Summary: you ask clark for help with a story. you didn’t expect him to look that good in sweatpants… or to end up at 2am with your shirt half off and his glasses hanging loose on your collarbone with only one hand typing on your laptop.
You didn’t mean for tonight to turn into this. You really didn’t.
You’d come over with the intention of finishing your article. Clark had offered to help — because of course he had, always so dependable, so good, so him.
He’s let you take over his couch with all your notes, brought you a glass of water without being asked, and offered to help like it was nothing.
But now it's way past midnight, and the coffee you had early is just not working anymore with the document open and untouched.
Clark is sat across from you in a black tee and grey sweatpants with those damn glasses on, looking like a problem.
You’re trying to stay focused, but he leans back to stretch, arms over his head, shirt rising just a little — and you’re staring before you can stop yourself.
He catches you, you look away fast.
“Clark, can you look at this paragraph?” you ask, spinning your laptop around with a groan. “It sounds like a fourth grader wrote it.”
Clark chuckles from across the couch, where he’s perched, reading glasses slipping slightly down his nose. He takes the laptop from you, his fingers brushing yours.
God, how are you supposed to focus on journalism when he looks like that.
He scans the screen, thoughtful. “You’re overthinking it. Your voice is strong. Don’t soften it.”
“You always say that,” you murmur, trying not to get distracted by the way his hand looks wrapped around your keyboard. Big, careful, confident.
He glances up. “Because it’s true.” Your heart thuds.
He's too nice for his own good and ever since he started helping you out with Planet assignments and late-night edits. It’s innocent, technically. Sharing notes. Ordering takeout. Accidentally falling asleep on each other’s shoulders. But this feels different.
“You’re staring,” he says softly.
You blink and scoff slightly. “No, I’m not."
He smiles a little, not smug, just knowing. He leans over to take your laptop and brushes your fingers by accident. The moment lingers, and his thumb grazes your knuckles before it pulls away.
Shit, you’re not fine.
He continues to read the paragraph, scrolls up, and then reads again.
"Just write it down how you said it to me." He softly speaks after a moment of silence.
He looks at you, really looks at you, and it’s so annoying how warm it makes you feel. how his gaze settles on you like a blanket, heavy and safe and kind.
You want to kiss him but you don’t.
Instead, you breathe in, let it go, shake your hands out, and say, “okay. new rule. you sit here. i sit over there. and no more looking at me like you want to make out with me.”
He stops and blinks.
“i— what?”
Your body comes to a halt at what you just said.
“Shit ignore me it was meant to be a joke, and I'm tired it's almost 2-" You ramble, unable to look at him.
And then a beat.
“…do i really look at you like that?” Slowly, you glance over and are taken aback by the scene. He’s flushed, lips parted and lashes low behind those glasses.
You hate him a little by how effortlessly enticing he is.
“You’re all I think about lately,” he says simply and suddenly. “Every time you text me to help with your drafts, I drop everything.”
Your breath catches in your throat. “Why didn’t you say anything...?”
He smiles, a little bashful, but still intense. “Because I wanted to respect your space. But it’s getting hard to pretend I don’t want to kiss you every time you say my name.”
Oh.
oh
You freeze because this is the moment you’ve replayed a hundred times in your head. Except in your head, it was always a little clumsier or a little more imagined.
But now it’s real, he's real, and he's looking at you like that.
Your voice barely makes it out. “you can.”
His eyebrows lift slightly, just for a second, like he wasn’t expecting you to say it. Then the look in his eyes changes like something settles.
Like he’s already made the decision.
He doesn’t move fast. No, clark never moves fast with you.
He just shifts closer, one knee bending on the couch, so he’s fully facing you. he reaches up, carefully, like he thinks you might spook, and brushes a stray strand of hair behind your ear. His fingers trail down your jaw and stop just beneath your chin, tilting you toward him.
“Are you sure?” he asks, voice low, deeper now, unsteady in a way that makes you ache.
You nod, but he waits anyway, so you say it out loud.
“yes, clark. i want you to kiss me.” His breath stutters. and then he does.
It’s slow at first, devastatingly so, his lips are warm and plush and patient, like he wants to savour the shape of you.
You make a soft sound, unthinking, and feel his fingers curl a little tighter at your waist.
He kisses you again, deeper this time, with a quiet urgency that builds the longer he has you. Your hands find his chest, and you fist the fabric of his t-shirt just to have him.
He pulls back slightly, but his forehead stays pressed to yours. you can feel his breath against your lips.
You don’t mean to whimper, but you do. “that’s not fair,” you whisper.
He tilts his head, teasing. “what’s not?”
“you. this. the glasses. your face.”
“mm.” he leans in again, his hand slipping beneath the hem of your shirt, palm warm on your bare back. “guess we’re past fair, sweetheart.”
He kisses you again, rougher now, hungrier, and it’s all unraveling so fast, his hands everywhere, his mouth trailing down your throat.
"Can I?" He whispers, and you nod almost too quick as your hips shift, his fingers push past your panties and effortlessly slide in.
You’re breathless.
Barely sitting upright on the couch, the laptop balanced on your thighs — glowing white screen still open to the draft you’re supposed to be finishing. supposed to be.
Except now clark’s behind you, chest warm at your back, thighs bracketing yours and his voice is right at your ear.
“your intro still needs tightening,” he says gently, like he’s not knuckle-deep inside you.
You gasp when his fingers curl again, lazy, slow. The heel of his palm presses right where you need it.
“c-clark…”
“hm?” he murmurs, unfazed. “you said you wanted to finish this by tomorrow.."
You could cry. Or come. Maybe both.
His other hand is resting lightly on your laptop’s keyboard, long fingers moving with the kind of calm that makes you insane. like he’s not currently ruining you, just another tuesday night.
He scrolls a little, reads the second paragraph.
“According to city records…’” he reads aloud, then edits it with one hand. “no — take out the ‘according to.’ Just say ‘city records show.’ He whispers deeply in your ear.
You moan when his fingers press deeper.
He hums. “you okay?” You nod, frantic.
“words, sweetheart.”
“yes. i’m—i’m okay. please don’t stop.” He smiles into your shoulder and kisses it softly. Then types again.
“‘the developer failed to disclose—’” he pauses. “you need to cite this.”
“i can’t think right now,” you whisper but he presses another kiss behind your ear.
“i know,” he murmurs, grinning ever so slightly. “that’s kinda the point.” His voice is velvet. slow and sinful and so sweet. it shouldn’t be allowed.
You arch into him, whimpering again when his fingers stroke that perfect spot — slow and deliberate.
“i’ll fix your paragraph,” he whispers. “just sit pretty for me.” You collapse back against his chest, legs trembling, hips twitching with every slow push of his fingers.
He types a full sentence with one hand while the other works you open — patient, reverent, like he’s studying you.
“god, you’re making such a mess. you know that?” You bury your face in his shoulder as he keeps going.
You don’t know what he’s typing anymore. you don’t care because a few moments later, he takes the laptop, sets it gently aside, and lays you down on the couch like you’re something fragile and precious and his.
Suddenly, he’s between your legs licking your clit, warm hands on your thighs, eyes shining behind fogged-up lenses.
“you’ve been so good,” he murmurs. “let me take care of you.” And when his mouth replaces his fingers, slow, unhurried, so eager as he eats you out like a starved man. Your fingers tangle in his hair, and your draft is completely forgotten.
Because clark kent is here on his knees worshipping you like you're the only headline that’s ever mattered.
(Synopsis) You thought Clark was like your exes, so when you saw him in a bad mood, you quickly expected him to use your body even if you didn't want it and were tired. You realize that Clark is not like any of the men you have dated.
Request here! Hope u like it. Love that u love Bimbo!reader. Masterlist and Bimbo!Reader series here
I wanna love me the way that you love me, for all of my pretty and all of my ugly too
I'd love to see me from your point of view
It's late at night, and Clark is sitting on the edge of the bed, his broad back hunched, rubbing his face with his hands as if that could erase the mental fatigue he was feeling right now. His button-down shirt is half-open, his tie is lying on the floor. You can tell from his shoulders: Today wasn't Superman's best day. A rescue, an accident, a problem at the office, something. His face, his body tell you so.
