𝓢𝓵𝓲𝓭𝓮𝓻𝓼 𝓙𝓸𝓱𝓷𝓼𝓸𝓷 @callsign-mongoose - Tumblr Blog

worst way ; robert 'bob' floyd

fandom: top gun

pairing: bob x reader

summary: being secretly fake-married to your sweet best friend, bob floyd, is almost perfect... until tensions rise, the secret is out, and you both struggle to keep your feelings (and your hands) to yourself

notes: this fic took my soul... there's a piece of my soul in this??? so y'all better enjoy! no, but seriously, i can't wait to hear what you think! i giggled like an idiot when i came up with the idea, and throughout the entire writing process... so please, please let me know what you think! (also, i want to hear y'all chanting perv!bob from across the pacific ocean)

warnings: swearing, alcohol, fake marriage (is that a warning?), italics, seemingly unrequited love (but not really), tiny bit of angst, bob is a perv (i'm not sorry), reader is also kind of a perv (don't fight it), bob’s HUGE dick, and SMUT (male and female masturbation, heavy making out, female oral receiving, a bit of dirty talk, unprotected p in v, rough-ish sex, lots of praise) 18+ ONLY MDNI!!!

word count: 22467

Bob Floyd is an incredible husband.

He’s sweet, attentive, and always knows exactly what to say to make you smile. He fills up your car before the gas gets too low—and checks your tires, too. He leaves sticky notes around the house with cute messages and gentle reminders. He goes with you to any appointment that makes you nervous—including the goddamn gyno. He knows your coffee order and wakes up early every Sunday to make you breakfast.

He’s perfect. Literally. You couldn’t build a better husband in a lab, because Bob knows how to be an amazing husband better than anyone else on Earth.

You almost feel bad for taking him away from his would-be soulmate. For marrying him out of convenience—for benefits over love. Not that you don’t love Bob Floyd—you do. Just… more like a best friend. A platonic soulmate. Someone you can rely on.

You’ve known Bob since he was fresh out of flight school. You met him during his first assignment as a WSO to one of the strike fighter squadrons at Lemoore, back when you were still a civilian contractor in a lowly admin role with the digital systems department.

For nearly two weeks, you went back and forth with him, troubleshooting and raising tickets with IT every time you found a new bug or glitch in the digital flight-planning or weapons-targeting software. He wasn’t shy, just quiet—and very sweet. He made sure you got recognised for all your work, and straight-up refused to deal with anyone else on the systems support team.

Work discussions turned into coffee runs, which eventually became quiet moments amid the chaos of military life. You quickly became good friends, confiding in each other things you wouldn’t dare tell anyone else. You came to care for Bob more than you probably should have, and it wasn’t long before you started thinking of him as your best friend.

Assignments came and went. He moved, you moved—but you always stayed in touch. Bob looked out for you in a way no one else ever did, even when he was halfway across the world. Eventually, you ended up back on the same base again—him crashing on your couch because he hated the barracks.

You were burning out at the time. Your contractor status was fragile. Insurance was expensive. But you couldn’t even think about moving back home. One night, you were crying, spilling your guts to Bob, stressed out of your mind, when he said it—the two words that changed your life.

Marry me.

You said no at first, because of course you did. But after a long conversation and a few more tears… you agreed. Because it made sense. You trusted him—more than anything—and if he was okay with it, how could you not be?

You promised that if he ever met someone he truly loved, you’d bow out and let him be happy. But every time you said it, he’d just shrug and say he is happy. That you make him happy. And that he’s just glad to be able to look after you. To know you’re safe and cared for, that you don’t have to worry about losing your job, or affording healthcare, or having somewhere to live.

He just wants to be there for you—in every way he can. Including the benefits of a military marriage.

So, now you’re here. On North Island. Because Bob’s special detachment just got commissioned as a permanent unit—which obviously means his wife would be moving to be with him.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” Bob asks, dark blue eyes wide behind his glasses. “I feel bad.”

“Bobby, come on,” you sigh, propping a hand on your hip. “I’m a very capable woman. A few boxes aren’t going to break my back.”

“I can call in sick?” he offers.

You stare at him, deadpan. “Do not call in sick. Get your butt to work. I’m fine.”

The new apartment is littered with moving boxes and half-assembled furniture. You’ve been here for two days already, but there’s still so much to unpack. Most of it’s yours. Bob barely brought anything from the barracks, but everything you hauled from Lemoore? Definitely not minimal.

“It’s my shit anyway,” you say, walking him toward the door. “My responsibility to unpack.”

He sighs as he steps into the corridor, turning back with a look you know too well. The one that says he’d set the sky on fire just to keep you warm.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes,” you say, exasperated. “Now go, or you’ll be late.”

He hesitates—brows drawn, boots still planted.

“Bob Floyd, go to work.” You lean in, hand on his shoulder, and press a kiss to his cheek. “Now.”

His face flushes, lips twitching into a smile. “Fine. I’m going.”

You watch him head down the hall toward the lift, cheeks still pink as he presses the button and waits.

“Don’t lift anything heavy,” he calls, just as the elevator doors slide open.

“I won’t,” you call back. “Leaving all the heavy stuff for you, my love.”

He smiles softly, nods once, and steps into the lift.

You roll your eyes and step back inside, shutting the door behind you. Then you lean back against it, staring out at the mess of boxes and half-built furniture.

You’ve got the husband-and-wife act down pat after just over a year of marriage—although, at this point, most of it doesn’t feel like an act at all. Just genuine affection. Because you do love Bob. More than anything. And you don’t know what you did to deserve a best friend this goddamn sweet—all you know is that you’re beyond grateful for him.

You linger there a moment longer, facing off with the chaos of cardboard and scattered tools. Then you take a deep breath, push off the door, and start tearing open boxes.

You spend the entire day in the apartment—unpacking, sorting, putting things away. You leave most of the furniture alone. Not because you can’t build it, but because you know Bob would be mad if you did. He considers it his job every time you move, and honestly? You don’t mind. The fewer blisters you get from over-twisting stripped screws, the better.

By six p.m., your limbs are aching, your head is throbbing, and your stomach’s growling so loud you're almost positive the neighbours can hear it. You still haven’t gone grocery shopping, which means the only things you’ve had all day are a coffee Bob made for you and a protein bar he picked up yesterday when he filled your car up.

You dig your phone out from under a pile of packing paper and shoot Bob a quick text to let him know you’re heading to the store. Then you pull on a hoodie—or Bob’s hoodie, technically—and head out the door.

The grocery store is only ten minutes away and easy to find. You park, grab a trolley, and start weaving through the aisles. Normally, you’d have some sort of list—scribbled on a scrap of paper or texted from Bob—but today, you’re winging it. On an empty stomach. Great.

You’re only in the second aisle, gazing at the Pop-Tarts and wondering which flavour Bob would be the least disappointed in when—

“Excuse me.”

You whip toward the voice, eyes wide. “Crap. Sorry, am I in your way?”

It’s a man—mid-thirties, probably—with pretty green eyes and a wide smile. He’s gorgeous in that obnoxious way that makes girls swoon—and yeah, he definitely knows it.

“No, no,” he says, raising a hand. “I just—I have to ask. Do you always look this good in a grocery store? Because now I have to pretend I didn’t almost walk into a cereal display.”

You snort softly. “Wow. Good one.”

He lifts his brows. “Did it work?”

You consider it for a moment, tilting your head and leaning a hip against the trolley. “Hm. No. Not really.”

“Damn it,” he chuckles. “I’ve been trying to think of something to say for the last two aisles that wouldn’t make you immediately reject me.”

You laugh softly, giving him a quick—but deliberate—once-over before meeting his gaze.

“It’s not the line,” you say. “It’s the uniform. I don’t date military, sorry.”

He frowns. “But I’m not wearing—”

“Dog tags,” you cut in, eyes dropping to the silver chain peeking out from his shirt.

“Shit,” he says, laughing. “You’re good.”

“It wasn’t that hard.”

“Really?” He steps aside to let someone pass, bracing one hand on the shelf beside you. “What else gave me away?”

Your eyes flick down to his feet. “Boots.” Then his wrist. “Watch.” Then up. “Haircut.”

He raises his brows. “Impressive.”

“And your posture,” you add, gaze drifting across his broad chest. “It’s too straight. Too perfect.”

His eyes narrow playfully. “Did you just call me perfect?”

You roll your eyes. “I called your posture perfect, pretty boy. Now if you’ll excuse—”

“So you think I’m pretty?” he interrupts, still not moving.

“You know you’re pretty. You don’t need my validation.”

He shrugs. “Couldn’t hurt.”

You shake your head, biting back a smile. “Alright. What’s it going to take for you to get out of my way?”

“A number,” he replies, too quick.

You give him a flat look. “Okay. One. Now move.”

He smirks. “Clever. But not the number I’m looking for.”

“Then keep looking,” you say, gripping the trolley and stepping back. “Because I don’t date military. Trust me—it won’t end well.”

Then you quickly steer around him before he can stop you, pushing the trolley down the aisle.

“Won’t end well for you or me?” he calls after you.

You glance over your shoulder. “Really want to find out?”

“Can I at least get a name?”

You stop at the end of the aisle, turning back with a small smirk. “See you around, pretty boy.”

“Oh, you will!” he shouts, loud enough to earn a few puzzled glances from other customers.

You laugh quietly to yourself as you turn your trolley into the next aisle. You catch glimpses of the man again as you shop, but you keep your focus on the task at hand—filling the cart with things you know Bob likes, and whatever you can throw together into a few easy meals.

Still, you’re a little disappointed. Because that guy was hot, and he seemed like he could be a bit of fun. But you and Bob have one very strict rule: no military.

You’re allowed to mess around with other people—because you’re both human, and you still have needs—as long as it’s casual and doesn’t put the arrangement in jeopardy.

Hence, no military.

It’s just too risky. Not that you ever really see the same person twice—because even that feels like a gamble—but especially not someone you might bump into at work. You’re still a civilian contractor, and if you hook up with someone and they recognise you on base? God, the whole thing could blow up.

So you keep your hookups brief, occasional, and with people who have zero ties to the military. It’s just easier that way. Safer.

Just as you reach the checkouts, your phone buzzes with a text from Bob:

‘I’m home. Let me know when you are so I can come help.’

You smile and reply with a string of nonsense emojis. Then you pay, haul the groceries to the car, and head home.

Bob is already in the garage when you pull in—because of course he is. He’s leaning against the wall, looking unfairly adorable in a pair of sweats and an old U.S. Navy hoodie, hair still damp from a shower.

“Evening, Lieutenant,” you say with a grin.

He steps up to the car, smiling softly. “How was your day?”

“Productive,” you reply, popping the boot open. “Couldn’t you tell?”

He chuckles. “Oh, you mean ground zero upstairs?”

You nod. “Yep. That’s my organised chaos. Just you wait—by tomorrow afternoon, everything’s going to be perfectly put away.”

He shakes his head, amused, and leans into the boot, loading as many bags as he can into each hand. When he straightens up, there are only two bags left—and it’s infuriating how easily he handles the weight of four bags per hand, like it’s nothing.

“Show off,” you mutter, grabbing the last two.

You head upstairs in comfortable quiet, neither of you feeling the need to fill the silence just for the sake of it. That’s something you’ve always loved about Bob—being around him feels effortless. He doesn’t expect anything from you. Doesn’t ask for more than you can give.

You could sit beside him for hours and not say a word, and it would still feel like love—not real love, obviously, just the safe, platonic kind. The kind that doesn't get complicated.

You’ve done things in front of him that would make other men blush. Cried with your mouth full. Passed out snoring on his shoulder during a movie. Gotten so drunk once that he had to wash your hair while you sat slumped in the tub, head in your hands. You’d been wearing your underwear, obviously, but Bob? He hadn’t even looked. Hadn’t dared. Just held the shower head and worked the shampoo into your hair like he was defusing a bomb. Gentle. Respectful. Sweet as ever.

That’s the thing about Bob—he’s never once crossed a line. Never even hinted at it. You’ve been fake-married for over a year, shared hotels and couches and drunk stories and everything in between, and he’s never tried anything. Never looked at you like that. You don’t think he’s even thought about it.

Which is honestly kind of a miracle.

Any other man might’ve used this arrangement as an excuse to test the waters. A ‘harmless’ kiss. A comment. A suggestion. But not Bob. Bob’s too good for that. Too decent. He’s respectful to a fault. The kind of guy who would take a bullet for you but apologise if he got blood on your shirt.

It’s why you love him so much. Not in a romantic way—just... as a person. As a partner. A friend. You trust him more than anyone. You’d trust him with your life, your secrets, your worst moments. And you know, without a doubt, that he would never do anything to jeopardise what you have.

Honestly, if more men were like Bob Floyd, the world would be a better place.

“I met a guy at the store,” you say, pausing halfway to putting the milk away.

“Oh?” Bob replies, not looking up as he carefully arranges the eggs into the little plastic holder.

“Yeah, but he was military.”

“Damn,” he mutters, glancing up briefly. “North Island’s small. You’ll probably have to look further north for anyone not Navy.”

You nod, leaning a hip against the kitchen counter. “I figured. But he was hot.”

Bob lets out a soft chuckle. “Really?”

“Yeah. Bit cocky, but that can be fun sometimes,” you say, turning to unpack another bag. “I don’t know. Maybe I’m just bugging ‘cause it’s been a while.”

He hums in agreement, quietly focused as he lines the little spice jars up—in alphabetical order, of course—on the rack like it’s a puzzle that might save his life.

You sigh, dramatic and long, as you drop a few bundles of fruit onto the bench. “Would it really be that bad?”

He glances at you, brow furrowed. “What?”

“A military hookup.”

His eyes go wide. “Yes. That would be bad. Very, very bad. North Island is small. And my squad? We’re kind of... well-known.”

“I’m not though,” you counter with a shrug. “I haven’t started my new role yet, but my desk is probably buried in the bowels of some overcrowded office. Who says I’d ever even run into you? Or anyone else?”

Bob shakes his head, firm. “Still too risky.”

“Ugh,” you groan, throwing your hands up. “Fine. But if my vibrator blows up from overuse, I’m blaming you for cockblocking me.”

