, and you liked it, and as he stepped closer, a voice came out of him that was cold and confident and demanding…

You are mine to take.

“Fuck.” Bob blinked, squeezing his temples, shaking himself out of that place. He caught a glimpse of his reflection in the subway window, and not even the streaks and grime could conceal the faint glint of gold in his dark, dark eyes.

Saturday night. You had survived the charity event by the skin of your teeth, somehow with your patience and dignity intact, and you had every intention of rewarding yourself with a casual night that could go anywhere. No high heels. No high slits. No high expectations.

It was kind of a shame though, you thought, elbowing your way into your favorite bar, that no one else on the team had been there to see you all glammed up. Even Valentina had found a compliment for you, and a vast majority of your responsibilities for the evening became keeping important politicians from saying something deeply uncomfortable in front of their spouses. Nobody had prepared you for how weirdly touchy-feely people got with superheroes, like they were suddenly all drunk dads at Disney trying to feel up Princess Jasmine.

We’re not real to them. Does a symbol know it’s being sexually harassed?

A question for the next interminable banquet. It would’ve been nice to show everyone your dress, your makeup, your bag, but it would’ve been better if someone had come with to help fend off the creeps. Or at least make fun of them with you. You had ideas, of course, for ideal candidates. Candidate. Maybe next time you would beg Valentina to let Bob come along. How bad could it get? He needed the media practice, and he would look nice in a tux. James Bond if James Bond mostly rescued kittens. Seemed like the gentlest possible way of easing him into the job. Eat a few canapes, rub a few elbows, try not to combust when the mayor eye fucks you in front of his wife…

Speaking of sexual harassment, that would basically just be you taking a circuitous route to landing a date with Bob. A date he couldn’t refuse. Holy shit. Maybe not, maybe you’d just wait for him to make a move, which, at this rate, meant sometime during your retirement years.

You went to the bar and got in line. It was a black and white tiled floor, mostly pool, mostly beer and wings type of place. Unpretentious. Easy to blend in with a t-shirt, jeans, and ball cap if you were feeling extra solitary. You weren’t noticeable or beloved enough yet to draw a crowd even if someone did recognize you. Your accolades weren’t filling up the front page, and nobody was going to buy you a round for surviving the Perv Purge at the charity ball.

You breathed easier here. Your shoulders went down. The staff knew you, liked you, and always made friendly conversation when it was your turn to grab a beverage. Long, emerald lights glowed above the cash register. A few pool tables in the back provided pleasant click-clack percussion under the bluesy music. No juke box, thank God. You found your way to a circular table, high top, and perched there with your drink. The bar started to fill up, and you idly took out your phone, uploading a few choice pictures from the night before—the ones that made your legs look great, the one where the photographer had caught you in profile and the chandeliers made your silhouette glow. Almost as soon as they were live, you noticed a profile liking all of them back-to-back.

justyouraveragebob and two others liked your photo.

His instagram handle always made your heart squish. There was nothing average about him.

A shadow spread across your hands and your phone. You really, really didn’t want to be bothered, especially when Bob was somewhere shamelessly liking all of your hot pics, which was about as direct as he got with his flirting, but whoever it was, they didn’t budge. You sighed, not glancing up from your phone.

“Table for one, I’m afraid.”

“Come on, we’re not strangers.”

Your eyes raked up the screen to the man standing across from you. Just as quickly as your heart had somersaulted for Bob, it sank like a stone at the sight of Gilbert. Yes, Gilbert. No, you hadn’t known that was his name when someone from your last crew set you up on a blind date. It seemed crazy that he would turn up here. Gilbert wore seven-hundred-and-twenty-dollar Dior cufflinks. Gilbert had shoes made out of crocodiles. Gilbert had shot an honest to god lion on safari once. Gilbert had lunch at Eleven Madison Park on a bi-weekly basis, which he would absolutely make sure you knew within moments of making his acquaintance. The corpse of your last date wasn’t even cold, and here he was, that annoying fucking TikTok song come to life—trust fund, 6’5”, blue eyes. Although you were fairly certain he was maybe 6’3” on a good day; his crocodile shoes had lifts.