You're tired too, your mind, your body. You've been on your feet all day, in your sky-high heels, your tight skirt, your voice tired from answering phones all day. And now you just want to curl up and sleep like a princess. Put on your silk hair cap, wash your face, and put aside the worry of looking pretty in front of your man for just a few minutes (Just a few minutes ok)
But you see Clark sigh. How he lets out a low, frustrated growl. And your sweet little head, programmed by all those past boyfriends who only wanted your body, clicks:
"He needs to relax. And that's what I'm for, right?"
You know the language of men like the back of your hand: Tired eyes, annoyed grunts, all little signs that he needs to de-stress. And you'd learned how to de-stress, even if you weren't really in the mood to do so. That's how Clark sees that I'm good at at least something.
So, without saying anything, you stand up. You yawn off your lace blouse, completely casually. The skirt slides down your legs like butter, and before Clark can turn around, you're in your underwear. You unclasp your bra, very quietly, blinking softly.
You stand in front of him, naked, goosebumps all over your skin. One hand is on your stomach, the other is reaching for his hand. You were about to get on your knees before Clark stopped you by taking your arm.
Clark looks up. He blinks slowly.
"What are you doing?"
"You're stressed. I can help you. It's okay, you can use me for whatever you want," you say, almost as if it's romantic in your mind.
Clark freezes. His gaze jumps from your eyes to your exposed body, then back to your eyes. "Wait. Honey, why— why would you—I never—"
You bite your lip. A shrug. "Come on, I can be quick if you want me to be quick." Clark is still frozen, almost confused. He helps you up, stopping you from putting your hands on his belt, blushing but still annoyed.
Huge, so big in front of you. His hands—those hands that could split walls—reach up, slow, careful. They don't touch you, yet. "My last ex said I was the best at quickies," you say with a giggle, the worst joke Clark had ever heard.
"Your ex said what?" Clark's confusion turns to anger: not with you, with those other guys. His voice is the voice of your boyfriend and the hero at the same time, the hero who is always looking out for you, who hates thinking of you hurt. Your ex? Did you really date such horrible guys? "No. No. Babe, we're not going to have sex." His brow is furrowed "You're tired, and you're not even in the mood—and using you? That's a horrible expression, sweet"
You look down at your feet, at your polished nails, at the clothes scattered on the floor. "But you're mad. And I'm supposed to make you feel better. It's the only thing I'm good at." Your last words come out with a small smile that breaks Clark's heart.
Clark lets out a sound, like a broken whisper. He wraps his arms around you, wraps around your bare back, presses you against his chest so warm and huge you almost sink into it.
“You’re not for anything. You’re not supposed to give me anything. You’re not a thing, honey. You’re tired too. You don’t have to—don’t ever do that when you don’t want to.”
You curl up, letting your forehead rest against his chest. He hugs you, a large hand covering the back of your neck.
You tremble a little, the smile from before fading. “I just didn’t want you to be mad at me”
Clark closes his eyes. Takes a deep breath. Opens his eyes again: it’s not just Clark Kent there anymore. It’s Superman. The man who saves cities. The man who would save anything—but especially you.
Clark shakes his head and kisses the top of your head. “Never. Never at you. I’m sorry I made you feel like you had to do something like that—no.” Clark seeks to make the words penetrate both your mind and your heart.
He wishes you saw yourself the way he sees you: Not as a toy, not as a sex object—but as his girl. The light of his worst days.
"No. You just rest. You're my girl, you're not... you're not for that." He shakes his head, still feeling furious at all those men who told you that you were only good for—that.
He tucks you under the covers after tenderly putting on your nightgown and lies down beside you. He holds you against his chest, one of his arms under your neck, his other hand caressing your thigh through the covers.
All night he murmurs little things that stay in your mind the next day: "You're enough, just like this," he would say, not forgetting to cover your face with kisses. "So pretty. So loved." "I had a bad day. But you being here? That makes everything better. Just you. Sleepy you. Sweet you. Nothing else."
For the first time in a long time, you get naked in front of a man and he just hugged you—without expecting anything from you.
(Synopsis) You're dying for the attention of the handsome cute co-worker. Everyone wants you, but you only want him! And he wants you. But he's too oblivious to realize it
Request here! I giggled with this one. Masterlist and Bimbo!Reader series here
It's so hard to be a pretty gal with such an oblivious crush.
Every morning, without fail, Clark Kent passes by your desk at the front desk like any other employee at the Daily Planet. And you know it.
Before you go to the office, you know for sure you're going to see him. So you put on your shiniest lip gloss, your shortest skirt, and your loudest heels. All for at least a milligram of his attention. A tiny glance, a smile, a "I like how you did your hair today" that always melts you!
You don't want other people's attention, you don't need it. From the mailman complimenting your eyes, to the interns talking about how endless your legs are: You want the attention of YOUR Clark Kent.
If you know he's coming to the front desk, you touch up your makeup until you look perfect; if you know it's him calling, your voice is sweeter than honey. It's not that you've been discreet in your love for him, or that it's a secret that you're dying for the bespectacled journalist who always arrived early.
When you see him, you raise your voice in a "Good morning" so he'll notice you. Clark stiffens, takes off his glasses, and cleans them because it must clearly be a vision error for someone so pretty to talk to him like that.
"Oh! Hi! Good morning! Uh... did you sleep well?" Clark smiles at you, slowly stopping as he takes out his employee ID.
"Sleep better if you texted me goodnight, Mr. Kent..."
Clark. Melts.
You've made it obvious: When he orders a coffee to be left at the front desk, you make sure to write him a note like "Have a great day! ♡" with a heart next to it, or "Don't forget to eat lunch!♡" and a lipstick kiss mark on the cup. All with a script and your handwriting that says "—Your favorite receptionist." You personally deliver his packages to his floor, every morning you tell him he looks handsome, whenever you're painting your nails instead of working (because you have priorities) and you see him coming, you quickly straighten up because you don't want him to think badly of you!
You adore him. You know it. Everyone knows it.
Except him
All day thinking "I'm sure she's just nice, she's like that with everyone" while Lois and Jimmy want to slam him against the wall to make him open his eyes for good. How could you even have the slightest interest in him? At least in that building, he's just an average employee. You probably tell everyone they look especially handsome every morning, or leave kisses in everyone's coffee.
Everyone's half tired, half complaining, half glued to their cups of cold coffee. Jimmy has the camera on his lap, Lois is flipping through some papers. Clark, meanwhile, is sitting on the edge of a desk, staring at the landline phone: *65. He just needed to call *65 to hear your voice and brighten his day.
"Come on, ask her out," Jimmy said, without needing to look up to know that Clark was staring at the phone as if waiting for the object to come to life. It seemed like Superman's favorite activity lately.
"Who?"
"The goddess with the endless legs and pink nails who's been dying for you for two months, duh." Clark laughs. He's really laughing. He takes off his glasses, polishes them with the hem of his shirt (unnecessary, but he needs to do something with his hands).
“Come on, Jimmy. She's nice to everyone. It's—well, it's her job to be nice.”
Jimmy rolls his eyes, annoyed.
“Sometimes I think maybe, just maybe she's flirting with me,” Clark says as if it's some kind of national secret, which genuinely amuses his friend. “But, I don't know, it must be in my head. Maybe she's just nice. She's like—the nicest, prettiest girl I know.” Clark remembers how the delivery man had left you a bouquet of flowers a few days ago, or how everyone is always trying to hit on you, and sighs.
“It's impossible,” Clark shrugs, as if closing the subject.
At this point, you were going to need to scream it in his face in the most feminine way possible so that only then would he have the slightest suspicion that maybe (maybe!) you were interested in him.
boarders by @cursed-carmine & @saradika-graphics 🧊💋🦴
~ reblogs, comments, and likes are so appreciated ~
It’s been almost exactly a year since the split. Clark left with a resounding slam of your door. You got the papers a week later, tears streaking down your cheeks, but if it was what he wanted, you’d sign. So you did, you gave him his share and made do with yours. The argument regarding your safety due to Clark being Superman had strained your relationship to the breaking point. And like so many other unlucky couples, you just couldn’t work it out.
When you get a random call around 2:30am the day after Thanksgiving from Ma, your heart drops. The connection is weak; all you can make out is, “Clark… Hurt… Please come as soon… He asked… you.”
It’s enough for you to throw clothes into a duffel and book the next flight. You still loved him, even after everything. And he needed you.
You laughed at the irony of your vows. You would still keep them. You hoped Clark wouldn’t send you away when he came to.