He chuckles again, cheeks flushing pink as he turns away to continue putting away the dry ingredients. He doesn’t reply—but he doesn’t have to. You both know the conversation is over.

And you know he’s right. It is too risky.

Your marriage might be a secret for now—from his squad and from his CO—but once you start your new role, you’ll have to declare it. And then you’ll have to be even more careful. Not just about what you say.

But who you do, too.

- Bob -

After dinner and an hour on the lounge—scrolling through your phones, only half-watching the Nat Geo doc on sperm whales that Bob put on—you sit up and yawn.

“Okay,” you say, pushing off the couch. “I’m going to bed.”

Bob nods, looking up at you with a soft smile. “No worries. Goodnight.”

“See you tomorrow, handsome,” you call over your shoulder as you walk toward the main bedroom.

Bob doesn’t mind giving you the bigger bedroom. He knows you like having an ensuite, plus you’ve always had more stuff than him. So every time you’ve moved, he’s happily taken whatever spare or second bedroom is left.

He waits on the couch a little while longer, until he’s sure he can no longer hear you moving around. Then he quietly turns off the TV and pads into his bathroom. He brushes his teeth, removes his glasses, and steps into the bedroom across the hall from yours, where his mattress is still lying on the floor—he hasn’t gotten around to building the bedframe yet.

He’s about to switch off the light when he hears it. That soft, familiar hum—barely audible, but impossible to mistake.

Bob Floyd knows that sound.

The sound of your vibrator, buzzing through the walls like a siren song.

He groans low in his throat, flicks off the light, then drops to his knees at the edge of the mattress. He falls forward, burying his face in the pillows, and lets out a long, quiet sigh.

He doesn’t move. Not at first. Just waits—face pressed into the cotton, heart pounding, cock already swelling thick and hot against the mattress.

Because he knows what’s coming. He always does.

Like a fucking creep, like a goddamn pervert, Bob knows exactly what happens next. And he lies there—unmoving, desperate, strung tight—just listening.

It starts small. The shift of sheets. A soft sigh. The subtle creak of your bedframe as you get comfortable.

Then the hum kicks in. Louder now. Higher. The toy you keep tucked in the top drawer of your nightstand—the one he’s heard more times than he’ll ever admit.

He knows that sound like the back of his hand. Not from seeing it—God, he wishes—but from too many nights lying in the dark, counting every soft rise in pitch, every subtle shift in tempo like it’s a fucking metronome set to ruin him.

Then your breathing shifts—sharp, shallow, soft. It’s quiet enough to pass for nothing at all. Quiet enough that you probably think no one can hear.

But Bob hears everything.

He bites into the pillow, hips slowly rolling down, the friction of the mattress nowhere near enough but still better than nothing. He grinds again… and again, slow and heavy, like he can’t stop himself—and really, he can’t.

Because he can hear you. All of you. The way you sigh, that breathy little whimper as you press the toy closer. He imagines your thighs parting, your back arching, your free hand curling into the sheets.

He groans into his pillow, hips pressing forward again—slow and deliberate—pressure dragging against his length while he pictures you wrapped around it. It’s not relief, not even close—but it’s something. It’s the only thing he has.

And he knows he shouldn’t. God, he knows. This is fucked up. You’re ten feet away, touching yourself, slowly coming apart with no idea he’s lying here, rutting helplessly against his mattress like a goddamn teenager.

But he can’t help it. He’s never been able to help it when it comes to you.

Not when he can hear you biting back a moan, shifting your hips under the covers. And then—fuck—that tiny little gasp. The one that always gives you away. That last, wrecked sound you make when you come.

He’s memorised it. Just like everything else about you.

And the second it hits his ears, he knows it’s over—and he falls apart too.

His body locks up, muscles tight, grinding hard into the mattress as his orgasm rips through him—hot, heavy, and overwhelming. He chokes on your name, burying it deep into the pillow like a secret he’ll never tell as he spills into his boxers.

It’s not graceful. It’s not pretty. It’s desperate. Messy. Shameful.

And when it’s over, he just lies there—panting, trembling, sticky and spent.

Shame curls in his stomach, guilt gnawing at the edges of his hazy thoughts. Thoughts of you, in your room, flushed and glowing with that post-orgasmic haze.

He hates himself almost instantly.

But this is who he is. This is what he does. Not just since living together or being fake-married—no, Bob has been getting off with your name on his lips for years.

Because the truth is—Bob Floyd is completely, helplessly, stupidly in love with you.

God, he wishes he wasn’t. Or better yet, he wishes he’d had the guts to ask you out all those years ago when he first met you at Lemoore. But he didn’t. He couldn’t. He was too chickenshit. And now? Now he’s trapped in a fantasy you think is fake—wearing the ring, playing the role, losing his fucking mind.

And he’s the idiot who signed up for it. Who offered it.

All he’s ever wanted was to make sure you’re happy. Safe. Cared for. And if he couldn’t tell you the truth—couldn’t admit that he’s in love with you—then being your fake husband felt like the next best thing.

Even though it’s killing him. Slowly. And ruining all his boxers.

Because living with you, pretending to be married to you, is the hardest thing Bob has ever done—literally and figuratively.

He likes to think he’s good at hiding it. Hiding how he really feels.

But it’s getting more and more difficult every day, and—

Fuck. He’s stupid. He left his goddamn bedroom door wide open.

You could’ve walked out at any moment—you still could. To grab a drink. Check the front door. Or even adjust the thermostat. And the worst part? This isn’t even the first time he’s forgotten to shut it.

Just like it probably won’t be the last. Because no matter how many times he promises himself he’ll stop getting off to the sounds of you touching yourself, he always lets those breathless little noises unravel him.

Every damn time.

After a few minutes of wallowing in self-pity—and sticky underwear—Bob rolls off his mattress, grabs a clean pair of boxers, and heads into the bathroom. He cleans himself up in the dark, avoiding the lights—and his own reflection—before slipping back into his room and falling into bed.

Sleep finds him quickly, despite the guilt lingering like static under his skin, and before he knows it, the sharp ring of his alarm is dragging him upright again. He groans quietly and moves through the motions the same way he does every morning.

First, he makes a fresh pot of coffee. Then he showers, does his hair, changes into his flight suit, and heads back to the kitchen.

Your door is still shut by the time he’s lacing up his boots. He can’t hear the shower running or the muffled sound of videos playing on your phone, so he figures you’re letting yourself sleep in.

He fills his travel cup with fresh coffee before finding your favourite mug in the sink, giving it a quick rinse, and setting it beside the pot. Then he digs through his work bag for that little pad of yellow Post-it notes and scribbles out a message:

Good luck today. Remember, the boxes are more afraid of you than you are of them. ♡

He sticks it to the side of your mug, checks his pockets for keys and ID, then slips out the door—making sure to shut it quietly—smiling to himself like a loser at the thought of the text you’ll send him when you find the note.

He knows it’s ridiculous. He knows he shouldn’t indulge himself. But acting like a real husband is what keeps Bob from going completely insane. Kind of.

Leaving you notes, bringing you flowers, doing all the little domestic things a good spouse might do for their significant other—that’s what makes Bob happy. And he knows it makes you happy too. So he’s not going to stop. Not until you tell him to. Not until you stop saving all his little Post-it notes in that journal you think he doesn’t know about. The one you keep in the top drawer of your dresser, hidden beneath your lingerie.

And how does he know that?

Well—spouses do each other’s laundry. It’s completely innocent. He has absolutely no hidden agenda when it comes to offering to do your laundry. It’s not like he’s ever gotten off into a pair of your panties before.

That would be insane. Perverted, even.

Bob wouldn’t do that. No way.

“Hello?” Natasha waves a hand in front of Bob’s face. “Are you even listening?”

He blinks, vision slowly refocusing on the brunette standing in front of him. He’s not sure when she walked into the briefing room—or when she even started talking. All he knows is that, before he started daydreaming about your lingerie drawer, he was the only one in the room.

He clears his throat. “Sorry. Distracted. What were you saying?”

She folds her arms and glances around, as if checking to see if anyone else can hear what she’s about to say. “How’d the move go?”

Bob straightens a little, subtly shifting in his seat to check the room. Javy and Reuben have arrived and are seated at the back, talking about the flight schedule for the day.

He turns back to Natasha and nods. “Good. She’s still unpacking. Won’t start on base until next week.”

“You should tell Mav,” she says, sinking into the seat beside him. “You’re going to have to declare the relationship. It’ll be better coming from you. At least then you can ask him not to tell the others.”

Natasha knows about you—of course—not because Bob told her, but because she saw his ring hanging beside his dog tags during PT one time. She also spotted the polaroid he keeps of you tucked behind the threat matrix card on his kneeboard, and she put two and two together.

He hadn’t hesitated to tell her it wasn’t a traditional marriage—because he knew Natasha would understand. What he didn’t expect was for her to immediately clock that he’s in love with you. Or the way she sighed and shook her head when he told her that you didn’t feel the same and asked her to keep her mouth shut.

He knows she wants to meet you, too. He’d even say she’s dying to. But that can’t happen yet. Not until you’re properly settled on North Island and his CO knows about the relationship. Then Bob will think about telling the rest of the squad.

Or maybe he’ll just invite Natasha over for dinner and forget the rest of them entirely. Because you’re his secret—his favourite secret—and something about letting that out makes him feel nauseous.

“Good morning, aviators!” Maverick calls as he walks into the room. “Nice to see that most of you care about being here early.”

He drops his folders on the desk before powering up the digital display and pulling out his tablet.

Natasha nudges Bob in the side and tips her head toward Mav. Bob hesitates, glancing over his shoulder to see that Mickey has joined Reuben and Javy at the back, but neither Bradley nor Jake are here yet. They’re not late—but they’re cutting it close. Which means Mav won’t start right away.

Which means Bob has the perfect opportunity to speak to his CO about you.

Natasha elbows him again, harder this time, her eyes wide with warning.

“Okay,” Bob mutters, pushing up from his chair. “I’m going.”

He walks slowly up to where Maverick is scowling at his tablet, tapping the screen harder than necessary.

Bob clears his throat. “Mav. Can I talk to you for a sec?”

Maverick glances up, brow furrowing. “Of course. Everything okay?”

“Yeah—uh, yes sir,” Bob replies, dropping his voice low. “I just wanted to mention something before it comes up.”

“Okay…?” Maverick says slowly. “Is this private? Do we need to leave the room, or—”

“No, it’s okay,” Bob says, pushing his glasses higher up his nose. “I mean, it is private, but before the others get here—um.” He clears his throat again. “My wife just moved here. She’s a civilian contractor, and she’s going to be working on base.”

Maverick’s brows shoot up, but his voice stays low. “Wife?”

Bob nods. “Yes, sir.”

“Wow. Okay.”

“I’d just appreciate if you could keep it quiet,” Bob adds. “We’re not really—”

“Don’t worry.” Maverick drops a hand on Bob’s shoulder. “I get it. The squad doesn’t need to know. This is your life, your secret. Your wife.”

God, Bob loves hearing that. His wife.

“Just file the paperwork with HR, and let me know if there are any issues,” Maverick says, letting his hand drop. “If anyone questions it or gives you a hard time, send them to me. I’m not against a—um… convenient arrangement. So I’ll vouch for you, alright?”

Bob’s cheeks flush. “Thank you, sir. I appreciate it.”

Maverick nods, and Bob takes the dismissal. He turns back toward the room and is relieved to find the others still deep in conversation at the back. Only Natasha is watching him, her eyes sparkling and lips curled into a knowing smirk.

“What’d he say?” she asks as he drops into his seat.

Bob shrugs. “Not much. He understood the situation.”

“Oh?” Natasha raises a brow. “So he’s all over the fake-wife-who-you’re-secretly-obsessed-with thing?”

Bob shoots her a sidelong glare. “Shut up.”

She snorts quietly to herself but doesn’t say another word—just turns her gaze toward the digital display where Maverick is bringing up their latest sim stats.

Eventually, Jake strides into the room, with Bradley not far behind. They drop into their usual seats, and Maverick launches into the day’s briefing—something about sim times, and how they need to be tighter. Bob tries to pay attention, but his focus is shot. He stares at the screen, nodding at the right moments, jotting down a few notes here and there, but his mind is miles away.

With you. Wondering what you’re doing. Whether the unpacking is going okay. If you’ve seen his note yet. If you’ve texted him.

He’s usually better than this—better at compartmentalising, staying locked in—but something about today feels different. Maybe it’s the fact that you’re finally here. In North Island. In the apartment. In his everyday life, not just in his daydreams and text messages.

He keeps thinking about last night. The way your shirt had ridden up while you reached to shove a box into the top cupboard above the fridge. The warm stretch of bare skin, the way your hips swayed without you even realising. Or the soft little moan you let out when you bit into your chocolate bar after dinner—like it physically hurt to taste something that good. Or the way your lips wrapped around it, slow and indulgent. He shouldn't be thinking about that. But he is.

Mostly, though, he can’t stop hearing you.

That breathy, broken little sound you made in the dark. The one that slipped through the walls when you thought no one could hear. When you were touching yourself. Coming apart. And he was ten feet away, grinding against his mattress, pretending it was you.

God. What is wrong with him?

He drags a hand across his jaw and tries to focus, but it’s useless. It’s like something inside of him cracked open during the special detachment—like the distance rewired him. Like missing you for so long left something raw and exposed, and now that you’re here, in his orbit again, he can’t think about anything else.

You’re everywhere. In his apartment. In his bed—in a way. In his skin.

And no matter how hard he tries to shake it off, you're still there. Taking up every thought, every breath, every beat of his heart. More than ever. And God, he’s not sure how to deal with it anymore.

“Not hungry, Floyd?” Javy asks, pausing at the door with a small frown.

Bob blinks, quickly glancing around the now-empty briefing room—except for Javy. “Is it lunch?”

Javy chuckles. “Yeah, man. Where have you been?”

Bob takes a deep breath and pushes out of his chair, gathering his things before following his very sceptical squadmate out into the corridor.