“What are you doing here?” you asked, placing your phone face down on the table, as if Bob could see what you were doing and you wanted to shield his eyes. “I don’t think there’s fennel pollen within six blocks of this place.”

Gilbert smirked, a default facial expression for him. Maybe you were being unkind. He had paid for the meal, held the door, said nice things about your outfit, and asked three standard questions about your life. You didn’t know if he would be a generous lover but maybe a tolerable one.

“My firm had a trivia night thing,” he said, answering your initial question. He had blonde, feathered hair that ruffled itself attractively when he moved. And he had tried to dress like a normal person, a light gray tee under a bomber jacket and jeans. “Just a few doors down,” he went on, pointing to the wall with his beer in hand. “Thought I would scope out the local attractions.”

At that, his eyes lingered on you.

“No fennel pollen required,” he added, with a wink and a laugh at himself. Another man bumped into him from behind, almost but not quite spilling his beer. Gilbert sneered, shoving the man back with a muttered, “Asshole.”

“Well, great,” you said, in a tone that you hoped communicated your total lack of interest. “It was nice bumping into you.”

He leaned in to shout above the music, which wasn’t even really that loud. “We could go somewhere else,” he said, keeping his face close to yours. “I can get us into Clemente no problem.

You smiled, tight. I’m one of the fucking Avengers; even with a z, I think I could get a table. “I’m good, thanks.”

Gilbert either hadn’t heard you or had decided not to care, barging on. “Their beverage program is second to none, the Real Talk will knock your socks off, we—”

“I said I’m good.”

He put down his beer, which was never a good sign, and moved around the table in a half-circle toward you. There was a slack, weird quality to his expression, like he was suddenly wearing a mask of his own face. Out of the corner of your eye, you saw his left hand start to move toward your hip under the table. Contact never came; Gilbert froze as a third person arrived, leaning onto the table like he belonged there.

Because he does.

“Hey, baby.” The first thing you noticed was that Bob had done his hair. Not a lot, just enough. He had ditched the Grateful Dead sweater for a simple, clean button down tucked into jeans that fit. Your eyes met under the red glow of the hanging BUDLIGHT-themed stained-glass lamp, and the insistent pressure of his eyes said: Trust me. Go with it.

“Hey,” you breathed, all of you bending toward him with relief. “You made it.”

Bob grinned, eyes only for you. “Sorry I’m late. Impromptu dance thing on the subway. I think maybe they were a cult? Not super clear. They should really work on their messaging.”

You snorted down into your drink. “Sounds like it.”

He moved in the opposite direction as Gilbert, melding against your left side like he was made to fit there. Your skin started buzzing from the ease of it, and from the flabbergasted expression on Gilbert’s stupid face.

“Who’s this?” Gilbert asked, allowing you a few inches of space as he sidled back toward his beer.

“This is Bo—”

“Robert,” he said, still with that cool, calculated smile, million-yard stare, but only when turned against Gilbert. He raked his gaze up and down the other man as if he had been forced at gunpoint to give him an ounce of attention. “And you are?”

“Gilbert.”

And because you knew Bob and Yelena were horrible eavesdroppers, you added softly, almost to Bob’s shoulder, “He’s in finance. Crypto.”

“It’s the future,” said Gilbert, certain.

“Oh.” Bob’s eyebrows went up with a flicker of a laugh. “Ha. Right. Makes sense.” He tapped the side of his nose as if to say, the cocaine guy?

“Excuse me?” Gilbert had started getting heated the moment Bob arrived, but now he looked like he might shoot through the ceiling like a rocket. “Did you just—”

“What are you drinking tonight?” Bob asked, simultaneously cutting Gilbert off from the rest of his sentence and the conversation at large. The world shrank down around you. You were in Bob’s warm embrace, his hand like a quietly pulsing star against your spine. He kept himself angled toward you, protectively, a preemptive shield. “Can I get you a refill?”

“I’m fine for now,” you said, showing him that you still had half of your drink left. Bob took that in stride, rubbing your back with a soft hum. “Gilbert was just telling me about the beverage program at Clemente Bar.”

Bob nodded once, as if any of those words made sense to him. “Beverage program,” he repeated, enjoying himself.