Warnings: Mentions of Violence, Clark has Kryptonite Poisoning, Clark is Whiny, Husband Clark Kent, Hurt/Comfort, Very Slight Reference to Sexual Content, Guilt, Fear, Reuniting with your Ex-Husband Superman, Unsolved Tension, Lots of Angst, Slight Mentions of Near-Death Experiences, Pain, Reader is Down Bad, Clark is also Down Bad, This is Angst City, and I am the Mayor
You glance over at the clock, and it reads 2:15am. Great, another sleepless night, alone. The bed feels cold and empty beside you, hollow from days past. You roll over, trying desperately to get into a comfortable enough position to sleep. You know it’s hopeless, but you try anyway.
The wind whips against your window pane, reminding you of the harsh reality of the time of year it was. Late November, Thanksgiving had just passed, and it was your first Thanksgiving without Clark. You’d spent the day binge drinking and watching horrible Hallmark movies about city girls and country boys.
You sigh in defeat. It would only be a couple more weeks until he’d been gone for a year.
The sadness sank deep into your chest, aching and beating slowly in your sorrowful heart. The tears had all but vanished, causing you to lie there, eyes dry. You quit feeling sorry for yourself a long time ago, but the holidays reminded you so much of Clark, hopefulness lingering in everyone’s attitude that you passed on the street.
The difference was that each of your friends had someone to come home to. Lois had Jimmy, and you could sadly tell that they pitied you, often offering to take you to dinner, letting you third wheel their events, and pretending that everything was okay.
Lois had cussed out Clark when he’d made the decision to leave you. Calling him a “selfish asshole," and stating that his resignation to The Planet was "Total, utter bullshit!" Jimmy tried to stay out of it as long as he could, but he ultimately sided with Lois every time. You’d been really thankful to have someone on your side. Because once the media caught wind of Superman’s secret love affair, they’d immediately taken it way too far.
Rumors of cheating, emotional abuse, etc., lingered in the magazines for a few months. You barely left your house, afraid to be assigned a lead on 'the mysterious wife of Superman.' Clark spent many weeks as his alter ego fighting to have every false allegation taken down. He loved you so much it hurt, but he couldn’t bring himself to put you in constant danger, not after your accident. That was his sorry excuse for walking out on you.
You blamed it on his fear that too many people were uncovering the possibility of Clark Kent being Superman.
You ponder the thought of calling him, and glance at your phone, thrown lopsidedly to the pillow next to you. After all the pain and abandonment, you had only called Clark twice. The first time was on your birthday. Lois had taken you out for drinks, and well... you got wasted.
You had called him, just for the phone to ring twice before going to voicemail. You cussed him out for not calling and singing to you, sobbed into the phone as your friends tried to calm you, and puked onto the floor when Lois finally ripped your phone from your hands. She muttered something crossly towards Clark in the message, stating that it was "just like you to not call her on her birthday. No contact doesn't mean forgetting everything she means to you."
The no-contact rule was torture for both you and Clark; he told you it was the best way to keep you safe. But he was unwilling to hear just how desperate you were to keep him in your life. You longed to know how he felt. You wanted to know the truth: that he missed every inch of your skin, just like you missed his. You were sure that he truly just hated you, and it pained you so bad that you spent many nights on the roof of your apartment building, pondering the fall.
You wondered if Clark would catch you halfway down.
You doubted it, the longer he'd been gone.
Abandoning those thoughts, you roll in the opposite direction of your phone, mentally cursing yourself for the pure audacity to think of calling Clark right now. He was probably out saving some damsel in distress anyway. You sigh, gazing into the clock that now reads 2:24am.
This was going to be a long night. The kind of night that promised nothing but silence.
You close your eyes, huffing into the stillness of your bedroom, and try to count sheep.
You’re about four sheep in when your phone rings, the song “You Are My Sunshine” echoes into your ears, and you sit up. That was Ma’s ringtone.
Your heart drops to your stomach. Clark.
Picking up the phone without a second thought, you raise a shaky hand to your mouth, biting your nail in anxiety, “Ma?”
The line cracks, muffled and broken between what you’re sure is Ma crying, and she speaks, “Y/n! Sweetheart, is that… we need you… Clark’s hurt… please… as soon as possible… he asked for you.”
The line goes dead.
You brush some of your bed head off your forehead and inhale with an open mouth. Your head spins and you stand on two wobbly legs. Clark was hurt. Superman, hurt. Your Clark. The cheeky man that had stolen your heart with his messy black hair and rigid dimples. The same Clark, who used to kiss your stomach unhurriedly and stare at you too long with those ocean blue eyes. You prayed for him to be alive within the cold air of the night.
Tears somehow found their way to your cheeks again, running like rain on a car window, recklessly. You pulled out a bag and quickly stuffed a charger, some clothes, and god knows what else inside. You didn’t pay it much mind, thinking only of Clark, and the quickest way to get to him.
You would catch the next flight, no matter what it took to see him again. Ignorant of the price, even though you had very little. You cared only to see Clark, to brush his hair between your fingers and whisper sweet nothings into his temple, breath brushing his ear. That was what you used to do when a fight went South, when a civilian died. You were the only one who could console him. He went at ease when you were near. Maybe that's why he needed you.
Ma used to call you his ‘emotional kryptonite.’ God, you missed him.
As you pass your kitchen on the way out, you glance at the fridge. No, you were still far too full from Thanksgiving dinner at Jimmy’s to eat anything. But you hesitated. Clark loved your peanut butter brownies. They’d go bad otherwise. Maybe that’s what he needed.
You sigh, rip a Tupperware container from its place in the dishwasher, hands shaking from stress and worry, and dump the remainder of your brownies in. Every little thing in this apartment still screamed his name, his presence. The candle by the couch, one he’d bought you after saying it reminded him of your shampoo. Each dent in the drywall, where he’d slammed you into the wall after a long day when he just needed release, nipping at your neck with want. The robe that used to be his, hanging on a hook, which now acted as your oversized towel after a bath.
It all became a way of coping. Every first aid kit you had on hand for the cuts on his knuckles, every pocket protector you’d stuffed away into a drawer with no need for them anymore. You slowly forgot the meaning of living with him, the meaning of living. But he was still in every sentence you wrote at The Planet. He lingered in every breath you drew in, alone.
Your life had faded into a concept of surviving. And you did everything you could to stifle any hope of him returning.
He’d made it very clear that he wouldn’t.
You zip up your duffel, brownies inside. Your heart still beats wild and uncomfortably in your chest. Every second you wait, you’re not there for Clark. He asked for you. Your lip tilts up, it’s not a smile, but it’s something.
The gate is quiet, the crowd small but steady. People shuffle between TSA checking and cuss at a small volume when they get flagged for the fluid bottles in their bags. You pass through, keeping to yourself, too hurried to worry about the way a woman shoulder checks you. You brush it off, rushing for your 4:30am flight to Kansas City. Pa would meet you there in his dusty red Chevy, probably halfway squeeze the life out of you, and cry like the old sap he was.
You loved it, you missed the family you lost because of those damn papers.
You take a sip from the four-dollar water bottle you bought in the small gift shop by your gate. The water tastes like metal and something else you can’t quite put your finger on. When they call for boarding, you spring up, wiry and light on your feet, clutching the strap of your duffel like it was rope and you’re hanging off a cliff.
You take the aisle seat on the fourth row, eager to be one of the first people off the plane. You had no luggage to pick up, no rental car to wait for, only the promise of your quick feet and small frame to shift through the crowd. You willed the plane to arrive before schedule, and sat back, headphones playing “The Mighty Crabjoys.” You chuckle, strained, and raise a head to your forehead, rubbing away the memories like smudged lead on paper.
The flight was four hours; that meant you had four hours to try and sleep. You crack your neck in restlessness, recoiling in the thought of how Clark must feel. Hurt, alone. A feeling you’d become far too familiar with. Still, it left a heavy sting of guilt deep in your stomach, causing it to churn with unease.
Every second you’d had with Clark was magical; you felt like you were in heaven in the moment. He was the dream, the perfect gentleman. He memorized your heart and made it his. Promised you a life full of adventure, risk, and happiness. You never expected him to stomp on it all with his custom Kryptonian boots. You didn’t think he meant to, truly. But now you looked back over the years like a sad nostalgic dream, crushed by the weight of every harsh truth and splintered trust.
It must be nice to never feel like this. You cursed every delusional happy couple; they all had what you still hoped for with every moment alone in the shower, someone to love. To hold.