By the time he reaches the mess hall, everyone has already grabbed lunch and settled around the usual table. Bradley and Reuben are deep in an argument about something Maverick apparently critiqued during their sim flight last week—not that Bob has any idea what it actually was—and Natasha is explaining to Mickey, for some reason, that possums do not, in fact, lay eggs. Why? No clue.

“Okay, everyone shut up,” Jake says, dropping his tray with a dramatic thud. “I have an announcement.”

The squad falls quiet—all eyes on him, brows raised, mouths shut.

“Thank you.” Jake grins. “I just wanted to let you all know that I—Jake Seresin—met the love of my life last night.”

Natasha frowns. “Are you talking about Penny’s new bartender? Because she literally told you to choke.”

“Nope,” Jake replies, unfazed. “Different woman. Grocery store. Breakfast food aisle. She was buying Pop-Tarts but looking at me like I was the tart.”

Reuben snorts. “That checks out.”

“So what happened?” Bradley asks, a smirk lifting one corner of his mouth. “Did you talk to her?”

“Yep,” Jake nods. “It was magical. She was so hot, and funny too. The chemistry was insane.”

“Did you get her number?” Mickey asks.

Jake sighs. “Well, no, but—”

Bob frowns, leaning in. “What was her name?”

“Didn’t get that either.”

Bradley chuckles. “Hold on. So she’s the love of your life, but you don’t even know her name?”

“We had a connection beyond this plane of existence,” Jake insists, eyes narrowed. “I’m telling you. It was spiritual.”

“Is there anything you did find out about her?” Javy asks, clearly trying not to laugh.

Jake shrugs. “Well, she clocked me for military pretty quick, and said she doesn’t date military.”

Bob’s stomach drops. Panic creeps up the back of his neck, making the little hairs stand on end and his flight suit feel uncomfortably hot.

“She wasn’t wearing a ring, was she?” Reuben asks, grinning.

“Nope,” Jake says. “I checked. Not making that mistake a third time.”

Bob exhales quietly, relief washing over him. He remembers—very clearly—seeing your wedding ring on your finger last night. He always notices when you're wearing it. He fucking loves seeing it on you.

“Alright, Romeo,” Natasha says. “How exactly do you plan to find this mystery woman again if you don’t know anything about her?”

“I trust the universe,” Jake says, leaning back with smug confidence. “I’ll see her again. Soon. It’s destiny.”

Javy claps a hand on his shoulder. “Okay, destiny. You might want to stop talking before someone calls medical and gets you checked for a head injury.”

Jake just rolls his eyes and picks up his burger, eyeing the beef patty like it might be radioactive before finally taking a bite.

There are a few minutes of quiet while everyone starts eating their lunch. Bradley grumbles about how he should’ve picked the burger instead of the sloppy joe, and Javy mutters something to Natasha about trading his vanilla pudding for her chocolate one.

Then Reuben pipes up, loud and clear across the table. “So, Floyd… saw you whispering something real secretive to Mav this morning. What was that about?”

Bob stiffens, nearly choking on his sip of water. “What? Oh, nothing. Just… work stuff.”

“Oh yeah?” Reuben grins. “Looked like top-secret classified info. You trying to get reassigned?”

“Probably just checking if he could skip night duty next week,” Natasha says dryly, without even looking up from her pudding. “Someone’s got laundry to fold and throw pillows to rearrange.”

Bob’s eyes go wide. “I’m not—there’s no—” he splutters, flushing red as he waves a hand in mild panic. “It was literally just… paperwork.”

Javy raises a brow. “Paperwork that makes you blush like that?”

Bradley frowns, leaning forward to look at Natasha. “What are you talking about throw pillows?”

She glances up, eyes wide and brows raised—the picture of innocence. “Hm? Oh, nothing.”

Bob sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose and rubbing the spot where his glasses sit. “Can we just drop it?”

“Ooh,” Mickey pipes up. “Maybe Bob has a secret love child we don’t know about.”

Reuben leans in, eyes gleaming. “Blink twice if it was about alimony.”

Bob lifts his head with a flat stare. “Do I look like I have time for children?”

“Secret love child…” Jake says slowly—thoughtfully. “Honestly, I’d believe it.”

“If Bob had a kid, don’t you think we’d know?” Bradley says, flicking a green bean across the table at Reuben.

“Exactly,” Natasha grins. “If Bob had any secrets, we’d know. Right, Bob?”

If looks could kill—or at least maim—Natasha would already be halfway to medical by now.

“Right,” Bob mutters, jaw tight.

“And if anyone had a secret love child,” she adds, gaze drifting across the table, “it’d be Hangman.”

Jake scoffs. “Why me?”

Mickey snorts. “Because you have the most sex, hands down.”

“Speak for yourself, dude,” Reuben mutters.

“Yeah,” Bradley smirks. “Seresin strikes out more than the rest of us combined.”

“Well, yeah,” Mickey chuckles. “But only because he flirts with way more women than the rest of us.”

“Again,” Natasha chimes in, “speak for yourself, Fanboy.”

There’s a chorus of oohs interlaced with laughter as Mickey rolls his eyes, cheeks going just the softest shade of pink—but Reuben notices. The teasing quickly shifts to Mickey, leaving Bob staring down at his lunch with his pulse pounding in his ears.

The next half hour passes in a blur while Bob does his absolute best not to think about you—which means, of course, you’re all he can think about. And then just as everyone starts rising from their seats, his phone buzzes with a burst of rapid-fire texts stamped with your contact name.

‘The boxes are winning. If I don’t make it, tell my husband he was too good for this world.’

‘Oh, and he’s not allowed to move on for AT LEAST two weeks.’

‘P.S. your wife says thanks for the coffee. Might reward you later with some expertly folded laundry.’

Bob’s heart lurches into his throat while all the blood in his body reroutes south. He types out a quick reply: ‘What laundry?’

“You coming, Floyd?” Natasha asks, standing on the opposite side of the table with a frown.

Bob looks up, dazed. “I—uh, yeah. I’m coming—I mean, you go. I’ll catch up.”

“Okay...” she mutters, eyeing him suspiciously as she turns to follow the others toward the tray return.

His phone pings again, lighting up with another text from you: ‘Found a pile on the floor in the bathroom and assumed it was dirty? Promise there was no creepy sniffing, and I definitely didn’t notice anything about your boxers!’

Bob lets out a strangled noise, drops his phone onto the table with a clatter, and buries his face in his hands.

Right now, he wouldn’t mind if the ground opened up and swallowed him whole. Or if a rogue fighter jet spiralled off course and obliterated the mess hall. Or if a black hole cracked open beneath his chair and sucked all of North Island into oblivion.

Except for you, of course. He’d want you to be safe.

But aside from that, he’d gladly disappear right now. Some inexplicable catastrophe would do just fine—anything to keep him from going home and facing the woman who just washed his crusty boxers. Boxers that were only crusty because of her, anyway.

And—

Oh, God. Why is he getting hard?

It doesn’t make any sense. One dumb joke about laundry and boxers and suddenly his body is acting like you sent nudes. He’s not even thinking about you like that—not really—and yet here he is, halfway to a full-blown erection in the middle of the mess hall with zero warning and absolutely no control. What the hell is wrong with him?

He shifts in his seat, eyes wide and pulse thundering in his ears as his flight suit starts pulling taut in places it absolutely should not.

If he doesn’t get moving, he’ll be late—and Maverick will ream him for it. But he can’t exactly stand up with a raging hard-on in the middle of the goddamn mess hall.

With another strangled groan, Bob white-knuckles his lunch tray and holds it right in front of him as he shoves back his chair and stands. He beelines for the tray return, drops his tray without making eye contact with a single soul, and turns sharply toward the exit.

Once he’s out the door, he yanks down the zipper of his flight suit and adjusts himself as quickly and discreetly as humanly possible.

Mercifully, there’s no one within ten feet of him—but just ahead, where the squad is walking back toward the squadron building, Bob spots Reuben glancing over his shoulder. Brows drawn. Eyes wide. Curiosity written all over his face.

And now Bob wants to die.

Great. What a fantastic Tuesday he is having.

By the time Maverick dismisses the squad at the end of the day, Bob can’t get out fast enough. He barely mumbles a goodbye before practically running out the door and across base.

He flicks you a quick text to say he’s on his way, then jumps in his car. But instead of heading straight home, he makes a stop at the little florist he passes every morning and afternoon—the one he’s been wanting to visit for months. He’s been thinking about it since you agreed to move here, picking up flowers on his way home from work like some hopeless suburban husband. It’s dumb. Ridiculous, even. But he can’t help himself. He started doing it the first week you moved in after the ‘wedding’ and now it’s a ritual. A compulsion.

He grabs a bunch of blood-red roses—because he’s romantic like that—and drives the rest of the way home, parking beside your car in the underground garage. His palms are sweating by the time he’s in the lift, and his heart won’t slow down. He feels twitchy. Wired. Like his whole body has been buzzing with anticipation since he last saw you—which, tragically, was only twenty-four hours ago.

“I’m home,” he calls as he pushes open the door, trying not to sound breathless.

The apartment already looks better than it did this morning. Fewer boxes now. The bookshelf is upright and full. The dining table is properly assembled—chairs and all. There’s a knife block, a roll of paper towel, and a candle on the kitchen bench. And right in the middle of the island—an empty glass vase. Almost like you knew.

“Bobby,” you call, ducking your head out of your bedroom door at the end of the short hallway. “Just showered. I’ll be out in a sec.”

His breath catches at the sight of you clutching a towel to your chest, damp skin glowing, droplets racing down your collarbones and disappearing between the curves of your breasts. Your hair’s wet. Your legs are bare. And for one unbearable, glorious moment, Bob forgets what language is.

His cock twitches.

“No worries,” he mutters, voice hoarse and a little too high.

You’re already gone before he even finishes speaking, but you don’t fully close the door—and his pulse kicks hard against his ribs. Because fuck, you’re naked in there.

He drops his bag like it’s on fire, kicks off his boots, and sets the flowers on the counter without even looking. Then he starts down the hall toward his room, right across from yours. His head is bowed like he’s deep in thought, but his eyes flick to that sliver of open door.

And God—he sees you.

Just a glimpse. Just enough. A stretch of skin. The slope of your back. And then you turn slightly toward the bed and—fuck. Your tits. Just there. Bare. Bouncing softly with your movement.

He lets out a strangled sound and walks face-first into his closed bedroom door with a loud thunk.

“Shit,” he hisses, clutching his forehead and praying to every saint he can think of.

Your door swings open and you step out, now holding a sweatshirt to your chest. “You okay?”

Bob can’t even look at you, his cheeks burning. “Yeah—yeah, I’m fine. Wasn’t, uh… wasn’t looking. Just tired. Mav really pushed us hard. Long day.”

“Mm,” you hum, clearly amused. “Well, Lieutenant, maybe wait until you’re in bed before you close your eyes?”

He half-laughs, half-chokes, and gives you a quick salute. “Noted. Bed first.”

Then he shoves his door open, stumbles inside, and shuts it behind him in one fast motion. He leans back against it, eyes squeezed shut, hands trembling.

His cock is hard. Painfully, unreasonably hard. Pressed tight against his flight suit with nowhere to go.

God, did you notice?

He’s pretty sure you didn’t. Otherwise, you’d be freaked out. Right?

With a deep breath, he drags the zipper of his suit down and wriggles out of it. He kicks it off his feet and leaves it crumpled on the floor before turning to face the door. Then he braces one hand against the wood while the other slips beneath the waistband of his briefs. He pushes them down slowly, deliberately, letting his hard length spring free, skin slick with the heat of anticipation.

His breath catches, shaky and uneven, as he wraps his fingers around himself. He drags slow, torturous strokes up and down, eyes squeezed shut, clinging to the vivid, forbidden image of you—wet, vulnerable, just beyond that goddamn door.

Each stroke draws a ragged gasp, the heat building low in his belly until it’s almost unbearable. His hips start to lift, chasing the mounting pressure, fingers tightening instinctively.

He imagines your voice—soft, breathy—whispering something filthy in his ear, something that would have him leaking on the spot if he dared to imagine it too loud.

His skin prickles, pulse pounding in his ears. The world shrinks until there’s nothing but his hand, the hard length in it, and this door separating you from him.

He fights to steady his frantic breath as white-hot pressure builds at the base of his cock. And just as that delicious snap of heat tears through his body—

“Hey, did you want the blue Gatorade or can I take it?” you call out.

His whole body locks up, release spilling in hot, sticky ropes against the door.

Fuck.

“A-All good,” he croaks. “You have it.”

He slumps forward, forearm pressing against the wood as his head drops with a soft thud. His dick twitches in his hand, still half-hard, still leaking.

God, this has to stop. He can’t just jerk off every time he sees so much as your shoulder.

Though, what he saw before was much more than that. But he was creeping—looking for it, trying to catch a glimpse. No, this all has to stop. Not just the wanking, but the perving too. Jesus Christ, it has to stop before you find out. Or worse—catch him.

The thought makes his spine tingle—but... not in an entirely unpleasant way.

Great. Now he’s turned on by the idea of you catching him in the act.

Maybe he needs therapy. Or maybe he should be the one getting checked for a head injury—not Jake and his grocery store destiny.

After stripping off his underwear—using them to wipe down the door, because he’s disgusting—and pulling on a pair of sweats, Bob finally steps out of his room. His cheeks are still hot, his pulse still hammering, but at this point, that’s just baseline when it comes to being around you.

“You don’t have to keep getting me flowers,” you say, smiling softly as you arrange the bouquet in the vase like you’ve done it a hundred times.

He shrugs. “Just being a good husband.”

And trying to make up for jerking off to you like a goddamn lunatic.

“Well,” you slide the vase into the middle of the kitchen island, “they’re gorgeous. Thank you.”

He gives you a small nod, lips twitching like he might smile—but then he notices what you’re wearing, and it dies immediately.

“Going out?” he asks, keeping his tone light.

“Yep,” you reply brightly. “I’ve got a date.”

His stomach drops.

“Okay, not a date,” you amend quickly. “Just a hookup. Strictly sex. But I didn’t feel like I could show up in my sweats, you know?”