Gilbert chugged a few fortifying gulps of his beer, rightly sensing that the night was not going his way. “The chef there is—”

“Not relevant,” Bob said flatly. “Because she’s not going with you.” His tone brightened, almost cheerful, and for a moment, he was sweet, boyish Bob again. “But you have fun, Dilbert.”

“It’s Gilbert, freak.”

Bob waited for a beat, maybe giving Gilbert time to walk that back.

“Freak, is it?” Frost settled across Bob’s features. The lights above the pool table flickered. Just once. He didn’t move, or blink, and the small smile that tugged at his lips did not indicate pleasure, but rather the beginnings of an impatience that could expand into worse. Bob inclined his head slightly toward the other man; the music fizzled, going to static. You saw the glimmer of gold circling his irises as the air between you deadened. The beer bottle in Gilbert’s grasp shivered, popped, exploded so quickly into hot vapor that the glass didn’t have time to break. The sudden rush of heat sent Gilbert reeling back a step as he shook out his singed hands.

A cloud of steam rose between them and lingered, sizzling.

“Had enough?” Bob asked, lowering his voice to a glacial whisper.

“Psycho shit,” you heard the other man mumble before he dodged swiftly toward the exit, running.

When Gilbert was gone, you snort-laughed, leaning into Bob, expecting to glance up and see him smirking back at you. But Bob wasn’t present. The gold diminished in his eyes, but the specter of it never completely went away. A shiver caught you off guard. He noticed, and folded you more firmly against his side, the heat rolling off of his body and through his shirt was incredible. Your whole life had been about strangeness, power, but what you felt now radiating off of Bob—Robert—was hard to comprehend.

The power of a million exploding suns, that was how Yelena had put it. The pitch. The tagline. It sounded like an insane exaggeration at the time, but now…

His voice, rough, baritone, settled over you like a tight hug. “Did I frighten you?”

You stared up into his face. So. This wasn’t quite Bob and it wasn’t quite Sentry. Integration.

“No,” you said truthfully. Relief softened the cold blankness in his eyes. He didn’t seem interested in letting you go and you were not interested in moving back.

“I’m…trying something,” he said.

Earnest. Nervous. Your heart ached.

“How does it feel?” you asked, slowly pushing your half-finished drink toward him. He took a single, grateful gulp, but that was enough to empty the glass.

“Okay, I think, I’m still figuring things out.” Like he was test-driving a car. Like he was encased in a robotic suit. But you could hear Bob in there, nestled in alongside this other guy. “I’m gonna be honest, when the beverage program thing came up, I thought about making his head explode.”

“You and me both.” You hid your face in his shoulder, both of you shaking with laughter.

His hand tented on your back, less encompassing, less there.

You tensed, as if afraid to lose that point of contact.

“Is this alright with you?” he asked, flattening his palm again, touching more of you.

“Yes,” you said. You couldn’t help it. “I know this has to be scary for you, letting different parts of you take up more space. If you need to just be Bob—”

“No,” he said, squeezing his eyes shut for just a second. “No, I can’t…I have to live with my anger, I have to make friends with it. He can be an asshole but he’s not always wrong. I’m Bob, I’m him, I’m all of this.” He shook his head, eyes narrowed. “I’m not pretending. When I saw him bothering you, I wanted it to stop. That’s all I had to do, focus on the truth of the thing, and suddenly I could just do it. Be him. Be…me.”

You didn’t want to ruin the vibe with tears. You pressed your lips together, catching yourself. “I’m really fucking proud of you. Even just for trying.” He looked down at you, and you gazed up at him, not knowing exactly what had changed between you, only that something had. You could stay swimming in his eyes forever, you thought, float in the darkness, bask in the gold. “And maybe it was a tiny bit fun?”

“So fun, oh my God,” he agreed, snorting in a quintessentially Bob way. He rubbed your back again, leaning in, brushing a kiss across your forehead that made your skin ignite. Oh no. Yelena was never going to put away her shit-eating grin when she found out. “And is that alright with you?” he asked, doing it again when you nodded.

You pressed into his side, one hand fisting in the fabric of his shirt over his chest. “Can we get out of here?”

“Anywhere but Clemente Bar,” he teased, his nose in your hair.