Where you two had left things, it didn’t promise much to look forward to. The argument, which caused Clark Kent of all people to slam your door, snapping several hinges, explained his reason for never calling you, never sending a card. The way he’d spoken to you, the way you’d spoken to him, it was lethal. It destroyed years' worth of admiration, every morning naked in bed, giggling, every night dripping in sex and sweat. You both had crushed the walls you once built with hammering words, shattering the mirror of truly seeing one another.
Your heart died that day, with every word he’d uttered, fists drawn tight and rigid to his sides. And god, when you’d slapped him, he raised one of his fists. You both stared at it like it had betrayed you each in its own way. His eyes widened, and he gulped so hard you heard it. Your breath sucked in with a sharp gasp, and you flinched away. He crumbled, tears spilling down his cheeks, “baby, no, no… You know I would never. Oh god, Y/n, sweetheart, you have to believe me.”
“Get out, Clark.” You’d whispered, eyes screwing shut, your own sorrowful tears spilling all the way to your collarbones. He flinched like your words had slashed his middle. “Y/n, not until I know you’re okay—” but you’d cut him off, hands slapping to your cheeks and angrily swiping at your hot tears. You stared into his eyes, yours cold with hatred. “G-get the fuck out, Clark.” A breath, “Please, don’t make me ask again.”
He hesitated, watching your chest rise and fall quickly. He gave you one long and suffering look, his face screaming anguish. His mouth hung open, angry words dangerously hanging on the tip of his tongue. Hands clenched and unclenched at his sides, right foot beginning its anxious habit of tapping against your floor.
Then without warning, he’d turned sharply, grabbed his coat from the rack he’d hung only weeks prior, and left. No more backward glances, no more second chances. Clark read your mind in that last look, and had seen just how much he needed to go. So he did. The man was painfully true to his word.
You wish you could take back every word. Every cutting touch and angle you’d pushed. He only wanted to protect you, and you’d freaked. It wasn’t entirely your fault; you knew what you were getting yourself into from the start. Clark was never satisfied, knowing you were always unsafe.
Every encounter you’d made with villains, most of them run-of-the-mill losers who had figured out Clark's identity, had chalked up to another point towards an at-home fight. You were certain that you could handle it. Clark was never so sure, always so afraid of you breaking, of losing you. He didn’t know that he eventually would lose you in an even greater fashion. You weren’t glass, you weren’t a damsel in need of saving. You knew the cost of loving Superman; it laid heavy in your chest like a stack of bricks.
But the difference was you knew that it was worth it for Clark, and he didn't.
But then, the accident happened. You were never supposed to be there, if you’d just listened. He wouldn’t have almost lost you. Clark had been too late.
You could confidently confirm that when you’re about to die, your life does indeed flash before your eyes. It had, in a burst of darkness and dust. Then, you were gone.
You jolt awake at the force of the plane landing. Ah, you had fallen asleep. Clark. You were almost home. Please hold on.
When the airplane clears to exit, you shoot up. Offering a quick apology to those ahead of you, and shuffling between the rows, practically running down the loading gate. You sprint through the crowd, avoiding a businessman and his steaming latte. Your eyes scan the pickup lane, finally landing on Pa.
He’s waiting, cardboard sign in hand, with your name scribbled messily. You smile softly, and your heart aches with pure and utter homesickness. You run up to him, taking him by surprise as you wrap your arms around him. He chuckles in shock and returns the hug, squeezing you tightly like an overprotective parent when their child returns from war. You don’t realize the tears until they’ve already fallen, and he’s whispering, “I missed you, buttercup,” into your ear.
“Please tell me he’s alive, Pa.” You murmur, voice breaking, desperate and raw. Pa nods firmly, pulling back from the hug. “He’ll be okay. I think this fight woke’m up from the horrible, ugl’ah nightmare of losin’ you.” He confirms, patting your shoulder in comfort.
“He doesn’t miss me. I just wanted to see him. I-I had to know… had to know he was okay.” You cry, burying your head into his neck. Pa sighs, rubbing at your shoulder blade with his worn hands, “Sweetheart, he doesn’t know just how much he needs you.”
You bite back the words “I still love him” and instead nod, wiping at your eyes with the back of your hand. Pa smiles, flashing you a true American farmer grin, and opens the door of the truck for you. You climb in, breathing in the scent of the Kent household and relax back into your seat. A feeling of anticipation begins to thrum quietly in the hollow of your heart.
The drive feels shorter than you remember, Billy Joel and Diamond Rio streaming out of the radio in their regular fashion. You watch the corn fields pass, remembering the first time Clark had brought you home with him. You’d been so nervous, even though you had no reason to be worried. Ma and Pa were the parents you never had.
When the split happened, they didn’t know who to call first. They’d called Clark, obviously. But you were the one they visited. That meant something real to you. You weren’t sure Clark knew, so you’d stowed it away with every flannel he hadn’t bothered to pick up.
You see the sign for Smallville, and your heart leaps in your chest, with a sudden burst of anxiety.
You pull up to the driveway, and with every yard closer, your chest grows increasingly tight. The house looks the same as you’d seen it. Crooked shingles and white siding frame the childhood home that Clark grew up in. The fields outside whistle in the wind, drifting with memory and nostalgia. You grip the handles of your duffel and pinch your wrist. This was truly real.
When the tires screech to a stop, you sit still against the leather, waiting a minute before hopping out. Ma meets you at the screen door, pulling you straight into her arms and brushing your hair with a soothing hand. You meet her with a sigh, “Ma…” She shushes you, just breathing into your shoulder with a shuddering inhale, holding you. Your face twists into something deeply uncomfortable, scrunching up like wrinkled laundry. You hold back the tears, and break apart, holding each of her shoulders, “I need to see him.”
She nods in understanding, stepping out of your way. “You know where to find him, babygirl.”
You move down the hall in a silent tradition, without a second thought. You pass the endless frames, which hold everything sweet and innocent about Clark beneath their glass. The hallway moves around you as your feet hit carpet, slow, sure, and familiar. Everything comes to a slow rhythm of instinct. The door to Clark’s bedroom is ajar, allowing you to see his posters, trophies, and baby blue wallpaper from the outside.
Your feet come to a rest at the threshold. Blinking in slow motion, your eyes well up once more. You’re not sure if it’s from fear or excitement. Maybe it’s just the overwhelming sensation of knowing that the love of your life waits inside. You haven’t seen him since he slammed that oak door back in the city.
You weren’t sure about this.
But nothing stops you from stepping inside, a vow kept in the hushed corners of the Kansas house. You were here in sickness, in health. Through the fall from grace and the cold, bitter reality of hurt.
When you behold Clark lying on his full-sized bed, completely crushing it beneath his massive frame, you let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding. He’s not asleep, but he hasn’t noticed you yet; that or he’s pretending you aren’t there.
His eyes flicker to yours, and he draws in a quick, faltering breath. “You came,” he cracks, with a pitiful and wretched timbre of disbelief. His eyes pinch together with a raw and painful flinch.
You drop the duffel and stride to his side in three short steps, collapsing to your knees.
“You called.”
He breaks, the waterworks instant. His chin quivers in a way that tells you everything you needed to know. That he regretted those words too, that he missed you every. damn. day. That he tried so hard to stay away that it had utterly destroyed him on the inside.
You drop your head onto his shoulder and sob, “I thought– I thought, oh god, Clark. I– I thought you were gone.” Your tears wet the flannel on his chest, and you bring a hand up to feel at his face. He struggles, weeping openly and watching you cry too, clutching your body with one strong but weary arm.
“I’m so fuckin’ sorry. I’m so sorry,” he whispers, painful and pure with every shake.
His voice is muffled in your hair, strands spread across his chest. He holds you like something scared, secret. It’s a moment that you both know you’ll store away somewhere safe. The air around you shifts in a tense click.
You lift your head, meeting his red-rimmed eyes, bluer than ever through his crying, with yours. They hide away a hideous guilt, masked by his determination to make the right decisions. All the while, Clark knew he hadn’t.
He’d stormed out that day, only to collapse into the brick outside the building, tearing at his shirt and sobbing unashamedly.
Every day he’d spent without you had been true hell, and even now, Kryptonite poisoning and all, his chest felt lighter at the graze of your touch. It was all the pain medicine Clark needed.
“I’m glad you’re here.” He admits, not quite meeting your eyes this time. His chest rises in a steady thrum, and he rests his head back against the plush pillow. He doesn’t dare to lie, to fake some sorry excuse due to the no-contact rule. It was a dumb, fucking stupid rule that he had used to cower from his problems.