Bob thinks you look stupid hot in your sweats. But right now you’re in a pair of jeans that cling to your ass and a shirt he’s pretty sure he’s never seen before, and his brain is starting to melt again.

“Hence, the nice clothes,” you add, gesturing to yourself. “I shouldn’t be late. Probably won’t even eat. So… save me some dinner?”

Bob frowns. “What dinner?”

You roll your eyes, sliding one arm into your jacket. “Whatever you decide to make. Because you’re an amazing cook. And I know you’re going to make something, because you cook every weeknight except Fridays.”

“What if I don’t feel like cooking tonight?” he mutters, feeling petulant and jealous and very much trying not to show it.

You smirk. “Okay, grumpy. Then order me some extra takeout.”

He doesn’t answer—just nods once and turns to the fridge, opening the door like whatever’s inside is the most fascinating thing he’s ever seen.

“I’ve got my location on,” you say, stopping at the front door to slip your shoes on. “Just in case the guy’s a psychopath.”

Bob glances over his shoulder. “Should I be worried?”

“Nah,” you shrug. “He’s an accountant. Boring as hell. No military ties. Didn’t even know North Island was a Navy base—thought it was Air Force.”

Bob’s eyes narrow. “You’re kidding.”

“Nope,” you say with a laugh. “He’s up in La Jolla. I guess when you’re wealthy enough, you don’t have to worry about anything outside your little bubble.”

Bob shuts the fridge and turns to face you, frown deepening. “La Jolla’s nearly an hour away.”

“I know,” you say. “But no military, remember? Means I have to travel. And Bob, I know you don’t want to hear this—but I need sex. I’m dying. I’m falling apart. My vibrator can only do so much, but I need a real di—”

“Okay,” he cuts in quickly, eyes wide. “That’s… enough. Just go. Be safe.”

He steps up against the kitchen island, grateful that the counter is hiding his growing hard-on. Again.

You flash him a grin and pull the door open. “If I’m not back by eleven, call the cops and avenge me dramatically.” Then you step out into the corridor, waving. “Love you! Bye!”

“Love you too,” Bob mutters.

The second the door clicks shut, he collapses forward, forehead hitting the cool marble benchtop with a groan loud enough that you might’ve heard it on your way to the elevator.

Bob spends the evening doing everything he can not to be a creep. He cooks dinner, sets aside a container for you, and watches a documentary called Inside The Vatican—hoping some religious guilt might fix him.

It doesn’t.

After washing the dishes—and spending a concerning amount of time scrubbing your mug—Bob paces the apartment, trying desperately to think of anything besides jerking off. Then his eyes land on his mattress still lying on the floor, and he decides maybe building his bed will take up enough time.

Again, it doesn’t.

Once he hauls the mattress into the frame, he spends the next twenty minutes carefully rearranging the furniture in his room. Then he sits on the edge of the bed, phone in hand and stalks your location like a man possessed—willing it to move, craving nothing more than to see you heading home. But after ten minutes of nothing, he gives up.

So he decides to wash his bedsheets. He strips the mattress, hauls the bedding to the small laundry room beside his bathroom, and shoves it all into the washing machine. Once the cycle starts, he checks the dryer—and immediately regrets it.

Your bedding is crumpled up inside, still a little warm and smelling so strongly of you it makes his head spin.

He tries—he really does—to pull it out and just dump it at the foot of your unmade bed. But no. He can’t leave it like that. He has to make it. It’s what you would do for him. Because you’re not just housemates—you’re friends, you’re a good fake husband and wife. Making your bed is just a kind, domestic gesture.

That’s all.

With a deep breath, he starts unravelling your bedding. He finds the fitted sheet and drapes it over the mattress, stepping carefully around the bed to tuck it in and smooth it out. His hands move mechanically, trying to focus on the task, willing himself to keep it together.

Even though the scent of you in here is like a drug—sharp and heady, flooding his senses and making his sweatpants feel tighter by the second. But it’s fine. He’s got this. He’s in complete control.

Once the fitted sheet is on, he picks up your duvet and throws it over the mattress before smoothing it down. Then he finds the two pillowcases, picks your pillows up off the floor, and starts shoving them in.

He’s almost done—and almost proud of himself—as he drops one of the pillows at the top of the bed, closest to the side he’s on. Then he grabs the other one, leans forward to place it on the far side, and—

His cock brushes the pillow.

Just barely, but it’s enough. Enough to make heat pool at the base of his spine, to turn half-hard into fully, painfully hard in a heartbeat.

His breath catches. His fingers twitch. He tries to pull back—he means to—but his body betrays him. His hips roll forward, dragging his length against your pillow in the most delicious, dangerous way.

He groans. Loudly. And grinds down again—harder, deeper. His cock drags thick and aching against the pillow, trapped beneath the soft cotton and the cling of his sweatpants. The smell of you is everywhere—on the fabric, in his lungs, in his mouth—and it’s driving him fucking insane.

He leans forward, spreads his legs, and humps the pillow like a dog in heat. Quiet, desperate thrusts. Every inch of his skin burning. His lips part on a shaky gasp as he picks up a rhythm—slow at first, then faster, rougher.

His hands fist your duvet. The mattress creaks softly beneath him.

He grinds harder, angling his hips until the pressure hits just right, chasing friction, chasing the fantasy. You, writhing under him. You, moaning into the mattress. You, letting him rut against your thigh like a pathetic, needy animal.

His cock pulses hard against the pillow. He’s panting now, forehead damp, face twisted in agony as he thrusts deep into the softness over and over and over—

And then he’s coming. Sharp and hot and shameful, grinding through it like he never wants it to stop. His sweatpants absorb most of the mess, but some of it seeps through onto your pillow, warmth soaking into the cotton.

“Shit, shit, shit,” he mutters, scrambling upright.

He snatches the pillow off the bed and yanks the cover off. There’s only a small stain on the pillow itself, barely the size of a dime. He’ll just flip it.

He grabs the other pillow, strips its case, and bolts to the laundry, shoving both into the washer with his half-finished load. Then he makes a beeline for the linen cupboard and exhales hard when he spots a similarly coloured pair of pillowcases.

Ignoring the mess in his sweats, he returns to your room and quickly finishes making your bed with the fresh covers—flipping the soiled pillow face down—before fleeing the scene and shutting the door behind him like it might somehow seal in his shame.

He needs help. He needs therapy. He might even need religion.

At this point, he’ll take whatever divine intervention he can get, because clearly he can’t be trusted not to hump your goddamn pillow like some desperate, fucked-up freak with zero self-control.

What the hell is wrong with him? You’re his friend. His roommate. His fake wife. Not his personal fantasy to jerk off to in every room of the apartment.

But no matter how many times he tells himself to stop, no matter how disgusted he feels afterward, it’s like his body won’t listen.

It’s not just lust—it’s deeper than that. Obsessive. Addictive. He’s terrified you’re going to catch him one day and never look at him the same again. And that’s what really scares him. Not the guilt, or the shame, or even the twisted desire.

It’s the thought of losing you. Because as much as he wishes he could compartmentalise the feelings from the hormones, it’s all tangled up now. He needs you like air—like water.

Romantic or not, sexual or not—he just needs you.

So he has to stop. He has to figure out how to act normal before he fucks this whole thing up beyond repair.

After a cold shower—self-imposed punishment—and making his own bed, Bob flops onto the couch and hits play on a documentary about sea otters. Then he checks the time on his phone—and your location. Again.

He tells himself it’s just to make sure you’re safe, but his heart still leaps when he sees you’re already halfway home.

He tries to focus on the otters—really tries—but his eyes keep darting to the front door like you might materialise out of thin air. Which is stupid, because he knows exactly how far away you are. He’s watching your little blue dot crawl toward him on his phone screen like a stalker.

Thirty painstaking minutes later, the dot pulses directly over his own. Right on top of him.

He holds his breath. And when the lock finally clicks, he forces his gaze back to the TV screen—doing his best impression of someone who is totally, one hundred percent emotionally invested in a family of sea otters and not, in any way, pathetically desperate to see you walk through the door.

“I’m back,” you mutter, shoving the door open a little harder than necessary.

Bob frowns, eyes narrowing at your expression. You’ve come home from hookups before, and he knows what you look like when they’ve gone fine, or good, or even great—he hates that the most. But this? This isn’t any of those.

“Hey,” he says cautiously. “You alright?”

You scowl as you shrug out of your jacket, tossing it toward the dining table along with your keys. Then you kick off your boots and leave them lying haphazardly by the door.

“No,” you snap. “I’m not alright. That was the worst experience of my life.”

Bob’s eyes widen—and it takes everything in him not to smile. He shifts on the couch, making more room for you, and grabs the remote to pause the TV.

“What happened?”

You stomp over and drop down beside him, groaning as you fall onto your side into the throw pillows.

“He opened the door shirtless,” you start, already exasperated, “which would’ve been fine if he wasn’t holding a protein shake—and if the first thing out of his mouth wasn’t, ‘Sup, babe.’”

Bob’s brows shoot up, but he manages to not to laugh.

“Then he led me straight to his room, which reeked of feet and Axe body spray. He dropped his fucking sweats, laid down on the bed, pointed at his half-hard dick, and said—” you hold up finger quotes, “—‘The weapon awaits.’”

Bob snorts and immediately slaps a hand over his mouth.

You sit up and glare at him. “Don’t.”

He shakes his head. “Didn’t say anything.”

“You’re thinking it.”

“Thinking what?” he asks, all wide eyes and faux innocence.

You give him a flat look. “That I deserve it.”

He shrugs, fighting a grin. “I wouldn’t say that.”

“No, but you’re thinking it,” you mutter, settling back into the couch with your arms folded.

He chuckles softly. “Maybe a little.”

“Ugh,” you sigh, tipping your head back. “I just wanted to get laid, not be traumatised.”

Bob snorts. “Maybe don’t trust what people say on dating apps. Or drive almost an hour to hook up with a guy you’ve known less than a day.”

“I needed sex, Robert,” you say with a sidelong glance. “What else was I supposed to do?”

His heart kicks against his ribs. He wants to say me. You were supposed to do me. Your best friend. Your fake husband. The guy with a perfectly functional—and admittedly impressive—dick that is quite literally always hard for you.

He opens his mouth to reply—to say something he’ll almost definitely regret—

But you cut in first.

“He couldn’t even find my clit. I had to literally direct him—like a fucking traffic controller.” You curl your legs up beside you, muttering, “I faked it just to get out of there.”

Bob’s mouth goes dry. “Faked it?”

You nod, eyes still fixed on the frozen TV screen. “Yup.”

There’s a beat—long enough for Bob to imagine every possible thing he could say next.

But then you sigh—loudly. “I just want someone who listens. Is that really so much to ask?” You glance over at him, brows drawn. “I’m not expecting some expert sex god. Just… someone who pays attention. Enough to figure out what actually feels good.”

Bob lets out a dry laugh. “Yeah. Imagine that. Someone who listens. Really pays attention. Makes sure you finish.” He shifts awkwardly, glancing down to check that the bulge in his pants isn’t obvious. “Multiple times, even.”

“God,” you sigh. “Men like that must be a myth.”

He clenches his jaw, biting back every smartass thing echoing in his head. Now isn’t the time to make you feel worse. And it probably isn’t the time to admit that he’s been secretly in love with you for years.

Although, Bob’s not sure when the time for that would ever come.

Right now, you just need a friend. Someone to complain to. Someone to remind you that it’s not you—it’s men. They suck.

“Well,” you say, swinging your legs off the couch and pushing up. “At least I’ve got my vibrator to make up for that shitty experience.”

Bob nearly chokes.

“I’m heading to bed,” you add.

“No worries,” he mutters, giving you a tight smile. “Goodnight.”

“G’night Bobby,” you murmur, soft and sleepy, flashing him a small smile before turning away.

And God—if that isn’t a shot straight to the heart. A kill shot, to be specific.

Because you’re so warm. So sweet. And you love him so much—just not like that. He wishes it were enough. But more than anything, he wishes he could show you what you mean to him—because words wouldn’t even come close.

And fuck, he really wishes you weren’t about to lay your head on a pillow stained with his cum.

- You -

By Wednesday afternoon, just about everything is unpacked. There’s a stack of broken-down boxes by the front door, a few rubbish bags full of packing paper, and one very exhausted woman lying on the living room floor—you.

It’s only three p.m., which means Bob won’t be home for a few more hours, but after three straight days in this apartment alone, you’re starting to feel like you’re losing your mind. Sure, you’ve seen Bob in the evenings—and there was that pathetic hookup last night—but aside from that, it’s been nothing but boxes and furniture and cleaning.

You don’t necessarily need human interaction. You just need a break. A change of scenery. A coffee, maybe.

With a deep breath, you push off the floor and grab your jacket from the rack beside the door—the one you just finished assembling. You slide your arms in, slip your shoes on, and head out.

You’re not overly familiar with North Island, but you’re pretty sure you saw a nice-looking café a few blocks over. And you don’t mind a walk.

You try to take in your surroundings as you go, but it’s hard not to check out every fit man you pass. Because God, you are horny. So horny that even two rounds with your vibrator last night did nothing to loosen the knot burning low in your stomach. You need dick. Real dick. Good dick. Something hard and decently sized, attached to a reasonably attractive man who knows how to use it—someone who can fuck you stupid so you stop eyeing every guy like he’s a walking, talking slab of prime beef.

God. You don't want to admit it, but even Bob was looking good last night. With his flushed cheeks, soft messy curls, and those big blue eyes behind his adorable glasses. You were five seconds away from dragging him into your room and letting him ruin your freshly washed sheets—ones you’ll have to remember to thank him for getting out of the dryer and making your bed with. Sweet man that he is.

But Bob is too nice for you to ask something like that of him. You don’t doubt he’d be decent—probably even good. There’s something about him that tells you he’s not quite as vanilla as people think. But he’s your best friend. You can’t risk ruining a friendship and a perfectly good fake marriage just because you’re desperate to come.

Not that you think Bob would fall in love with you or anything. God, no. Bob doesn’t see you like that. You just know that arrangements like that get messy, and you love him too much to risk it.