You slid your hand into his—easy, comfortable—and he tugged you toward the door. “Who are we kidding?” you laughed. “We’re Avengerz with a Z, we’d never get a table.”

Bob couldn’t hear the decision itself, but he detected everything that surrounded it—the rasp of desperate breath; the jangle of a zipper; the sound of flop sweat hitting the pavement; the cock of the hammer; the implosion within the barrel; the singing of the bullet as it kissed the night air.

And his decision and his movement happened instantaneously, even before the projectile zipped toward you. Way before death was a sure thing. In a blink, he was at your side, then behind you, hand outstretched, not catching the bullet but stopping it in mid-air before it could slam into your shoulder. It flared into a burning red eye, melting.

“Shit, shit, shit…” Gilbert, fucking Gilbert, crouched in the alley outside the bar, fumbling with his revolver before deciding to cut his losses and run. All of these finance guys were getting into meth, he thought, so he shouldn’t have been surprised. And maybe he wasn’t; no, not surprised, just transmuting. Integrating. The gun turned to molten slag in the jerk-off’s hand, cold and metal again by the time it thunked to the pavement. Vaguely, Bob heard you calling his name, but he was already rounding on Gilbert, following him into the darkness.

“I don’t know what the fuck is going on, what the fuck you are—” Gilbert broke into a frantic run, screaming over his shoulder. It was no effort to follow. It was a child’s game.

“Good observation,” Bob said, appearing in Gilbert’s path. “I’m still learning what I am, too. Maybe we should find out together.”

His hand closed around Gilbert’s neck, threatening, the flesh and the pulse and the blood of meager interest to a god. The facts of Gilbert were so sad, sad enough to make him wonder if the man ought to exist at all. That was the Void talking, because where Sentry went, Void followed. But then he saw you jogging down the alley toward them with a question in your eyes that Bob must answer.

Are you afraid of what will happen if Sentry or the Void become dominant?

You looked so alive, so beautiful, and Gilbert monstrously defaced by his own choices; the contrast fascinated him. Like a universe blinking out, heat death, he felt the impulse to destroy Gilbert vanish. A human man screamed inside him to remember—remember his own pain and how he had tried to numb it. And sympathy declared itself like a fourth voice; gradually, his grip eased on Gilbert’s neck.

“Go back inside,” he told you calmly. “I’ll be right back.”

“Bob—”

His eyes were bright hot in the darkness. “Trust me.”

There was no need for the subway; Bob flew you home.

You almost wished someone had been there to see it. Walker, preferably, so he could finally quit whining about fueling up the jet as if the gas came from his pocket personally. Or Alexei, who seemed fixated on the idea of one day riding Bob into the sky. Instead, the tower was quiet. You clung to Bob’s neck, forearms looped around him, legs kicked up into his grasp. It was, you thought, the most superhero thing that had ever happened to you. And as he set you down gently, allowing but not forcing you to glide fully down his front until your feet touched solid ground, you wondered if it would be too embarrassing to swoon.

Along the way, Bob had promised you that no real harm had come to Gilbert, that he had handed him over to the nearest precinct and waited until Gilbert confessed to his attempted murder. On an Avenger, no less.

“That was big of you,” you said, meaning it. Bob was still figuring out how to control this side of him—it was a miracle he had wrangled his impulses before doing something extreme. You watched his ears turn pink from the compliment as you walked back inside, where it was warm and smelled faintly of burned popcorn. “Your first night as the new you and no extrajudicial killings. That’s major.”

Bob shook his head, sticking his hands into his pockets. Now it came down to it—you stood chest to chest in the common room, both of your rooms in walking distance. But Bob kept his eyes on you. “You’re making fun.”

“I’m not,” you said, crossing your heart to show him. “I would tell you what happened the first time I felt my powers manifest…” Your voice dropped, no longer teasing, no longer giddy. “But you already know.”

The moonlight through the tall windows turned slivers of his hair silver. He touched your cheek, cupping your face. You held your breath, worried, briefly, that you would slide back into those ugly memories just from skin-to-skin contact. But you stayed where you were—in your new home, with your new….

“You were just a kid,” he told you, gentle. His eyes shined with all of the kindness and all of the grace that he rarely showed himself.