The truth was, Clark hadn’t felt like Superman since he’d left.
He felt like a traitor to the name of Justice and Hope.
You were his hope, you were his peace. It was all because of you that he could wake up every morning and promise the people of Metropolis his best self.
He hadn't promised anything in a real long time.
Clark stares at the ceiling as you shift off your knees, rising again to your feet and searching for the chair by his desk. You pull it to the bed, sitting down slowly.
“I came as quick as I could, t-took the next flight out.” You tell him, searching his eyes with yours, reminding him of just how much you cared. He looks at you again, and for a moment you both sit there, silent. The intensity leaves a pit in each of your stomachs. Clark clears his throat, coughing slightly in strained air, “Thank you, Y/n.”
You nod without restraint, your neck cracking at the sudden movement. You both huff out a laugh. It feels like everything.
You’re not sure how this moment feels so reverent, so private. But it does. You feel miles away and nearby all in the same twitch of your fingers. Clark stares at you like you might disappear into the light of the lamp beside you if he blinks. His hair is a mess, swamped around his bloody forehead.
“You need some serious sun, golden boy,” you laugh, calm and slow this time. Clark breathes out a sigh of relief at the domestic tease. “Wow, teasing me already, sweetheart? It’s true, nothing’s changed, has it?” He eases, but the words are more than a tease; he really is asking. The words hold the weight of the truth, the ugly and bitter loss of time together you’d each given up. Clark didn’t know just how much you had changed. All the ways you tried to survive.
You meet his eyes again and hold your breath. His face still screams apology, so you let it slide, allowing an instant quip to smooth out on your tongue. You wouldn’t start anything; not now.
He still realizes what he’s said, and mutters another stream of haphazard ‘I’m sorry’s.’ You just stroke at his collarbone with your thumb and shake your head, dismissing his fears.
You speak again after a moment of peace, the only sound being his clock ticking and the rustle of the covers from him shifting around, soft groans accompanying his change. "What hurts?"
He laughs, a deep tenor you had once heard in the shell of your ear and between your legs, and coughs, "The question really is: What doesn't?" It makes you furrow your brows and give him a pitiful look. He hated it, he always had. The look you gave him when he'd come home from a fight. You looked like you'd taken every single hit with him, and your eyes reflected the pain of every punch.
You always felt guilty, as if you'd held him a little longer, massaged his muscles a little harder, it wouldn't have hurt him so badly. Your empathy was your greatness weakness.
"'m so sorry, Clark," you breathe, voice laced with desperation. He shakes his head, "No. No, sweetheart. This ain't about that." It makes you immediately hush, nodding and trying to swallow down the pain you still long to express. He notices your retreat, and reaches out a hand, catching yours. "What I mean is... I wish I hadn't. I-" he pauses, flashing you a quick look of hesitation, and his Adam's apple bobs up and down.
"I never should've walked out of that door. I never should've pushed you away. I thought I-I was protecting you." He mumbles, words shattering the fragile veil of certainty, head tilted down in shame. Everything was up for question now. You gasp sharply and your face scrunches again, tears coming close to erupting.
He watches with a sick look on his face, swallowing down his own sorrow. You reach for his jaw with your palm, fingers spreading across the familiar dimple on his cheek. You dip the tip of your thumb into it on instinct. "I should've fought more for you." You whisper quietly.
His chest quivers, and his hand curls up around yours, grounding you.
"I can't keep pretending like I'm half the man I was when I had you."
You both let the words sink in, and you just stare. His face looks tired, lonely. The apologies promise more hope than either of you had been able to manifest. But there was still hurt, so, so much hurt.
But now... You each let it hurt. You take the first step towards acceptance. As a team.
You stand, and paddle over to your bag, reaching for the one thing you'd brought to lighten the mood. Clark breathes in an awkward laugh, "You didn't."
You smile at him, and for a second he remembers just how truly beautiful your smile is. You look perfect like this, messy hair and sore eyes. You had never needed to be anything but yourself for him to fall on his knees for you.
"I did. Always for you, Clark."
He frowns, and a tear spills over his cheek.
"I don't deserve it."
You sigh, and rub at your eye. "You don't decide that, Clark."
You sit back down, this time on the edge of the bed. The springs creak in protest, almost as if to say, "Really? You too?" But you pay them no mind.
In the silence of the dusty childhood bedroom. You raise a brownie to Clark's lips. As always, he takes a timid first bite, letting the flavor hit his tongue with a groan. You smile, he smiles back.
The pair of you still, and finally enjoy each other's presence. The moment is nothing solid; it flows like water, unsure and without balance. But it flows all the more, running over into every harsh moment alone, and flooding them into oblivion.
There is no promise of something future, no guarantee of something grand and romantic, no sign that leads to a full recovery. But for now, you're just happy to be with him again.
Your Clark.
Your love.
Your husband.
In sickness, in health.
In hurt, in heartbreak.
"I missed this," one of you whispers, the other nodding.
"Me too."
THANK YOU FOR READING!!!! This is my baby. I hope you enjoyed.
Your relationship with Clark told through your crippling fear of spiders, aka four times when Clark is the world's best spider-catcher.
warnings: i guess spiders should be a warning, other than that just fluff, some allusions to sex, w/c 3k
my first time writing for clark ever!
one.
If there's anyone you don't want to embarrass yourself in front of, it's Clark Kent. Built like a Greek God, he's also the kindest man you've ever met, and you can't for the life of you work out why he doesn't have a girlfriend.
Not that it would ever be you.
In the year that you've worked at the Daily Planet, it feels like the universe has been out to get you. The first time you ever met him, you spilled coffee down his front. Claiming the stain was an easy fix, he had refused all offers of you paying for dry-cleaning. But you've never seen him wear that shirt since.
The first case you worked on together was during flu season - your eyes had been red-rimmed and your nose had been blocked the entire time you spent in each other's company. Thankfully, he didn't seem to catch your cold, but it still wasn't exactly the image you wanted him to have of you.
There have been various other mishaps, all with varying degrees of mortification, but you think today might take the cake.
It's late, long past when most of the reporters stay, but you're both still here, pouring over figures and facts for your respective pieces.
You're just about to give up, call it a night, when a movement on your desk stops you. Stilling, you wait for it to happen again, trying to work out what it could possibly be.
When a spider darts out from under your notebook, scuttling across your hand, the shriek is involuntary. Hand flicking, the spider is sent flying behind your laptop, as you leap to your feet.
Clark's by your side at once, making the trip across the office floor in record time.
"What's wrong?" His eyes dart round the room, poised for danger.
"T-there's a spider. In there." It's all you can manage, chest heaving as you point.
Clark's shoulders sag slightly, relief flooding through him. "Oh. Okay. Good."
"It's not good!" You protest, brow furrowing. "It's in there, somewhere, and I don't know where."
Clark nods, before starting to sift through your things. He closes the notebooks, always a stickler for confidentiality, and your heart soars just a little.
"What are you doing?"
He glances up at you like it's the most obvious thing in the world. "I'm finding it so we can catch it and put it outside."
God, you think you might be in love with him.
It takes considerable digging, moving the piles around your desk before it's dislodged at the back. With a grace that only Clark Kent could muster up for the spawn of Satan, it's caught and gently placed out on the roof terrace.
As he closes the patio door behind him, you let out a small laugh, trying to disguise the humiliation coursing through your veins.
"Thank you, for that. I uh, don't do well with spiders, if you can believe it."
His smile is wide, teasing but not malicious. He's laughing with you. "S'okay. I was starting to wonder if you had any faults at all, actually."
"Oh, I have many, many faults," You say. "Don't need to worry about that one." A silence falls, comfortable and warm. He's looking at you, an unreadable expression in his eyes as you try and stop the heat from rising to your cheeks. "I should probably be getting home."
"I'll walk you-"
"You don't have to do that, I don't want to put you out-"
He's grabbing his jacket, ignoring everything. "What if you come across more spiders on the way home? We couldn't have that."
He's looking at you so earnestly that your resolve flies out the window.
"You make a good point," You muse. "Maybe better to be safe than sorry."
He makes everything feel so easy. And when he slips his hand into yours as you stroll through downtown Metropolis, your heart skips a beat. Then two.
two.
You’ve been locked in a dead heat with this spider for almost forty minutes. You’re positive that it must be out to torture you, some kind of cosmic retribution for all of the spider deaths you’ve inadvertently been responsible for over the years.