So for now, you’ll just have to keep looking for some decent dick—something to sate the white-hot need burning behind your hipbones.

“No way.”

Your thoughts scatter like a flock of birds, reality seeping back in as you blink toward the source of the mildly familiar voice.

“Oh,” you laugh softly, cheeks already burning. “It’s you.”

The green-eyed man from the grocery store grins—and it’s so bright, so wide, you almost want to slide your sunglasses further up your nose.

“It’s you,” he echoes, just a little breathless.

That’s when you notice what he’s wearing—a tight tank, gym shorts, running shoes. His tan skin glistens with sweat, chest rising and falling too fast. He’s on a run—or at least he was.

You lift a brow. “Shouldn’t you be at work? You know, protecting and serving?”

He shrugs, bracing a hand on each hip. “My CO dismissed my squad early. Thought I’d get some PT in off-base.”

“Isn’t this whole island a base?”

He chuckles. “Technically, yeah. But I meant outside the hangar. With the ocean breeze, warm sun—” his gaze flicks down, then back up, “—pretty girls.”

You roll your eyes. “Right. Because there weren’t enough of those at the grocery store?”

You don’t wait for a comeback—you just flash him a small smirk and keep walking, gaze locked on the café at the end of the block.

“Hey, wait a second,” he says, easily falling into step beside you. “You can’t just disappear again. I haven’t stopped thinking about you since Monday night. I need to know your name.”

“Since Monday?” you glance at him, brows raised. “Wow, is this your longest relationship, then?”

He snorts but stays at your side—clearly undeterred. “Why do you assume I’m a player?”

“Seriously?” You give him a flat look. “Look at you.”

He grins. “And?”

You huff a laugh. “God, you’re a piece of work.”

“But I’m worth it.”

“I doubt that.”

“Come on,” he sighs. “Just give me a shot.”

You stop walking and turn to face him, arms folding tight across your chest. “Look. You’re hot—and you know it—but you’re also military. I have a strict rule, okay? Besides, I’m—” you pause, pulse quickening, “I’m not looking.”

He frowns. “What does that even mean?”

You glance down at your hand and instantly regret not wearing your ring today. Because as hot as this guy is—not exactly your type, but undeniably attractive—you just can’t do military. Bob would kill you.

And what better way to scare someone off than with a wedding band? But no—you left it in your car. Like always. You only wear it when you need to, and usually ditch it when there’s a chance you might run into someone worth boning. Like at the grocery store the other day. Or now—even though that was clearly a mistake.

You clear your throat. “It means thanks but no thanks. Now leave before I do something stupid.”

He grins. “What if I want you to do something stupid?”

“You don’t even know what stupid thing I’m talking about.”

He shrugs. “I’m hoping it’s something along the lines of kissing me—or worse.”

You roll your eyes again. “It’s definitely worse.”

He opens his mouth to reply, but the shrill ring of his phone cuts in. He yanks the zipper on his pocket, pulls it out, and frowns at the screen.

“You should get that,” you say, nodding to the phone.

He looks up. “Wait, just—”

“See you later, pretty boy.”

You flash him one final smirk and turn on your heel, heading back the way you came—determined not to give him one more second to wear you down. You can just have coffee at home.

And honestly, at this point, he’s kind of annoying. Too persistent. Too cocky. There’s something about him that feels like one giant neon warning sign—aside from the military thing. Something deeper. Weirder. Something that feels... dangerous. And not in a fun way.

You take the first corner you reach, then the next, hoping that if you wind your way home along a complicated enough route, he won’t be able to follow you. Not that you think he would. You’re pretty sure he’s just a cocky boy—not a full-blown stalker.

It doesn’t take long to reach your apartment block, and you’re definitely feeling a hell of a lot better than when you left—coffee or not. Sometimes it really is enough to get some fresh air. Go for a walk. Touch grass. Remind yourself the world isn’t made entirely of cardboard boxes and bubble wrap.

You ride the elevator up to your floor and walk the hall, chewing your bottom lip as you wonder what to make for dinner. Bob usually cooks, but every now and then, you like to return the favour—not that it’s ever quite as good.

You slide your key into the lock, turn the handle, and—

Freeze.

A choked moan breaks through the quiet apartment. Low, needy—completely unfiltered.

What the fuck?

You ease the door open, step inside, and shut it quietly behind you. Bob’s boots are by the door, his duffel bag dropped beside the dining table, and there’s a bottle of wine on the kitchen island.

He’s home early.

Another groan curls through the air, thick and strained, and your breath catches.

You should make a sound. Slam the door. Jingle your keys. Do literally anything except stand here like a frozen creep. But you can’t. Because your pulse is racing, your mouth is dry, and that ache low in your belly is pulsing hot.

Then you hear it—soft and unmistakable—a whimper, followed by a choked, “Mmmf—fuck.”

Oh God. That’s Bob.

You swallow hard and step forward quietly. The closer you get to his bedroom, the louder it gets. Deep, unsteady breaths. The slick, rhythmic sound of skin on skin. A low gasp, a soft curse. The tiniest creak of bedsprings beneath a body working for release.

And holy shit, you're already wet—your panties soaked and sticking to you, no match for how goddamn horny you are.

You stop in the hallway, standing halfway between your bedroom door and his. The right thing would be to duck into your room, slam the door, and pretend you didn’t hear a thing.

But it’s too late. You’re too far gone. Too turned on. Your pulse is pounding, your legs feel like jelly, and you can’t pull yourself away.

Like a fucking creep, like a goddamn pervert, you lean forward and peer through the narrow crack in his door.

And stop breathing.

Bob is sprawled across his bed, one leg bent, the other stretched out. His shirt is bunched up around his ribs, sweatpants shoved low on his hips—just low enough for his hand to move.

And fuck, is it moving.

His knuckles are tight, forearm flexing, sinew rippling beneath skin. His chest rises and falls with every shallow breath, and his head is tipped back against the pillow, damp tendrils of hair sticking to his forehead.

His lips are parted. Brow furrowed. Glasses pushed halfway up his forehead like he forgot they were there.

You can see the muscles in his stomach twitch every time his hand drags up the length of his cock—thick, flushed, glistening with slick—and then back down again. Controlled. Focused. Like he’s thinking about something—someone—very specific.

He lets out a groan. Soft. Broken. And fuck, it’s... almost your name? No. No, it couldn't be. It's not. You're just imagining things. You’re horny and delirious.

And a total perv right now, but you just can’t find the will to move.

You watch as he bites down on his bottom lip, hips lifting from the mattress like he’s chasing something just out of reach.

Without thinking, you slide a hand between your thighs and press two fingers against your clit. The pressure sparks a jolt of pleasure up your spine, forcing you to bite back a whimper.

This is wrong. So wrong. You’ve never even thought about Bob like this, let alone seen him. Well—okay, maybe you’ve almost thought about it once or twice over the years, but you’ve always been able to stop yourself. Because this is Bob. Your best friend. Your sweet, kind, too-good-for-this-world best friend who—

“Sh-Shit—hnng, oh—fuck.”

—who looks so fucking hot right now.

You watch his hand speed up—just a little. Grip tighter now. Surer. He’s close, you can tell. You can see it in the way his thighs start to tense, the way his hips jerk up more urgently into his fist, how his breath starts to catch and stutter like he’s barely holding on.

You press harder against your clit, your wet panties sliding as you move your fingers in slow, torturous circles.

His back arches slightly. His other hand fists in the sheets beside him, the tendons in his arm straining. The room is filled with wet sounds and shaky breathing and the quiet thud of the headboard tapping rhythmically against the wall.

Then his mouth drops open. His brows pull tight.

You draw a shaky breath—almost silent, but not quite. Not that he could hear it over the sound of his own ragged gasps.

A long, wrecked sound slips out of him—deep in his chest, low and guttural. “F-fuck—”

Your fingers stop moving, and you just watch. Captivated. Hungry. Mouth watering at the sight you shouldn’t be seeing.

He strokes himself faster, chasing the edge, working right up to it with almost painful precision. His eyes squeeze shut, a flush rising over his chest, his cheeks, the tips of his ears.

And then he’s coming. Hard. Head thrown back, neck arched, stomach flexing so tight you can see every line of muscle. His whole body locks up—frozen in pleasure—then shudders as thick ropes spill over his knuckles, striping his hand, his abs, the hem of his shirt.

His hips twitch as he rides it out, groaning softly as aftershocks ripple through him. He slows his strokes, pumping himself through every last wave until he’s spent and breathing heavy, chest rising and falling like he’s just run ten miles.

For a moment, he just lies there—limp and boneless. One hand still curled loosely around the base of his cock, the other pressed flat to his chest like he’s grounding himself. Sweat shines on his skin. His curls are damp. His glasses are crooked.

He looks ruined. And completely, stupidly beautiful.

He’s still Bob Floyd—your best friend, housemate, fake husband. But now he’s something else too. Something you can’t unsee, can’t stop wanting. And it’s making your head spin.

You watch his eyes flutter open—and bolt. You slip into your room and ease the door shut, praying he doesn't hear the soft click behind you. Your breathing is ragged, your pulse is pounding, and you’re clenching around nothing.

God. You need something. Now.

You stumble toward the bed, stripping off your pants as you go, and drop onto the edge of the mattress. Then you yank open your nightstand drawer and reach all the way to the back—for the one toy you only use when you're desperate.

Thick silicone. Eight inches. Subtle ridges and a realistically moulded head.

Normally, it feels big in your hands. But after seeing Bob? Not even close. You’d always suspected he was packing—years of damp swim trunks and clingy grey sweatpants made it hard not to—but nothing could’ve prepared you for the reality.

Because he’s big. Cross-your-heart and have-paramedics-on-standby kind of big.

And God, you want it.

With a pitiful whimper, you collapse back onto your pillows, knees falling open. You're breathing hard, eyes squeezed shut, the image of Bob—sweaty, panting, coming hard over his own stomach—burned behind your eyelids.

You drop the toy between your thighs and glide it through your slick. You’ve never been this wet in your life—you’re sure of it. You tease your entrance, chest heaving, every nerve pulled tight—then drag it over your clit—

And moan. Loud. Raw. Desperate.

But you don’t stop. Not even as your face flushes hot with embarrassment. Not when the ache between your hips is too sharp, too deep to ignore.

You push the tip in, slowly at first, and let out a trembling gasp. It’s not him—not even close—but your body doesn’t care. Not when you’re this wet. Not when your head is full of the sound of his voice, his breath, the way he groaned like he was falling apart.

You slide it in deeper. Your hips twitch. Your fingers tremble on the base.

Your mind paints the picture so clearly it might as well be real—Bob above you, thick and flushed, eyes dark behind his glasses. He’d be gentle at first, probably ask if you were sure, if you were okay. You’d tell him to stop being sweet, and then he’d ruin you.

You fuck yourself harder.

The stretch, the angle, the slick slide of it—it’s good. Better than good. But it’s not enough. You want weight. You want heat. You want Bob’s hands on your hips, his mouth at your ear, telling you you’re doing so well.

You twist your wrist and angle the toy up, hitting just the right spot—and stars explode behind your eyes.

“F-fuck—”

Your orgasm hits like a freight train. Sharp and sudden. Your back arches off the bed, toes curling, walls fluttering tight around silicone. Your free hand fists the sheets. Your mouth drops open, and a broken sob of a moan punches out of you as you come.

It rolls through you in waves. Shudders. A full-body collapse.

You lie there for a few minutes—panting, legs still twitching, the toy slipping free as your muscles go limp. Your sheets are damp beneath you. Your chest is slick with sweat. And your brain is buzzing with images of Bob—ones you’ve never even considered until now.

Well, shit. That’s new.

With a heavy breath, you sit upright and grab the sticky toy. Guilt and panic twist in your stomach as you pad toward the ensuite—all the heat of the moment fading fast.

You need a shower—a long one. With scalding hot water. And maybe a lobotomy.

After cleaning yourself up, stripping your bed, and changing into pyjamas—it’s still early, but there’s no way in hell you’re leaving the apartment again—you finally emerge from your room.

Somewhere between washing your hair and scrubbing the shame from your skin, you decided that pretending nothing happened is the best way to go. Because technically, nothing did. You both masturbate. You’re both adults. Sexually active ones. There’s no evidence that says you were or weren’t thinking about each other.

Well—you know Bob wasn’t. He thought he was home alone.

Bob would never do something as perverted as what you just did.

But he doesn’t need to know about it. So if you act normal, then there’s no reason for him to suspect anything. Right?

“Hey,” you call lightly as you step into the kitchen.

Bob glances up from whatever he’s slicing with practiced ease. His cheeks are tinged pink, eyes slightly wide, and there’s the faintest trace of a smirk at the corner of his mouth. But otherwise, he looks… composed. Relaxed.

Well. He would, after a release like that.

“Hey,” he replies, voice even. “Didn’t hear you come home.”

Your cheeks flare with heat, but you wave it off. “Yeah, I ran straight into the shower. Went for a run and got a bit sweaty.”

He raises a brow, clearly amused. You don’t run. And you both know it.

"Right," he mutters, eyes dropping back to the chopping board.

You clear your throat and square your shoulders, determined not to let this be awkward.

“You were home early,” you say, leaning a hip against the kitchen island.

He nods. “Yeah. Maverick let us go early.”

“Oh, that was nice of him.”

Your eyes drift to the ingredients spread across the counter—chicken breasts, halved baby potatoes, fresh rosemary, a bowl of mixed greens. It’s one of his go-to dinners, the kind he could make blindfolded with one hand and still have it taste incredible.

And in the middle of it all, a bottle of wine.

“I was going to offer to cook tonight,” you say, reaching for the bottle. “Did you bring this home?”

He glances up again. “Yeah. Thought you’d like it.”

You run your eyes over the label, nodding. “Looks good. Want some?”

He nods once, without looking up, as you turn to grab two glasses from the cupboard above the bench. Then you uncork the bottle, let it breathe for a moment, and pour two generous glasses—sliding one across to him.

“Thanks,” he says, taking a sip.

The kitchen feels smaller all of a sudden. The usual easy rhythm between you is strained, like you’re both circling something neither of you wants to name.