“I tell myself that all the time. Somehow, it never sticks.”

Bob tilted his head to the side and down, studying you. “What if I told you.”

You kept waiting for it to sound like a question. His eyes burrowed into you, deadly serious. “You just did, Bob.”

He shook his head, inching closer, not crowding, showing you how solid and real and overpowering his presence could become. Through his fingers, carefully channeled, you felt a growing, odd heat. “What if I told you over and over again,” he said, gold liminal in his gaze. It came and went, but you could sense Sentry just on the other side of his brittle restraint. “You don’t have to prove anything to me. I’ve already seen your darkness.” He brought his lips down carefully, his eyes locked to yours, monitoring, checking. His breath ghosted across your mouth, and you let him in.

“What about yours?” you asked, kissing his chin.

His composure cracked, just for a millisecond. His eyes changed rapidly, colors shifting, moods flying by, like someone clicking rapidly through slides, dark blue to black to gold to a gradient of all three. He shivered, closed his eyes, and kissed you. Both of his hands bracketed your face, thumbs just outside your lips. A rush of air. A feeling like falling. His lips slid against yours, hungry, seeking more. By the time you pulled back slightly for air, you realized you were no longer in the common room together but his quarters, both of you levitating inches off the ground.

“How did you do that?” you asked, grabbing his neck before you could fall. But he had you, and his smile was mild, amused, as he lightly set you both down.

“Does it matter?”

His eyes flared gold; the door shut behind him.

“No,” you whispered, mouth suddenly dry. “No, I guess not.”

Bob let go of you, hands at his sides, eyes falling to his feet. “I ruined it, I—”

“You didn’t ruin anything.” You hugged him, arms around his waist, and just as readily his hands found their way back to you, settling on your hips. “This is new for both of us.”

“Can I kiss you again?” he asked.

You leaned up and pressed your lips to his in answer. His heart hammered against your chest. A quiet, greedy sound rasped out of the back of his throat. The room was cold and dark, and his heat called to you. Your fingers crawled from his back to his shoulders to his hair, threading into the thick golden-brown waves that he had tamed that night just for you. Breaking the kiss, you thumbed a few loose strands of hair behind his ears, stroking his temples. “You can stop asking, Bob.”

He took you by the wrists, jaw tightening. “Are you sure?”

“Yes. You told me to trust you—I did.”

His eyes went up and down your body once, then burned into yours again. “How attached are you to these clothes?”

You smirked, curious. “Not very, I—”

A feeling like you had just stepped in front of a bonfire roared across your skin. Light shimmered up from your arms and torso, and then your t-shirt and jeans were dust scattering to the floor, disintegrated. Not a single hair on you had been so much as toasted. Bob touched your cheek again, his eyes difficult to read.

“Better,” he said.

It was juvenile, maybe, but that show of power thrilled you. There was steel behind his touch, hunger gathering in his gaze. He looked you up and down again, taking his time, absorbing the shudder that ripped through you as he drank in your body, his thumb jerking on your cheek when his gaze reached your breasts. They were caged in sheer fabric, the chill in the room and his heat drawing out your nipples, hardening them, every part of you desperate for more, for his touch.

You undid the top button on his shirt clumsily; you tried to move quickly but your fingers had stopped working, and it only got worse when he laughed softly at your distress. Bob took over, nodding toward the bed just behind you.

“Get on the bed,” he said. There was the slightest tremor in his voice, but by the time he spoke again, it was gone. “Show me what’s mine.”

Your eyes widened. Not in a hundred years had you considered those words would leave Bob’s mouth. You moved before he could register your hesitation. Not hesitation, just…wow. You remembered the feeling of your own clothes burning off of your body, something he had accomplished with a single thought. As you turned and crawled onto his bed, knees and palms sinking into the soft, dark blue flannel, you noticed a stack of books near the bedside table. You would’ve recognized them anywhere, even in the dark—they were yours.