Currently hiding behind one of the photo frames hanging on your wall, you can’t even tell what size it is. Big, you’d guess, given the length of the spindly legs that peek out every so often.
There’s nothing for it. You’ll need to move the entire frame to get at the spider, and get it out of your apartment. The alternative is allowing this to go unchecked, and losing sight of it's whereabouts altogether.
Letting out a heavy sigh, you try and take a few steps towards the wall, but your legs don't seem to be co-operating.
It's ridiculous.
You've taken on hardened criminals, shady politicians, and literal aliens via your work at the Daily Planet, and you're stumped by a creature no bigger than your fist.
A tiny voice pops into the back of your head. You could call Clark.
It's a thought you immediately discard. You and Clark have been on three dates now, and while it's been wonderful, it's also still new. Really new.
You haven't even slept together yet.
Since finding out about Superman, it’s like Clark is terrified of hurting you. You know his physical strength is off the scale - that’s obvious just from watching the news. But when you’re together, his touches are featherlight - guiding, not possessive. It wasn’t until last night that you got past gentle pecks, ending the night pressed up against your door as Clark kissed you until you couldn’t breathe.
It was the best kiss you’ve ever had in your life.
You’d be lying if you said you hadn’t imagined more. Inviting him in, leading him to your bed and putting that X-Ray vision to good use. But the last thing you want to do is push. Not when things have been going so well.
He might think that the whole spider thing is just a ploy - a lame excuse to get him over and try to get into his pants. It is almost 2am. You’d think the same if the roles were reversed.
Finally, you give in, reaching for the phone, while your eyes remain glued to the frame on your wall, as if the spider is waiting for you to be distracted to make a move.
There’s an unread message from him already, a picture of the sunset from his commute home. Lips tugging up, you dial his number.
It doesn’t even get through a full ring before he picks up. “Is everything okay?” Worry laces his tone, and you curse yourself. He thinks something bad has happened.
“I’m okay,” You assure him. “Well… I uh, I could be better. I’m having a spider issue-” Saying it aloud makes it seem so much worse than it sounded in your head. Clark spends his days saving the world - using him for this feels almost sacrilegious. “-but I think I’m overreacting, I shouldn’t have woken you up-”
“Don’t be silly,” He murmurs. “Want me to come round?”
“Would that be okay?” You ask, lip between your teeth.
“Course. I’ll be there in a minute.”
You’re still not used to the fact that when Clark says he’ll be somewhere in a minute, he means a literal minute. A knock sounds at your door, and you pull your eyes away just long enough to unlock it.
“Hey, honey,” He begins, before frowning. “Your heartrate is really high.”
You offer him a bashful smile. “I don’t like spiders.”
“Where is the little guy?”
"Firstly - not little. Secondly - over there," You say, embarrassment taking hold. You pride yourself on being capable, someone reliable. If anyone else in the office ever found out about this, you'd never live it down.
"Behind the frame?"
"I tried moving it a little, but it wouldn't come out, and I didn't want to risk breaking anything."
He nods, like that makes perfect sense, like it wasn't crazy to call your maybe-almost-boyfriend over at 2am just to deal with a spider that most people wouldn't have even noticed.
"Open the window, and I'll get him and put him out."
Already incredibly in tune with your personality, he knows you don't even like seeing spiders. You're grateful for the distraction.
While you busy yourself with the latch, he lets out a low whistle. "Wow. That is a big one."
You feel mildly vindicated, at the fact that Clark thinks it's big too. Maybe it wasn't a total overreaction.
Spider gone, he's turning back to you. "You know, when you first called I thought you just wanted an excuse for me to come over."
His hands settle on your waist, and you lean into his touch, brushing your nose against his. "While that's definitely a plus of this whole situation, I'm really just a scaredy-cat."
"Well, I'm happy to oblige." He's kissing you, soft and slow as his arms wrap round you, lifting until you're at his level. Instinctively, your legs wrap round his waist, feeling his tight corded muscles through his trousers.
A few minutes passes, before you detach yourself, resting your forehead against his. "I really like you, Clark."
"I really like you, too."
"No, like... really like you. A lot." Not your most eloquent work, but with the way he's looking at you it's a miracle you can even form words.
"Are you sure you're not just blinded by the spider fear?" He murmurs, pushing a free strand of hair from your forehead.
"Can't a girl like a man and his spider-catching abilities?" You're overcome with uncharacteristic boldness. "Maybe you should stay."
"Yeah?"
You nod, draping your arms across his shoulders. "Only if you want to-"
"I want to," He interjects. "I really want to."
three.
Clark is braced above you, lips trailing along your neck, when you spot it. Angled directly above your heads - if it were to lose grip and fall, it would either land in Clark’s hair, or your face.
Body freezing, your hands stop mid-movement, engagement ring glinting in the moonlight. You’re still not used to being a fiancée. The term seems so foreign. But you like it. You like being Clark’s fiancée.
You like it when little old ladies at the grocery ogle it, and you’re able to preen, pointing him out as he helps someone reach the top shelf. The phrase ‘handsome young man’ is one you hear all the time these days.
You like it when he holds your hands during sex, lacing his fingers through yours as he whispers praise - you’re sure you’ll like it even more when the matching band adorns his own hand.
Most of all, you like that it ties you to him. It’s silly, and you know you’re tied to Clark in far more meaningful ways than a ring, but the hopeless romantic in you loves the entire experience.
“Clark,” You mumble, as his hips slow. You have to bite back a whimper as he stops entirely, buried to the hilt.
“Hm?” He’s barely paying attention, still working at your neck.
“There’s a spider.”
“Can I get it after we finish?” He asks, pulling back slightly, pupils blown wide as he looks down at you.
“It’s right above our heads,” You whisper, voice almost pitiful. He follows your gaze, letting out a sigh when he spots it.
“Nothing kills the mood like that, huh?” There’s a slight teasing to his tone, but he dutifully gets to his feet, moving you over to the side of the bed that’s spider-free, before grabbing his boxers.
You sit, knees up to your chest as you watch him grab an empty cup and hold it to the ceiling. It only takes a minute before he’s depositing it out the window, and padding back through to the bedroom.
“Better?”
“My hero,” You hum, reaching out to pull him down towards you, kissing him deeply. “Thank you.”
"Starting to think that might be why you keep me around."
You shake your head, biting back a smile. "You're pretty good in bed, too."
"Yeah? Care to get back to that, then?" He's lying you back down, elbows resting down each side of you.
"I love you," You murmur, as he kisses you again, lips soft and inviting. "You're a really great spider-man."
"Spider-man?" Clark repeats, arching an eyebrow.
You shrug slightly. "Feels fitting."
four.
It feels like you’ve been pregnant for years. Having not even hit seven months yet, you’re huge, and you’re pretty sure most people assume it must be twins. That one’s a little bit on you, for deciding to have a baby with an extraterrestrial.
Turns out, Kryptonians make big babies. At least, that’s what Clark keeps telling you. Whether it’s true or not, you don’t know - he might just be trying to make you feel better.
He’s so wonderful that you don’t even have it in you to begrudge his genetics. All of his enhancements allow him to be perfectly in tune with both you and the baby, and predict your every need. He was able to tell the sex of the baby months before the official ultrasounds. You had celebrated your little girl at seven weeks, as opposed to the usual sixteen.
He even knew you were pregnant before you did.
Sensing the changes almost straight away, he had waited patiently until you’d noticed a few weeks later, after a late period and some tenderness in your breasts. You had fully been expecting to surprise him with the tiny onesie, embroidered with Daddy. Instead, he had hugged you tightly, and told you softly that he’s known for a month.
She even loves the sound of his voice. An incredibly active baby already, any time Clark lies with his head level to the bump, murmuring softly about his day, and about how excited the two of you are to meet her, she quietens.
One of his many superpowers.
You’re beyond excited for the baby to arrive. While there are obviously some nerves around motherhood, you’re endlessly glad to be doing it with Clark. He’s going to be an incredible father.
Unfortunately, your current situation seems to heighten all of your emotions. Including fear. Which means that you’re utterly incapacitated by the spider on the bathroom wall.
You can’t even call Clark - he’s on important Daily Planet business all day, in and out of meetings. You’d be lucky to catch him during the in-between periods.
It’s worth a try, anyway.
Hands trembling and feet aching, a spider is the last thing you need today.
You: Can you talk?
Clark: Are you both okay?