Quiet tension stretches between you, filled only by the low hum of the fridge and the soft scrape of Bob’s knife. He doesn’t look up again, and you don’t dare look at him for too long. Instead, you swirl your wine and take slow, nervous sips until the alcohol starts to hum in your blood—and you decide to sit down.

“I’m going to put a movie on,” you say suddenly, already turning toward the living room. “Any requests?”

“I don’t mind,” he mutters. “Maybe something with action.” Then he drops his voice, low and half to himself—like he’s talking to the chicken. “And no sex scenes.”

You choke on your wine, nearly tripping over nothing on your way to the lounge.

You don’t respond. You can’t. What are you supposed to say to that?

So you just drop onto the couch, set your glass on the coffee table, and start scrolling through streaming apps—skipping anything with even a hint of romance.

-

You barely speak to Bob for the next twenty-four hours—and you’re pretty sure it’s the longest you’ve ever gone without properly talking to him.

It’s not that you’re avoiding him. Okay, maybe you’re avoiding him a little. But seriously, can you be blamed? You just saw your best friend’s huge dick—in action—and then proceeded to come so fast it was honestly kind of embarrassing. And now every time you blink, there he is again—sweaty, panting, flushed, wrecked. Fucking his own fist with your name almost on his tongue.

Or at least, that’s what you like to imagine he was saying.

But the worst part is the sudden, devastating realisation that Bob is hot. Not just cute. Not just objectively attractive. But actual, soul-shattering, knee-weakening, unfairly hot.

When the hell did that happen?

Maybe you’ve known it all along. Maybe you’ve just been ignoring it. Denying it.

Because you’ve always known he’s good-looking. He’s tall and broad and has that stupidly nice face with kind eyes and a soft mouth he never quite knows what to do with. But you’d written him off early. Filed him under safe. Untouchable. Your best friend. Your fake husband. Too good, too sweet. Not for you.

But now you’ve seen him. And it’s like the filter is gone. Like you’ve stepped on a landmine you didn’t even know existed and now your brain has been blown open by the truth.

Bob Floyd is possibly the hottest man on planet Earth.

He’s hot in a soft, devastating way. Hot in a slow-burn, bedroom-eyes, makes-you-feel-safe-then-fucks-you-stupid kind of way. The kind of hot that sneaks up on you. That lives under your skin. That ruins everything.

And now he’s just... existing. In your shared apartment. Doing normal things. Breathing. And you’re in a constant state of barely holding it together.

God, you’re an idiot. You need to sort yourself out—immediately—before Bob realises what a creep you’re being and everything blows up.

But first… you have to tell your contract manager that you’re married.

You’re awake before Bob’s alarm on Friday morning, but you don’t get out of bed. You just lie there in the quiet, listening to him move around, waiting until you hear the front door close behind him before throwing back the covers. Then you shower, make your bed, do your hair, and change into your clothes for the day.

The smell of fresh coffee hits you the second you open your door. And sure enough, beside the pot—with a little yellow Post-it stuck to it—is your favourite mug, freshly washed. Just like every other morning.

Made extra coffee. There’s banana bread in the fridge. See you tonight, Mrs. Floyd. ♡

Your heart kicks hard and heat swells through your chest. Everything feels different now. Heavier. Like you’ve stepped into some alternate version of your life where every little habit, every small kindness, means more than it used to.

Like you’ve been half-asleep this whole time and only just woken up to the fact that your dorky, sweet, thoughtful fake husband is also... kind of perfect.

And maybe—just maybe—you’re starting to feel different.

Your phone pings, startling you out of your spiralling thoughts. You swallow the lump in your throat and quickly check it—a text from your contract manager asking when you’ll be on base today.

Shit. You probably should have told Bob last night that you’d be visiting base. But instead, you hid in your room pretending to be exhausted because you didn’t trust yourself to sit next to him without doing something weird.

You type out a quick reply to let your manager know you’ll be there around midday. Then you tuck your phone away, peel the little note off your mug, and pour an exceptionally large cup of coffee—because that ought to help your nerves. Right?

After coffee, banana bread, half a movie you barely register, and another coffee, you decide to go for a walk. Because you’re still thinking about Bob, and you still can’t figure out exactly what it is you’re feeling.

You do the same loop you did two days ago—same turns, same streets, same houses—before returning home with zero recollection of it because all you can think about is Bob. He’s everywhere—in your head, under your skin, stuck between your ribs.

You try to distract yourself by cleaning the already spotless apartment, but it’s no use. So by eleven a.m., you grab your wallet and keys and head out the door. Maybe you can go for a walk and get your bearings on base before meeting up with your manager. And maybe you’ll try to ogle a few other military men so you stop thinking about the one who sleeps across the hall from you.

At this point, you’ll try anything.

You go through all the usual checks when you get to base—signing in at the front office, getting your visitor’s pass, a quick vehicle inspection. Then once you’re cleared, someone calls your manager to let them know you’ve arrived, and the clerk hands you a little printed map, pointing out the best place to park for your building.

Jeannie, your contract manager, is glad you’re early—which is good. That means less time alone to spiral.

You find the building easily, and soon enough you’re sitting in a small conference room going over the details of your commencement next week.

“So,” Jeannie says, shuffling her papers into a neat pile, “you mentioned there was something you needed to flag before you start?”

You nod. “Yes—um, sorry if I should’ve mentioned this earlier, but I’m married.”

Her brows lift, as if to say and?

“My husband is an aviator,” you add. “Here. On base.”

“Oh,” she nods. “Right. That’s fine. Ideally, we’d have had it declared earlier, but it’s not a big deal. Since you don’t technically work together, and you're a civilian contractor, there’s no concern about rank. I’ll just get HR to send over the paperwork. You’ll both need to sign, as well as his Commanding Officer. It’d be best to get it squared away before Monday—do you know who his CO is?”

You feel heat crawl up the back of your neck.

“Maverick,” you reply quickly—without thinking. “Oh—sorry, I mean—”

“It’s alright,” Jeannie says, a faint smile tugging at her lips. “I know who Maverick is.”

You nod, pressing your lips together while she pulls out her phone and makes the call. As she speaks to whoever’s on the other end, you quickly pull out your own phone and type a text to Bob.

‘Hey, really hoping you see this before I find you. I’m on base. Need you and Maverick to sign something. Please check your phone!’

Now you’ve done it. Not only are you on base without giving Bob a heads-up, but you’re about to have him formally acknowledge your fake marriage. A marriage his squadron doesn’t even know about.

Fuck.

“Perfect,” Jeannie says, setting her phone down. “We’ll have the forms in five. I’ll get you to read them over, then we’ll have someone escort you to Captain Mitchell’s squadron building.”

You give her a tight smile. “Thanks, Jeannie.”

She returns the smile and stands up, gathering her papers. “I’ll be back in a minute. Sit tight.”

You nod, trying not to throw up the banana bread and coffee.

“Oh,” she says, stopping halfway out the door, eyes sparkling. “A naval aviator—well done. Maverick’s squad... they’re kind of legendary.”

You laugh softly, breath catching. “Thanks. He’s—um—he’s the best.”

Then she’s gone. Out into the office, leaving you to sit and stew, staring at your phone, praying Bob texts back before you have to show up at his squadron building and ask him to declare your top-secret fake marriage in front of all his legendary colleagues.

The next fifteen minutes are a blur. An HR rep shows up, talks you through the paperwork, and asks for all the details of your marriage—when, where, how—before a junior officer knocks on the door and announces he’s ready to escort you to the Dagger Squadron’s building.

You grip the papers with shaky hands as you follow the officer through the building and out to a cart waiting by the curb. He doesn’t talk—thank God—just drives carefully across base while you sit beside him, looking like a seasick idiot on dry land.

When the cart rolls to a stop, he glances over at you. “Here we are, ma’am.”

You swallow hard. “Thanks. Do you—uh, do you come in, or...?”

“No, ma’am,” he replies. “Captain Mitchell was radioed about your visit. You’re cleared to go in.”

You nod once, breath coming in unsteady gasps as you force your feet to move. Force yourself out of the cart. Across the concrete. Toward the front entrance.

You steel your nerves and step into the building, immediately hit by the cool blast of air. Bob always whinges about how hot the flight suits get, so it makes sense that they’d keep the buildings icy.

There’s no chatter, no footsteps—just the low hum of ducted aircon and the faint rustle of paper. You follow the hallway toward the only open door in sight and quietly poke your head around the corner.

At the front of the room stands a dark-haired man in a flight suit, flicking through a little notebook. He glances up almost immediately, green eyes pinning you in place.

“Sorry,” you mutter, “I didn’t mean to interrupt—I’m looking for—”

“Floyd,” he says with a grin—a very charming grin. “Or Mrs. Floyd, should I say?”

Oh. This is Maverick.

You step into the room and straighten instinctively. “Yes, sir.”

He chuckles. “Don’t bother with the formalities. I’m Maverick. It’s a pleasure to finally meet you.”

He crosses the room with an outstretched hand, and you shake it with tight smile.

“Your manager called ahead, said you’d be stopping by,” he says, gesturing toward the front row of chairs. “Not sure Bob knows, though. He didn’t mention anything. They’re all at lunch right now, but I could—”

“Actually,” you cut in, settling into the seat beside him, “Bob doesn’t know I’m here. I forgot to tell him I was coming, and I honestly didn’t think I’d be delivering the papers myself.”

Maverick’s brows shoot up. “Oh. So he doesn’t—?”

“Nope.”

“Alright then.” He scrubs a hand along his jaw. “Why don’t we say you’re from HR, updating his records? Think he’ll catch on?”

You nod. “Works for me.”

He grins again, and you hand over the papers, pointing out the sections needing his signature. He doesn't ask questions—just nods and signs, methodical and quiet.

Once you’ve gathered the papers back into order, he leans back in his chair and just looks at you—like you’re easier to read than a children’s book being held wide open.

“So, how’d you and Bob meet?”

“Through work,” you reply, keeping your tone even. “He was first stationed at Lemoore, where I was in systems support. We got along well, and one thing led to another… now we’re here.”

Maverick nods thoughtfully, eyes gleaming. “Been a few years then?”

“Yep.”

“And how long have you been in love?”

Your heart jumps and you glance up, blinking. “Uh… well, since we started dating, I guess.”

You’re pretty sure Bob said that Maverick knew the marriage wasn’t entirely legitimate.

Maverick lifts a brow. “Dating?”

You nod, but it’s not convincing.

He tilts his head. “I didn’t think you two dated. From what I gathered, the marriage is—”

“No way.”

Your stomach drops. Your skin prickles. The hairs on the back of your neck rise.

That voice is familiar. Sickeningly familiar.

“It’s you.”

You turn your head slowly, dread pooling in your gut.

And there he is. The guy from the grocery store—sun-kissed and smug, all lazy confidence in his flight suit as he leans one shoulder against the doorframe. A group of aviators lingers behind him, peering into the room with furrowed brows and curious eyes.

Your stomach lurches.

“I knew it was fate,” he says with a grin.

“What’s fate?” one of the others pipes up.

“Move your ass, Bagman,” a woman’s voice snaps.

Bagman?

Your mouth opens, but nothing comes out. Your face is on fire. You can feel it—hot and prickling, crawling down your neck and up behind your ears. You try to speak, to move—to do anything—but your body has entered fight-or-flight mode and apparently chosen freeze.

Maverick glances between you, brow raised. “You two know each other?”

The guy—Bagman, apparently—just chuckles. “Yeah, we’ve run into each other a few times.”

“Hangman, move,” says a tall, moustached man, shoving his squadmate aside.

Oh no... Hangman?

You know Hangman. Bob’s told you about Hangman.

Cocky Hangman and his reckless flying.

Womaniser Hangman with his endless string of conquests.

Pain-in-the-ass Hangman—who just so happens to be a member of the Dagger Squadron. Bob’s squad.

Holy fuck. How could you have screwed up this badly?

“Hangman?” you echo, your voice cracking.

He nods, green eyes gleaming as he steps aside to let the rest of the squad through.

The moustached man—Rooster, you recognise—frowns at you, curiosity carved into every line of his face. A woman follows close behind, scowling at Hangman—you’re guessing she’s Phoenix. Then two tall men step in, both looking confused, followed by a shorter one bringing up the rear.

And then—

Bob.

He steps through the doorway—

And freezes.

His eyes go wide. His whole body locks up like he’s been hit with a tranquiliser dart. The colour drains from his face so fast it’s a miracle he’s still upright.

The silence is deafening.

His mouth opens. Closes. Opens again. Nothing comes out.

Maverick slowly leans back in his chair. “Well, this just got interesting.”

Hangman clasps his hands behind his back like he’s about to give a formal speech, stepping toward you with an oblivious smirk stretched across his face.

“Phoenix and gentleman,” he starts, “I would like to introduce you all to my future wife.”

Maverick chokes beside you.

“A mere five days ago, I first laid eyes on this stunning woman in the grocery store. There I was, minding my own business, and boom—she appears. Like a hot, pissed-off angel, scowling at me because I interrupted her Pop-Tart selection process. And right then and there, I knew this was the woman of my dreams.”

“You say that about every woman,” Phoenix mutters, rolling her eyes.

Rooster smirks. “He hasn't said it about another woman since Monday, though.”

“Exactly,” Hangman says. “Ask Coyote. This is the one. I felt it in my loins.”

“You’re disgusting,” Phoenix sighs.

The tallest one tilts his head. “Wait, wait, wait. Are we talking about the same woman you said was stalking you?”

“She wasn’t stalking me,” Hangman says quickly. “That was a joke.”

Phoenix scoffs. “It wasn’t funny.”

“Everything I say is funny.”

“No, it’s not.”

“I’m a delight, and I’ll have you know—”

“Hangman,” Coyote cuts in, raising a brow. “Maybe... shut up for once?”

You’re still frozen in your chair, eyes locked on Bob—who hasn’t moved a single muscle since he walked in. You’re pretty sure he hasn’t blinked. You might not have either.

Your cheeks are burning. You can feel them. But Bob—Bob is going scarlet.