A tide of conflicting emotions rose in your chest. It was incredibly sweet that he had made a close study of your desires. On the other hand, if this wasn’t him… You flipped onto your back, head at his pillows, to say as much, but the concerns died in your throat. You didn’t know who was standing there—Bob, Robert, Sentry, the Void—but the sight of him took your breath away. He stood at the foot of the bed, stripped down to his black boxer briefs, every perfect muscle visible in the gray slats of gloom allowed in by the half-tipped blinds. Maybe it was the perma pajama pants, but you had never noticed how unbelievably thick his legs were. Thighs. The word pulsed like a neon sign behind your eyes.

“What did I say?” he asked, in a voice of quiet command. Not angry, perhaps somewhat disappointed.

“S-Sorry.” The apology spilled out of you. Holy shit. It was one thing to read about a towering figure in the bedroom ready to control, ready to take, but experiencing it with a guy who could explode a gun with his mind was altogether different. It felt like you could levitate again, this time all on your own.

“Don’t apologize,” he said, his eyes rotating through that odd catalog of colors again as he tilted his head to the side. “Just do as I ask.”

Sir, yes, sir.

You tried to relax, but there was no hiding the shaking in your legs as you laid back against the pillows and rested your hands across your midsection, subtly opening your thighs as you stretched out. His eyes burned like stoked coals in the darkness, sharp lights in an anti-halo of shadow. A heartbeat later, he was on the bed, over you, his weight sinking the mattress at your sides.

 “Jesus,” you whispered, jolting your head up to meet his eyes.

“Good?” he asked. Bob, you thought, he was in there.

You nodded, licking your lips.

Just as quickly as he had come, Bob receded again. His lips descended to your throat, searing across the delicate architecture there, down to your collarbone, across, learning, memorizing. “Maybe I need an outlet,” he said. “What am I? A god? A man? A monster?” His hips lowered until you were forced to twitch your thighs further apart to accommodate him. “Out there,” he went on, still dropping kisses across your neck, “I have to be so careful. But in here?”

His voice trailed away. You slid your hands across his back, molding your fingers around the hard juts of his shoulder blades. He made a pained sound against your throat, dragging his nose from your neck to your shoulder. His teeth closed around the ridge there, biting until you gasped and arched against him. “You,” he said, releasing the hold of his teeth, but blinking up at the ceiling, you knew there would be a mark there in the morning. “You. My outlet. For the god,” he whispered fiercely. “And the monster.”

Bob craned back, looking down at you. Checking. You wondered if the blend of them was becoming more seamless. He was waiting for you to fend him off, disagree, but instead you touched your forehead to his chin. Permission. He allowed himself one weak, ragged breath.

“Show me,” he said. “Show me that you’re mine.”

You took his right hand, sliding it from the mattress by your shoulder to your side, over your left breast and your heart, then down, guiding his palm over your stomach, beneath the waistband of your panties, and toward the soaking wet heat he had generated between your legs. His middle finger curled automatically into you. The power in the building surged, a transformer down the block splitting the silence with a thunderous boom. The sound startled you, your hips driving you against him, forcing him further inside. All of the lights went on in the room, twinkling in a sequence before turning themselves off again.

Both of you were holding your breath.

“What happens when you cum?” you whispered.

Bob supported himself on his left elbow, shook his head. “That’s never happened before.” He tossed his head again, eyes stuttering shut as if in disbelief. A second finger joined the first, shocking your hips up again. “Is this for me?” he asked.

“Yes.” You tightened your grip on his wrist as he twisted his fingers, pumping, searching, stretching.

“You’re so fucking wet.” Golden eyes found you in the dark, brightening, your bra and panties sizzling off of your skin until you were completely bare beneath him. He claimed your mouth with a brutal kiss, forcing your chin upward, then down, his tongue driving into you at the same rate as his fingers, setting a steady rhythm. “Let go of my wrist,” he said, breaking the kiss. His chest rose and fell, expanding like bellows. “Put your hands above your head. Don’t move them unless I tell you to.”

You did as he instructed, bracing your fingertips against the headboard.

“Good,” he said. He pulled his fingers out of you with a sound that made your ears burn. Wet wasn’t the word for it. The word hadn’t been invented yet. You whimpered at his absence. “Don’t worry,” he told you, reaching down to free his cock from his shorts. His voice seemed to fill the room, infiltrate you from every direction. “Beg for it. Beg for it from your god.”