You: Yeah, just a spider - was hoping for a pep talk to hype myself up to kill it.
Clark: So sorry, honey. This meeting’s going on forever. I already had to slip out for a call to Guy, they won’t let me out again.
Clark: Give me a minute.
You: Don’t worry about it, honestly. It really isn’t that big.
Liar.
You: Love you, will see you tonight x
There are a few minutes of silence, while you try and work out a gameplan. You could try and catch it, using that new-fangled thing that Clark got you for Christmas one year. It had been a nice thought, but you’re rendered so terrified by spiders that you can’t even get close enough to use it most of the time.
Or you could throw stuff at it, hope something sticks and just kills it. But then if you miss you run the risk of angering it. Or losing it entirely.
You hope this kid is more like her dad, and doesn’t mind spiders. Clark can’t be here all the time, and the last thing you need is two people hiding in the corner.
Your phone buzzes again.
Clark: Open the kitchen window
You: Huh? The spider isn’t near the window, it’s in the bathroom
Clark: Just, trust me, okay?
Mildly bewildered, you head into the kitchen, and push the window wide. You’re about to text Clark back, ask what’s going on, when a shape careens through the opening, just narrowly missing you. Krypto lands on the ground, tail wagging happily as he looks up at you, and you let out a laugh.
You know for a fact that Krypto’s living in Antarctica while Kara is away - which means Clark called on him to travel across the planet just so that you don’t have to deal with a spider.
“Hey buddy,” You bend down to pet him, ruffling his ears. “You my spider-man for the day?”
He’s immediately trotting through the house, knocking various stacks of books as he goes. Making it to the bathroom, he pauses, weighing up his options before lunging. In one fell swoop, the spider is gone, crunched between Krypto’s teeth. You’re positive that’s not what Clark told him to do.
Clark’s never killed a spider in his life. But as long as it’s gone, you aren’t complaining.
“Good boy!” You praise, leading him back to the living room. Grabbing at some treats, you pet him, and he curls up beside you on the couch. He’s content to snooze for a bit, while you reply to Clark, your free hand stroking him softly.
You: Thank you <3 Krypto’s an excellent substitute
Clark: Glad he listened for once. See you tonight, sweet girl
Much to your endless relief, Caroline Kent grows to be a fearless child, who doesn’t mind doing her dad’s spider job when he’s otherwise occupied.
You’re subject to much teasing from Clark, then Caroline, and then Joshua. It isn’t until little Alana comes along eight years later that you finally have an ally.
summary; Jake Seresin never planned on kids—until he fell for a woman who came with two. Now he’s fighting for something more than love: a place in their family.
word count; 7.9k (yikes)
warnings; jake is in his late-thirties in this one, a bit angsty but nothing big, domestic!jake, the daggers giving him a hard time, english is not my first language happy ending!!!
a/n; i've just started writing for jake but i can't stop lol, i also can't stop writing him as a softie, if you have any other concepts requests are open!! thank you for reading <3
masterlist
Jake Seresin never wanted kids. Not in the casual, maybe-one-day kind of way, but in the firm, I’ll-pass-on-the-whole-diaper-and-daycare-deal kind of way. He liked his life just fine the way it was—clean, uncomplicated, and blissfully quiet. He was content to play the role of the charming, overenthusiastic uncle who showed up twice a year with expensive gifts, got everyone riled up on sugar and bad jokes, and then peaced out before bedtime. It was perfect. No PTA meetings, no meltdowns over mismatched socks, and certainly no existential parenting panic at two a.m. He wasn’t built for the full-time responsibility of small, emotionally complex humans. That was for other people.
And yet—here he was.
It was eight in the damn morning. On a Sunday. He was sitting in a flimsy folding chair that might have been made of recycled soda cans, parked on the sidelines of a grassy field that was already too hot, too dusty, and too full of screaming parents. He sipped burnt coffee from a paper cup that was somehow both scalding and lukewarm. And next to him sat a fifteen-year-old girl with crossed arms, a withering stare, and the kind of quiet contempt usually reserved for people who talk during movies. Olive. Your daughter. She hadn’t said a word to him since they’d arrived—unless eye rolls counted as conversation, in which case they were having a spirited debate.
Jake shifted in his seat and dared a glance at her. She was scrolling on her phone, earbuds in, gaze flicking up occasionally just to make sure he didn’t get any bright ideas about speaking.
Right, he thought. Definitely would push me off a cliff if she thought she could get away with it.
Maybe he was being dramatic.
But maybe not.
After all, she had muttered “God help us” under her breath when he offered her a donut that morning. He was trying, damn it. He’d gotten up early, worn the team shirt (even though he didn’t know what sport this even was until last night), and brought snacks. Snacks! That had to count for something.
He sighed and looked back toward the field, where your son—Matthew—was running after the ball like his life depended on it. Jake smiled a little despite himself. The kid had hustle. Grit. And sure, maybe he hadn’t said more than three words to Jake all week, but he also hadn’t told him to go to hell. Yet.
Progress. Probably.
Jake leaned back, trying to ignore the way Olive turned slightly away from him, as like even their folding chairs touching might contaminate her. This wasn’t exactly the version of his life he’d pictured for himself.
And yet—he hadn’t thought about leaving once.
You met exactly a year ago. Jake swears the moment you walked into the Hard Deck—laughing at something your friend said, eyes scanning the room like you belonged there—his whole world shifted on its axis. By the time you made your way over and introduced yourself, it was already over for him. Completely and hopelessly gone.
The version of him that had once thrived on casual flings and a phone full of first names and vague memories? Dead on arrival. The guy who used to change numbers every few months just to keep things light, to make sure no one ever got too close—that guy hadn’t stood a chance the moment you smiled at him.
Jake didn’t fall often. But with you, he didn’t fall.
He plummeted.
He didn’t care that you were divorced, or that you came with two kids and a complicated past shaped by an ex-husband who barely remembered to call on birthdays, let alone show up. None of it scared him off. Because you were worth it. You were worth early mornings and cold bleachers, worth waking up at six a.m. just to watch your ten-year-old sprint in the wrong direction on the soccer field with mismatched socks and untied cleats. You were worth every withering stare and dramatic sigh your teenage daughter aimed his way, as if his very existence was a personal offense. You were worth the nights spent helping with school projects he didn’t understand, sitting through animated movies he didn’t care about, and learning how to braid hair badly but with genuine effort.
You were messy and real and grounded, and he had never wanted anything more.
He was in love with you—undeniably, irreversibly, the kind of love that settled into his bones and made everything before you feel like a half-lived life. Truly, madly, deeply. But even in the glow of that certainty, Jake understood something crystal clear: no matter how deeply you loved him back, it wouldn’t be enough if he couldn’t find a way into the hearts of your children. Sooner or later, that unspoken wall would become too heavy for even the strongest love to carry.
And he couldn’t let that happen.
Not when—for the first time in his life—he was certain he’d found someone worth becoming more for. Someone who made him want to be softer, better, different.
You were the one. And he was determined to prove it… not just to you, but to the two people who mattered most to you in the world.
"You did so well! That was a great game, sweetheart!" you beamed, pulling your son into a hug the second he was close enough—not caring that he was dripping with sweat, covered in mud, and tracking grass across your shoes. He grinned, breathless and proud, his cheeks flushed from the effort.
"Nice job, buddy," Jake added, clapping a hand on Matthew’s shoulder. "You were the only one who scored a goal out there."
He said it just loud enough for a few nearby parents to hear, smirking when a couple of them shot him thinly veiled looks of irritation. Was it petty? Maybe. But he was riding high on team spirit—and frankly, their kids had sucked a little.
To be fair, so had Matthew, but Jake wasn’t about to let accuracy cost him stepdad points.
"You're such a liar," Olive muttered under her breath, arms crossed and tone dripping with teenage disdain. "He almost scored for the other team more times than his own."
Jake raised an eyebrow but wisely said nothing.
"Honey, that’s enough," you said evenly, not missing a beat. Your voice was calm, practiced, the kind of tone that had been honed over years of parenting and wasn’t up for debate. "Why don’t you be helpful and take out the earbuds—maybe start folding the chairs?"
Olive sighed dramatically, like you'd asked her to lift a car instead of clean up after her own brother’s game. But she yanked out one earbud anyway and trudged toward the chairs, muttering something about child labor under her breath.
Jake watched the whole exchange with cautious admiration. You handled her like a pro—firm, loving, and entirely unshaken. Honestly? It was kind of hot.