It starts in his ears, then spreads rapidly down his neck and across his cheeks. He looks like a man being slow-roasted from the inside out. His fists are clenched at his sides, shoulders stiff beneath his flight suit—and when Hangman shoots you another wink and starts to open his mouth again—you’re genuinely worried he might blow his carotid.

He looks furious. Downright murderous.

At first, you thought it might be at you.

But... his dark blue eyes are locked on Hangman.

“Tell me, sweetheart,” Hangman says, stepping even closer as his eyes drag over you without a hint of shame, “are you free for dinner, or do you prefer a brunch-with-champagne kind of thing? Because I’ll happily rearrange my entire schedule just to watch you eat a strawberry.”

You glance sideways—just in time to catch the tick in Bob’s jaw. His gaze hasn’t moved. His whole face is red now, his chest rising and falling just a little too fast, his hands curled into fists like he’s physically restraining himself.

And something about it—about him—pulls tight in your chest.

Because he looks... wrecked. Quietly, furiously wrecked.

Not embarrassed. Not confused. Not oh-God-my-squad-found-out. But furious. At Hangman. For flirting with you.

Your stomach swoops.

And suddenly, you can’t breathe.

Because Bob Floyd is jealous.

The same Bob who brings you coffee every morning. Who washes your favourite mug. Who brings you roses and wine after work, just because. Who smiled so sweetly the day he suggested this marriage, like it was the easiest thing in the world to do for you. The same Bob who hasn’t blinked since Hangman called you the woman of his dreams.

A small voice whispers in your head—he loves you.

And for a second, you almost believe it.

Your heart thuds loud in your ears. Your mouth goes dry. You want to look away, to break the spell, but you can’t. Not when the truth is burning so bright between you it feels like the rest of the room has fallen away.

He loves you.

“Listen,” you say, voice shaky as you stand up, “Hangman, I—”

“Call me Jake, darlin’,” he cuts in, smooth as ever with that Southern drawl. “I never did get your name, though. Wanna finally tell me what it is?”

There’s a pause—a brief silence. A collective held breath as the room waits for you to respond.

You swallow hard and step forward.

“Floyd,” you say, voice firm. “My name’s Floyd.”

Hangman’s smirk drops. His brows pull tight, confusion flickering behind his green eyes.

There’s a gasp. A chuckle.

“Holy shit,” Phoenix mutters.

But none of it matters.

Because the look on Bob’s face is enough to make your heart stop.

His eyes are wide and locked on you like he misheard—like he can’t quite believe what he heard. His lips part. His shoulders relax. He visibly exhales—only for his breath to catch on the way back in. His gaze darts to Hangman, just briefly, then snaps straight back to you. He closes his mouth, swallows hard, and unclenches his fists.

He looks… nervous. Unsure. Like he wants to be relieved by what you just said, but doesn’t know how. Doesn’t know what happens next.

But you do.

In three quick strides, you’re standing in front of him. You glance up, breath shaky, heart pounding. Your fingers curl into the collar of his flight suit—and you pull him down.

His mouth crashes into yours, hard and hungry, and the world falls out from under you. His hands hover for half a second, like he doesn’t believe this is real—then they grip your hips, hard. Fingers digging in. Burning through the denim.

The kiss isn’t soft. It isn’t sweet. It’s desperate. Messy. All heat and drool and pent-up longing—like months, years, of tension finally snapping loose in a single, earth-shattering moment.

You gasp against him and he groans into your mouth, hands sliding up to your waist, pulling you flush against him like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he lets go.

Someone whistles. Someone else mutters Jesus Christ. But none of it registers.

You’re already gone.

Lost in the feel of him—his mouth, his hands, the warm solid weight of him pressed tight to yours. Your hands slip into his hair, tugging just enough to drag another sound from his throat. He kisses you harder. Like he’s starving. Like he’s making up for every second he didn’t.

When you finally break apart, you’re both breathing hard.

Bob’s eyes are dazed. Wide. A little wild.

“Wait,” one of the other men says—the shorter one, “Bob’s married?”

The taller one chuckles. “Bob bagged a baddie.”

“A baddie?” Maverick echoes, voice laced with confusion.

“My future wife is... Bob’s wife?” Hangman says slowly.

His friend—Coyote—snorts. “That’s not your future wife, man. That’s the mother of Bob’s children in T-minus nine months from tonight.”

Your cheeks burn impossibly hot as you carefully untangle your limbs from Bob’s. He looks absolutely wrecked—but in a good way now. In a way that makes you want to beg Maverick to let him leave early. With you. So you can take him home and wreck him just a little more.

Maverick clears his throat. “Well. Now that that’s all cleared up... Bob, you need to sign some paperwork to formally disclose your relationship.”

Bob gives you a soft, dopey smile before heading over to where Maverick is. The loss of his heat leaves you feeling cold—almost empty—but you don’t have time to dwell on it because the rest of the squad immediately closes in.

“I’m Fanboy,” the shortest one says with a brilliant grin.

You smile and nod, still too dazed to speak.

“Payback,” the taller one says.

Then Phoenix steps forward. “You probably already know who I am.”

You laugh softly, nodding again.

“Coyote,” the guy behind her chimes in.

“She was almost Mrs. Hangman,” Jake mutters, still sulking behind the group. “What could’ve been…”

Coyote elbows him. “She literally never agreed to that.”

“Details,” he sighs wistfully.

Rooster slings an arm over your shoulder, leaning in a little. “Don’t worry about him. He’ll move on tomorrow night.” Then he flashes you a smirk. “I’m Rooster, by the way.”

You blink up at him, wide-eyed and pink-cheeked. “These are your callsigns, right?”

Phoenix nods, opening her mouth to reply when—

“Okay, that’s enough,” Bob says, cutting through the group and grabbing your hand. “She has to go now.”

“Aw, no,” Fanboy whines. “I want to get to know Mrs. Floyd.”

“Too bad,” Bob mutters, pulling you toward the door.

You give them all a little smile, waving over your shoulder. “Bye. It was nice to meet you all.”

There’s a chorus of byes and teasing words, but above the noise you hear Phoenix shout, “Thank you for embarrassing Hangman!”

You snort as Bob leads you into the hall, stopping a few feet from the door.

“I can’t be long,” he says, a little breathless. “So we can talk at home—yeah?”

Your stomach twists—half-giddy, half-anxious.

You nod. “Yeah. At home. Get back to work.”

He nods, eyes flicking between yours and your lips. There’s a taut second of silence—nothing but the sound of your shaky, shallow breaths as you stare at each other.

Then—

“Fuck,” he mutters, leaning in and kissing you again.

And God, you don’t think you’ll ever get used to this—his mouth on yours. Soft but sure. Sweet but possessive. Like he’s claiming you, gently and completely. It’s nothing like you’ve ever felt before. And you don’t want to feel anyone else’s. You’d happily spend the rest of your life doing nothing but kissing Bob Floyd.

He pulls away too quickly, and you lean after him a little—desperate for more.

He chuckles, soft and low. “I’ll see you at home.”

You swallow and nod. “Okay. See you at home.”

Then he’s gone—and you’re left standing in the corridor of the squadron building, listening to his team tease him while your head spins, your heart hammers, and that ache between your legs pulses with every breath.

-

You don’t remember the walk back to the car. Don’t remember the drive home or climbing the stairs or unlocking the front door. It’s all a blur—just background noise to the steady thrum of want under your skin.

Because now that you’ve had a taste of him—of his mouth, his hands, the sound he made when he kissed you like it hurt—there’s no coming back from it.

You feel wrung out. Strung tight. One spark away from coming undone entirely.

Bob Floyd kissed you like he meant it. Like he needed it. Like he’d been dying to.

And now you can’t stop picturing it—his mouth trailing lower. His hands under your clothes. The way he’d sound when he groans your name against your skin. You wonder what his fingers feel like when he’s not trying to be polite. When he’s not holding back. When he’s desperate.

God, you want him desperate.

You want to see what happens when all that quiet control snaps.

You want him panting and flushed, cursing under his breath as he pushes into you—slow at first, then rough, then reckless. You want to hear him fall apart. You want to make him.

You want to pull his flight suit down and wrap your legs around his waist and feel him groan into your mouth as you whisper filthy things for only him to hear.

You want to know if he’s loud. If he talks. If he begs.

You want to be sore tomorrow.

You want him sweaty and wild and undone.

You want him to love you too. Soft and quiet. In the domestic, steady way he already does.

But first—you want him to ruin you.

Thoroughly. Desperately. Completely.

After pacing the apartment for a good thirty minutes, you start busying yourself by preparing dinner—because it’s the only thing you can think to do. You decide to make spaghetti and meatballs, from scratch. Which means a good few hours of kneading dough, cutting pasta, rolling meatballs—not thinking about anything else—and simmering sauce.

At six p.m., you get a text from Bob letting you know that he’s on his way home—and you panic. You jump in the shower, scrub yourself from head to toe, and change into the laciest pair of panties you own. No bra. Just one of Bob’s old sweatshirts and a pair of loose lounge shorts.

Then you’re back in the kitchen, stirring the sauce, making sure it doesn’t boil, and pouring yourself a nip of whiskey. Or two. For the nerves.

You set the table with matching plates, cloth napkins, two tall candles, and your vase of roses in the centre. The sun spills through the far window, bathing the whole open-plan living area in a warm orange glow, and then—

You hear the lock click. And it feels like a powerline just snapped.

You face the door, standing between the kitchen and the dining area, hands curled at your sides and heart hammering in your chest.

He steps inside—and your breath catches.

He’s so beautiful. And you feel stupid for not noticing it sooner.

Tonight, there are no flowers. No wine. Just Bob—in his flight suit—cheeks pink, eyes dark, something unreadable simmering behind them.

“Hey,” you say, a little unsteady. “Hungry?”

He takes a deep breath, eyes flicking toward the table, then back to you.

“Starving,” he mumbles, dropping his bag to the floor.

You swallow hard. “I know you said we’d talk about today, so I thought I’d set the table and—”

“Talking’ll take too much time,” he says, voice soft, just a little rough. “I think I just better show you.”

Before you can speak—before you can even breathe—he’s moving.

Three long strides. One hand sliding into your hair, the other curling around your waist, and his mouth is on yours.

It’s not a kiss. It’s a claim. Hot and desperate and all teeth and tongue, like he’s been starving for you and finally gave in. You can taste the whiskey you drank earlier on his tongue, and wonder if he does too, the way his mouth groans softly against yours.

He kisses you like a man undone. Not rushed—but hungry. Like he’s trying to get closer than your skin will allow.

Your hands fist in the front of his flight suit, dragging him in until there’s no space left between you. His lips part yours with ease, tongue sliding against yours with a low sound in his throat that sends heat pooling between your legs.

His grip tightens at your waist. You gasp against his mouth and he swallows it, angling your face back, pressing closer—until the edge of the table digs into your hips.

“You taste like whiskey,” he breathes, voice hoarse, lips brushing yours.

You nod faintly. “Took a shot… before.”

He huffs a half-laugh, his nose nudging yours. “Why?”

“Nervous,” you murmur, cheeks burning.

He lets out a broken little groan, then kisses you again, harder this time—deeper. His fingers dig into your waist, anchoring you like he needs the grounding. You gasp into his mouth, gripping the front of his flight suit like it’s the only thing keeping you upright, as he crowds in, the edge of the table biting into your hips.

His breath shudders. His forehead rests against yours for the briefest second before he says, low and wrecked, “I want you in the worst way.”

Your stomach flips violently. Your fingers curl into the fabric of his flight suit, grounding yourself in him—in this.

He kisses you again—slower now, but just as deep. His hands are everywhere, mapping your curves like he’s learning them, like he wants to memorise the exact feel of you under his palms. The tension is humming in the air, sparking down your spine, and when his hands slide beneath the hem of your sweatshirt to knead at the bare skin of your waist, your whole body jolts.

Then his lips trail down—jaw, throat, collarbone—and you whimper, tilting your head to give him more. But he pauses, mouth hovering over your neck, eyes flicking to the table behind you.

“Do you wanna put away anything that’ll break?” he murmurs, breath warm against your skin.

You look at him—his swollen lips, his flushed cheeks, the raw need burning in his eyes—and shake your head.

“No,” you whisper. “I don’t care.”

That’s all he needs.

He crashes into you again, mouth hot and hungry, pushing you back until your hands scramble for balance on the table’s edge. One of the cloth napkins slips to the floor. The candles rattle. The vase of roses wobbles precariously—but neither of you cares.

Because nothing else matters now.

His hands skim down your sides, then grip tight just below your ass. He leans in and kisses your jaw, your neck, your collarbone—lips dragging over skin like he can’t get enough—before he murmurs, rough and breathless, “Up.”

You barely nod before he lifts you, strong arms sliding beneath your thighs to boost you onto the table like you weigh nothing. You scoot back instinctively, the wood cool under your skin, and his hands follow—pressing your knees apart as he steps between them, eyes burning.

“You have no idea, do you?” he says, voice low and awed. “How long I’ve wanted this. How long I’ve wanted you.”

You open your mouth, but nothing comes out. There’s no time. He’s already kissing you again, deeper this time, messier, until you’re dizzy from it—until a wine glass tips behind you and crashes to the floor.

You flinch. He doesn’t.

“Leave it,” he mutters, lips brushing yours.

Then he drops to his knees.

Your breath catches as his hands glide down your bare legs. He looks up at you like he’s about to pray—and maybe he is. Then one hand trails back up your thigh, slow and reverent, until his fingers hook beneath your panties and shorts and ease them down—so gently it feels like a sin.

“Been thinkin’ about this for years,” he says softly, almost to himself. “Thought about it the second I first saw you.”

His hands urge your legs wider.

And then his mouth is on you.

You gasp, eyes fluttering shut, head tipping back as heat blooms low and fast. He’s slow at first—teasing, licking—then deeper, hungrier. Like he’s starving. Like he’s waited forever for this moment. He moans against you like you’re the sweetest thing he’s ever tasted—and it sends a jolt straight through your core.

He murmurs sweet, filthy things between licks—how good you taste, how soft you are, how bad he wants you to fall apart just for him. His glasses sit crooked on his nose, fogged at the edges, barely hanging on as he stares up at you with those wide, hungry eyes. His cheeks are slick with your arousal, his mouth wet and shining with it—and God, it’s the hottest thing you’ve ever seen.