He drove home the command with a glimmer building in his eyes. He wasn’t even touching you anymore, but you felt a whisper of pressure around your clit, circling, teasing. You shivered and clamped down on nothing, whispering his name. He waited, patient, never increasing the speed of that sensation, making it spread, flickers of energy circling your breasts, skipping up and across your nipples until it felt like they were being lightly, teasingly electrified. You felt it in your teeth. Helpless, you flexed the hands wedged above your head, desperate for relief. Your back bent toward him, but Bob remained still, letting you torture yourself until the words clawed their way out of your throat.

“Please, Robert,” you whispered, fighting the waves of pleasure contorting your spine. “Please, I need you. Please, Jesus, it’s too much.”

The touching without touching had been bad, but when he made it stop, that was worse. You slithered back down to the mattress, breathing hard, gasping as he crawled over you, urging your thighs wider before pressing his lips to your ear. His hot, swollen dick pulsed against your thigh, brushing at such tantalizing range you heard yourself whine like a frantic animal. “I’m going to fuck you now, and if it destroys the power grid then so be it.”

He scooped you against him, one arm braced under your lower back, his other hand guiding his cock to your entrance. There was so little resistance it made you both exhale; no more waiting. Stretch but not resistance, your body was ready for him, soaked and pliant. Bob rewarded you with a biting tug on your earlobe, his breath shuddering against your neck as he fit himself inside you to the hilt and groaned. You smiled at the thought of making a fucking god moan like that.

“You’re mine,” he whispered, ragged. “You’re beautiful. You look so beautiful when I fuck you.”

He worked his hips back and forth, giving you a preview of just how much delicious friction that could produce. A string of lights stapled around the border of his ceiling sparkled on, warming the space above his head. Your thighs wrapped around his waist, heels digging into his sides, technically not against the established rules, and seemingly to his taste. He hummed with approval, slapping both of his palms against your upper thighs as he knelt, shifting his weight, pushing into you on a long, devastating stroke.

“Fuck.” Your head fell back, air blasting out of your lungs.

“You seemed to like this before,” he said, laughing against your throat. “Let’s try it again.” Those cruel, teasing flickers of hot energy coiled around you again, tracing maddening circles around your clit, your peaked nipples, the ends of your toes. Fuck, fuck, fuck. Even if those lights hadn’t turned on you would be seeing stars. “Is this what you wanted?” he asked, wry. “To give up control? Give yourself to me? Because now that I have you, I could do anything. Anything.”

The energy was everywhere now, coursing through you, pinging through every cell, mapping every corner of your body. You felt him in your throat, behind your knees, along the inner coils of your ears, zapping your tongue. You arched and cried out for him and then fell silent, dumb, just letting the insane, raw beauty of his power tingle in your blood. Bob fucked into you harder, sweating, his hair damp as it clung to your shoulder. Down the street, another transformer erupted, a dog barked. The air around you sizzled. He angled your hips slightly, finding a new depth, holding his own orgasm at bay long enough to leave you panting, dazed, fucked into a place where your mind had gone blank. There was just him. Just his eerie energy moving through you. He could do anything. Anything.

“Please,” you murmured, wishing you could hold him, touch him, rake your nails down his back in pent up gratitude. “Please I’m so close.”

“That’s good,” he said, shoving his forehead against your jaw. Finally, he sounded as wrecked as you did. He was coming undone, close, close, driving, swelling… “Let go. Show me.”

The little gusts of heat he had been controlling coalesced around your sex, concentrated on your clit, spiraling inward, faster, faster, until the glittering, live wire mesh that had been tightening around your body snapped shut, heat rocketing through your core, burning a clean line from your abdomen to your eyeballs. You couldn’t keep your hands away from him any longer. You clung to his shoulders, sobbing out the shocks that had nowhere to go but out.

It sent him over the edge.

Bob ground you into the mattress, holding himself deep, whispering something you couldn't make out as he jerked and bucked and filled you until it felt like you might burst. Jesus, every part of him was powerful—you had never felt someone cum like that, distinct enough to push another little climax through you.