“You’re so wet,” he groans, voice muffled and wrecked. “Can’t believe this is mine. You’re mine, aren’t you?”

And something about the way he says it makes your chest ache. It’s not just the heat or the moment—he needs to hear it. Needs to know that you’re his. That you belong to him.

Your fingers sink into his hair, trembling. “Yes.”

“Say it again,” he breathes.

“Yours,” you gasp, legs shaking.

“That’s right,” he says, mouth back on you, tongue pressing firm and flat. “That’s my girl.”

Your back arches. Your fingers tighten in his hair, nails scraping just a little, and he groans—low and wrecked—like he loves it. Like your pleasure is the only thing keeping him alive.

He keeps licking, firm and slow, then fast and relentless. A rhythm just for you. His tongue circles your clit, flicks it, presses flat and purposeful, then sucks softly—just enough to make your hips jerk. Your thighs tremble around his shoulders, your whole body coiling tighter and tighter, every nerve strung like wire.

“Bob—” you gasp, hips tilting forward, chasing more, needing more.

His hands curl under your thighs, anchoring you, holding you open like you’re precious—like he’s worshipping. His mouth never stops. He sucks, licks, flicks, groans, whispers your name like a prayer between filthy praises. And it’s too much. It’s not enough.

The pressure builds like fire in your belly. Your legs start to shake. You feel it spike—sharp and blinding.

You’re right there—right at the edge—and then he wraps his lips around your clit and sucks, just hard enough.

White-hot pleasure rips through you. Your body jerks, a strangled cry catching in your throat as you come apart against his mouth—shuddering, gasping, twitching, every muscle tightening then breaking.

And he doesn’t stop.

He licks you through it, slow and steady, his tongue gentle now but insistent, teasing more from you even as your whole body trembles. You’re whimpering, breathless and wrung out, your body slack and oversensitive—but not sated. Not even close.

“Bob,” you whisper, voice ragged. “Baby.”

Your hands reach for him, tugging at the collar of his flight suit, urging him up. He rises slowly, eyes never leaving yours—flushed and panting, his face slick with your arousal. His glasses are fogged and crooked, and you slide them gently from his nose, setting them aside before cupping his flushed cheeks.

He looks wrecked. Worshipful. Dark eyes devouring you like you’re the only thing he’s ever wanted.

“You still want—” he starts, voice hoarse.

“I need you,” you breathe, cutting him off. “Now.”

That’s all it takes. His hands fly to his zipper, clumsy and urgent as he peels himself out of the flight suit—shoulders, chest, hips—until he’s stepping out of it completely. His undershirt goes next, flung aside without a thought.

You pull your sweatshirt over your head and toss it away. Nothing underneath. Nothing between you.

He stares.

For a moment, he just drinks you in, chest heaving, eyes glazed with disbelief and hunger. “Jesus Christ,” he mutters, voice low and reverent. “You’re so—fuck—”

You don’t give him time to finish. You reach for him, pull him closer. He steps between your thighs, still in his briefs, and his mouth finds your breasts—soft, wet kisses and open-mouthed licks, tongue flicking over one nipple before sucking it into his mouth.

Your head drops back with a soft cry, fingers tangling in his hair again as heat coils sharp and fast inside you. His cock grinds against your soaked core, separated only by thin cotton, and you feel the sheer size of him even through the fabric.

“Fuck,” you gasp. “Take them off.”

But your hands are already moving—slipping between you, tugging at the band of his briefs. You shove them down, and he helps, kicking them away—and then he’s bare, hot, and hard and impossibly thick.

Your breath stutters.

Your fingers wrap around him, shaky and reverent—and you can’t even close them all the way. Your mouth goes dry. Your whole body tightens.

“Oh my god, Bob,” you whisper.

He leans in close, forehead against yours, his breath hot and ragged.

“I know,” he murmurs, voice raw and tender. “But you can take it. I know you can. You’re so fucking ready for me, sweetheart.”

And you are—dripping onto the table, slick and aching and pulsing with want. You shift your hips, lining him up, desperate to feel him. Every inch of your body is on fire, begging for the stretch, the pressure, the fullness.

He reaches down, one hand on your thigh, the other guiding himself to your entrance—and his tip just barely nudges against you, slick and hot.

Your breath hitches.

Your eyes meet his—wide, pleading.

“Please,” you whisper. “I need you.”

He groans—deep and guttural—and begins to push in.

You gasp as the tip breaches you—hot and thick and already stretching you more than you thought possible.

“Oh fuck,” you whisper, clinging to his shoulders. “You’re so big—”

“I’ve got you,” he murmurs, lips brushing your temple, breath shuddering. “We’ll go slow.”

And he does—inch by agonising inch, letting you adjust. Letting your body yield to him.

Your nails dig into his back as you breathe through it, chest rising and falling with every trembling inhale. The stretch burns, pressure building low and tight, but it’s good. It’s so good. Too good.

He’s panting against your neck, forehead pressed to your skin. “So tight, baby,” he groans. “You feel like fucking heaven.”

He pauses, buried only halfway, chest heaving. You can feel him throbbing inside you, feel every twitch, every inch still waiting to sink deeper.

“Can I keep going?” he asks, voice wrecked.

You nod quickly—too quickly. “Please, Bobby. Need all of you.”

He kisses you—slow and deep—and presses in again.

You moan into his mouth, high and breathless, clenching around him as he sinks deeper, deeper still, the fullness dizzying. Your thighs tremble around his waist. Your whole body shudders.

“Almost there,” he whispers. “Just a little more. You’re taking me so fucking well.”

And finally—finally—his hips press flush to yours.

You both freeze.

The air between you stills, hot and heavy. You can feel your pulse in your throat. Between your legs. Everywhere. He’s completely inside of you—thick and deep and overwhelming—and you’ve never felt so full in your life.

You cling to him, fingers digging into his arms, heart pounding out of control.

And then it hits you.

The feeling. The weight of it. The way your body holds him like it was always meant to. The way your chest aches with something so fierce and raw it knocks the breath from your lungs.

“I love you,” you whisper—it slips out like a secret you’ve kept too long. “Oh my god, I love you.”

He goes still—completely still.

Your chest tightens. For one agonising second, you think maybe you’ve ruined it.

But then—

He looks at you like you’ve just handed him the whole damn world.

“I love you so fucking much,” he breathes.

And then his hips draw back—and snap forward, hard.

You both cry out.

Your head drops back. His name spills from your lips in a broken moan. It’s too much and not enough all at once—him, everywhere, holding you, filling you, claiming you in the deepest, most perfect way.

His hands grip your waist like he’s afraid you’ll disappear. Like he needs to anchor himself inside you. And all you can do is hold on—eyes wide, chest split open, heart bared—because this? This is everything.

He is everything.

Your gasp tears through the air the second he thrusts in again, a raw, desperate sound as your back arches and your nails drag across his shoulders. The stretch is relentless, searing, addictive. You’ve never felt anything like it—so full, so deep, like he’s carved out space inside you and claimed it all for himself.

“Jesus,” he groans, head falling to your shoulder. “You feel—fuck—you feel unreal.”

The table jerks under you as he pulls back, just an inch, then sinks in again. Slow. Measured. But it still punches the breath from your lungs. You can feel every inch of him, every thick pulse of his cock dragging against your walls, and it’s almost too much. Almost.

But you don’t want almost. You want all of him. Ruin and worship. Love and filth.

“Don’t stop,” you whisper, voice trembling. “Bob, please—don’t stop.”

His mouth finds your throat, your jaw, your lips—kissing like a man gone feral. Like he needs you to breathe. One hand fists in your hair, the other gripping your thigh, pushing it up, opening you wider. The next thrust is harder. The table rattles. A plate clatters to the floor.

“Gonna break the fucking table,” he mutters into your skin, almost in awe, like he can’t believe this is real. His voice is wrecked—low and ragged—completely undone.

“Let it break,” you choke out. “Just don’t you dare stop.”

He growls—growls—and his pace picks up. The sound of skin on skin is loud, messy, perfect. His pelvis slaps yours, the rhythm brutal and sweet all at once. Your slick coats him, soaking the tops of your thighs, dripping onto the damn table, and still—it’s not enough. You want more. You want everything.

“Touch me,” you beg, voice breaking. “Bob, I—please—”

His hand drops between your bodies instantly, fingers finding your clit like he was born knowing where to touch you. He rubs tight, filthy circles, and your vision whites out. Your head falls back. A loud moan rips from your chest.

“That’s it,” he pants, watching your face like he’s memorising it. “Come on. Let me feel you. Let me have it.”

The table shudders with every thrust. Something else crashes to the floor, but you barely register it over the thunder of your own heartbeat and the filthy, perfect sounds of him fucking you.

His cock drags deep, perfect pressure against every spot inside you. And that heat—God, that unbearable, beautiful heat—builds fast. Sharp and coiled, like lightning in your spine.

“Close,” you gasp. “I’m—I’m so close—”

“I’ve got you,” he murmurs, kissing the edge of your mouth, then your cheek, then your temple. “Always got you.”

He’s getting close. You can feel it—his rhythm falters, his breathing shatters. And then his arms wrap tight around you, strong and shaking, and he murmurs into your hair, “Lay back for me, baby—just like that, I’ve got you.”

He eases you down against the table—one hand cradling the back of your head, the other gripping your thigh. The wood is cool against your spine, but his body follows, hot and heavy and trembling as he slides back in, deeper than before. A new angle. A devastating one.

Your mouth falls open in a silent moan as he bottoms out—so deep it feels like he’s pressing inside your stomach. And then you feel it—his hand trailing down to your lower belly, palm flattening gently just above your pelvis.

“Feel that?” he rasps. “That’s me, baby. Right here.”

You nod frantically, eyes glassy. “Bob—fuck—please—don’t stop—”

“I’m not stopping,” he swears, voice low and cracked. “Not until I feel you fall apart around me. Not until I know you’re mine.”

Your body arches, legs trembling, hips chasing his thrusts. His cock hits that spot over and over again, rubbing just right, the pressure building like a storm. His fingers return to your clit—slick and practiced—and that’s all it takes.

The vase topples.

Water spills across the table, soaking the cloth, flooding under your shoulders—but you hardly notice. All you can feel is him. All you can hear is your name on his lips, the slap of skin, the scrape of the table legs against the tile.

“Come with me,” he grits, forehead against yours. “Right now. Let go for me—come on—”

The coil inside you snaps. Your second orgasm tears through you like a live wire, white-hot and all-consuming. You cry out—shaking, clenching, blinded by heat. And a heartbeat later, he follows—spilling inside you with a hoarse, broken moan, his hips stuttering, his whole body seizing with it.

The stove beeps. There’s a pop. Then a low whoosh.

Flames flicker—and the smoke alarm blares.

You both freeze—panting, sweating, still locked together—then slowly dissolve into breathless, messy laughter. He doesn’t move. Just leans in, presses a kiss to your damp forehead, and murmurs against your skin, “I love you.” Then another, softer kiss to your lips. “So much.”

He pulls out—slow, careful—and helps you sit up. You glance over at the little fire crackling in the pot on the stove, eyes going wide.

“Shit,” you breathe, still dazed. “We—We should fix that.”

“Yeah,” he sighs, like it physically pains him to let you go. “Yeah, we should.”

Stark naked, skin slick with sweat, and cum still dribbling down your sore thighs, you hurry into the kitchen. Bob is right behind you, sliding his glasses back on as he grabs a dish towel and tosses it in the sink. You try not to stare—try not to drink in the sight of him standing there like some Michelangelo sculpture come to life—but it’s useless. The way the light catches his bare skin, the way his muscles flex as he soaks the towel until it’s nothing but a dripping rag—it’s impossible not to look.

When he turns, cheeks pink, lips glossy, eyes glazed—he smirks. Bob Floyd actually smirks.

“What are you looking at?” he asks, voice rough and teasing.

You bite your lip, drop your gaze, then drag it back up, slow and deliberate. “Just my hot as fuck husband.”

His blush deepens, and it makes you giggle. That man just fucked you so good your knees are shaking, but this—a compliment—makes him blush?

“Watch out,” he murmurs, wringing out the towel.

You step aside as he lifts the pot lid and smothers the flames. Then he checks the oven, flicks off the stove, and turns back to you, smoke alarm still blaring overhead like it’s part of your own personal soundtrack.

“I’m sorry,” you say, even as a grin tugs at your lips. “Want to get takeout?”

He shakes his head. “I think I’d rather have something else.”

Before you can blink—or even breathe—his hands are on you, sliding under your thighs and lifting you effortlessly until you’re perched on the cold kitchen counter. The marble bites into your skin, but you don’t care. Your legs wrap instinctively around his waist, your slick core pressing to the heat of his stomach. Your bodies flush together, skin igniting where you touch.

You card your fingers through his damp hair, eyes locking on his behind smudged glasses. “I have to tell you something,” you admit, butterflies swirling fiercely in your stomach.

His brows pull together. “What is it?”

You swallow. “I—um, I saw you the other day. When you thought you were home alone... jerking off.”

His frown fades, but his face stays carefully blank—too blank. Not scandalised. Not surprised. Just watching you.

Then he nods. “I thought so.”

You blink. “You’re not creeped out?”

“No,” he says simply, shaking his head.

“Even though I made myself cum after watching you?”

His laugh is soft, low. His breath ghosts across your skin as he ducks his head, hiding his smile in the curve of your shoulder. “I’m not creeped out.”

His lips brush your neck. “There are things I want to tell you too,” he murmurs, then leans back, eyes piercing. “But first…” His hands tighten on your hips. “Let’s see how much love we can make.”

Then he’s on you again—lips, tongue, teeth, hands—everywhere. He kisses like he’s starving, touches like he’s claiming. And though you’re aching to hear what he has to say, to dig into all that’s just erupted between you… right now, none of that matters.

Because Bob Floyd—your best friend, your fake husband, your everything—is about to ruin you all over again.

And you’re going to let him. Happily. Absolutely. Again. And again. And again.