His chest worked against yours, his breathing evening out after a prolonged, sweaty moment of total entangled bliss. He let you go gently, setting your legs down as if they might break, but he didn’t climb off of you. Lowering himself with utmost care, he nestled against your body, face in your neck and arms around your middle. The string lights were still glowing faintly, like you were just two horny losers in a college dorm. As you came back to yourself and opened your eyes, every single object in his room except the bed was floating.

“Now we know what happens,” you said softly, carding your fingers through his hair. Just from the weight of him, from the sweet way he kissed your throat and held you like his life depended on it, you could tell Bob was back in control. He turned his head, looking around at the desk, the lamp, the laundry basket, the sneakers, all suspended as if you were in outer space. Coughing, perhaps with embarrassment, Bob gradually let the objects float back down. His hands tightened on you in concentration.

“Do…do you think everyone heard us?” he asked, hiding his face against your skin again.

“Probably.” You laughed, relaxing against the pillows as he finally rolled to the side, freeing himself from you with a groan as he crumpled to your right. “I don’t mind,” you said, reaching for him. “It’s okay if they know I’m yours.”

Bob blinked at you, a shy, boyish smile pulling his lips to one side. “I’m yours, too. You know that, right? I…said a lot of stuff at you just now. I hope it was okay.”

“It was more than okay,” you assured him. “Like you said. An outlet.”

“This is gonna blow the tits off my integration therapist,” he muttered, covering his face with both hands. “I’ll maybe gloss over some parts. Like where stuff exploded. And the burning your clothes off with my mind thing.” He shrugged and flopped onto his side, gazing at you adoringly from his pillow. “I’ll, um, I'll buy you new jeans.”

You snuggled closer, fitting your face against his chest. He pulled you in, sighing. It seemed right, the way you fit together.

You leaned up for one more kiss. “Fine, but only if you promise to burn them off again.”

His shower is clearly occupied. The vent is buzzing, and faint music plays somewhere from within — off of his phone, most likely. You wait patiently, making up constellations from the specks on Bob’s ceiling until he eventually appears in his usual loungewear.

“Oh. Hey,” he greets. “I didn’t hear you come in.” 

Your only response is a tired grunt. Bob huffs out a laugh, and he approaches to sit on the edge of his own bed. His hair is dripping wet as he takes a seat beside you, thumbing at his phone to turn his music off. With a frown, you poke his back, causing him to jolt.

“Keep it on,” you mumble, your face smushed against his pillow. 

Bob lifts his brows, vaguely amused, and nods. He turns his music back on, letting it shuffle through his playlist as he leans back against his headboard. He already knows your day must have been rough, given the way you sink into his sheets like they’re the last thing you’ll ever touch. 

“Wanna talk about it?” He asks, resting a hand on the back of your shoulder. It’s tender. Unwavering. He’s getting better at leaning on others, and in turn, letting others lean on him. Affection used to feel strange, but not so much anymore. It’s easier these days. 

You shake your head, lulled away by the music and the weight of his hand on your shoulder. “Not right now. Later, maybe.” A heavy, content sigh drifts out of your mouth. “Thanks.”

Bob nods, giving your shoulder a light pat. “Yeah. Anytime.”

He lets you rest for a few minutes, paying no mind to his damp hair even as it drips water down his shoulders. He only gets more comfortable in lieu of your current mood; Bob shuffles around to lean against the headboard, and his hand drifts up the back of your neck to massage your scalp. 

You’re half asleep and fading fast, but the music continues at low volume, feeling oddly poignant as you catch a few words:

I’m too shy to tell you the words on my mind / I hope you can see if you read through these lines

When you manage to peek your eyes open, you look up to find that Bob is already staring down at you. He smiles shyly, a look you’ve seen so many times yet never read into. That familiar feeling in your chest rises up as it always does around Bob — the warmth that you’ve always associated with simple comfort suddenly feels heavier than usual. It hits you all at once, leaving you tongue-tied but far too exhausted to address the truth just yet. Instead, you close your eyes again, shifting closer to him until your head butts against his thigh. 

You might be too shy to say what’s on your mind, but when his hand remains on the back of your head, the truth doesn’t feel so intimidating. 

You know that I love you / Is it dumb believing you might love me too?

fancy some more?

> YES. > NO.