“Thanks for coming, Jake!” Matthew grinned up at him, cheeks still pink from running, his voice full of that unfiltered, ten-year-old sincerity that made Jake’s chest tighten just a little. Then he turned and took off toward the car, eager to help his sister load up the gear.
Jake’s eyes lingered on him for a second longer than necessary, the smallest smile tugging at his lips. It wasn’t much—but it was something. A crack in the wall. A win.
“One down, one to go,” you teased beside him, slipping your hand into his just long enough to give it a squeeze and press a quick kiss to his cheek.
Jake turned his head, not fast enough to catch your lips, but just in time to catch the warmth still lingering in your smile before you walked away to help your kids.
And God help him—he felt like he’d just been handed a trophy.
[...]
“Who would've thought a fifteen-year-old would be your downfall?” Rooster laughed, clapping a heavy hand on Jake’s shoulder as he took a long sip of his beer. “Hangman, taken down by a teenager. It's almost poetic.”
Jake rolled his eyes, leaning back in the patio chair with a groan. “Wait until you meet her—then we can talk.”
Rooster smirked. “What’d you even do to make her hate your guts so much? Steal her charger? Eat the last slice of pizza?”
“Nothing!” Jake threw his hands up in defeat. “I’ve been on my best fucking behavior since day one. I’ve carried grocery bags, I’ve watched musicals, I sat through a three-hour cheer competition in a gym that smelled like feet. And the most I’ve gotten out of her—the most—was a stiff, one-armed side hug after I gave her Taylor Swift concert tickets for her birthday.”
Rooster nearly choked on his drink. “You gave her Eras Tour tickets and she hugged you like you were a tax auditor?”
Jake stared off into the distance, hollow. “Didn’t even make eye contact.”
Rooster whistled low. “Brutal. You’re in deep.”
Jake shook his head. “Deeper than I’ve ever been. And I can’t even bribe my way out of it.”
“And what are you gonna do?” Phoenix asked, raising an eyebrow over her drink as she leaned back in her chair.
Jake let out a sigh that came from somewhere deep in his soul. “I have no idea. None. But if I can’t get her to at least stop rolling her eyes and groaning every time I walk into the room, I can kiss my beautiful girlfriend goodbye.”
Phoenix smirked. “That dramatic, huh?”
Jake nodded grimly. “She doesn’t even try to hide it anymore. I walk in, she sighs like I just ruined her whole life. I say good morning, she looks at me like I’ve personally offended her entire bloodline.”
Phoenix snorted. “Yeah. That sounds about right for fifteen.”
“I’m fighting for my life out here,” Jake muttered, dragging a hand down his face. “And she’s winning.”
Phoenix leaned forward, resting her elbows on her knees. “Okay, so… maybe stop trying so hard.”
Jake blinked at her. “Excuse me?”
“I mean it,” she said, shrugging. “Teenagers can smell desperation from a mile away. If you’re going in guns blazing with snacks and fake enthusiasm, she’s gonna see right through you. Ease off. Give her space.”
“She has space,” Jake argued. “She has an entire closed door between us at all times.”
Rooster laughed. “That’s not space, man. That’s a fortress.”
Phoenix smirked. “Which you’re not getting into by showing up with concert tickets and forced smiles. You need to stop trying to impress her and start trying to understand her.”
Jake slumped in his chair. “I don’t even speak teenager. She talks in memes and sarcasm. I tried asking her about school and she hit me with a ‘that’s crazy’ and walked away.”
Rooster raised his beer. “Classic.”
“Okay, what do you know about her?” Phoenix asked, cutting in more seriously now. “What does she like—besides Taylor Swift?”
Jake thought for a second. “Um. She likes… sketching. I’ve seen her doodling in a notebook. She listens to those true crime podcasts. And she watches these weird movies where no one smiles and everyone stares out windows a lot.”
“So she’s an artsy, brooding little gremlin,” Rooster said, nodding thoughtfully. “Got it.”
Phoenix rolled her eyes. “She’s fifteen. It’s basically a requirement.”
Jake tilted his head, something shifting behind his eyes. “She had a pencil in her bun the other day. I asked about it and she looked at me like I was interrupting a sacred ritual. But she didn’t roll her eyes. Just kind of… blinked. And then walked off.”
Phoenix grinned. “That’s not nothing. Find a way in through that—her art. Ask her about it without being weird or fake. Be curious, not performative.”
Jake raised an eyebrow. “You think she’ll talk to me if I ask about what she’s drawing?”
“She might,” Phoenix said. “Or she might grunt and leave the room. Either way, don’t take it personally. Just show up. Be consistent. Let her see you’re not going anywhere.”
Rooster leaned in. “And don’t try to be cool. You’re not.”
“Hey!” Jake protested.
“You’re Hangman, not ‘cool stepdad TikTok guy.’ Know your lane.”
Jake huffed a laugh, then shook his head. “You guys are the worst support group.”
Phoenix raised her glass. “And yet, here we are—saving your ass one reluctant teenager at a time.”
Jake smiled, just a little. “One day, if she ever stops sighing when I breathe, I’ll buy you both dinner.”
“I want steak,” Phoenix said.
“I want her to not call you cringe at the table,” Rooster added.
Jake leaned back and sighed. “God, I’m doomed.”
But there was a flicker of something behind the complaint. Hope, maybe. Determination.
Because maybe he was doomed.
But he was going to keep trying anyway.
[...]
Jake pushed the cart with one hand, the other resting comfortably on your lower back as you wandered down the cereal aisle. It was a lazy kind of Sunday afternoon, the store humming with the sound of rolling wheels, distant chatter, and the occasional beeping of price scanners. The fluorescents buzzed overhead, but you didn’t seem to notice, happily weighing two boxes of granola like the fate of the world depended on it.
“This one has flaxseed,” you said, holding up a box. “That’s supposed to be good for digestion, right?”
Jake leaned over to glance at it. “Sounds like it tastes like mulch.”
You laughed—warm, unbothered, familiar. The sound settled in his chest like something sacred. “It does. But Matthew likes it for some reason.”
Jake tossed the box into the cart with a dramatic sigh. “Of course he does. The child eats like a seventy-year-old yoga instructor.”
You snorted, nudging him with your hip. “He’s trying to be healthy.”
“Right,” Jake said, steering the cart around the corner. “And Olive only eats organic chicken and lives off sarcasm.”
You didn’t say anything right away, but you reached out and took his hand, giving it a light squeeze. The simple gesture—casual, instinctive—hit him harder than he expected.
Jake glanced sideways at you as you pushed the cart together, and something in his chest gave a quiet, almost painful tug. The way your hair fell loosely down your back. The curve of your smile as you scanned a list on your phone. The comfort in how you moved beside him like he’d always been there.
This was your life—grocery runs, granola debates, two kids and a household full of routines he was slowly learning to fit into. It was ordinary and messy and sometimes chaotic.
And he wanted it. God, he wanted it.
He’d never imagined himself here—debating flaxseed cereal and comparing price-per-ounce on almond milk—but standing next to you, stealing a kiss near the end of aisle seven like it was nothing, Jake knew with stunning clarity:
He couldn’t lose this. He wouldn’t.
He’d take a hundred awkward side-hugs from Olive and sit through every chaotic soccer game Matthew played if it meant he could keep showing up next to you like this. Laughing in grocery stores. Holding your hand like it was the most natural thing in the world.
“You’re staring,” you said softly, eyes flicking up from your phone, amused.
Jake smiled, a little slower, a little softer. “I just like watching you do normal things.”
You tilted your head, skeptical. “Normal like… read cereal labels?”
“Exactly like that,” he said, pulling you a little closer by the cart. “You’re hot when you’re being responsible.” You laughed again, shaking your head as you continued down the aisle.
“Careful, Seresin. You keep talking like that, and I’ll make you do the budgeting next time.”
Jake chuckled, following after you, already reaching for the next item on your list.
And in his mind, he was already planning dinner for four.
[...]
Jake didn’t get much detail—just a rushed call from the school saying you’d been stuck dealing with a work emergency and couldn’t make it in time to pick up Olive. It was already past six, and her practice had ended twenty minutes ago. Without thinking, Jake had grabbed his keys and left his half-full grocery bags on the counter.
He didn’t even turn off the engine when he spotted her sitting on the curb outside the gym, arms crossed, hoodie pulled over her head, glaring at the pavement like it had personally offended her.
“Hey,” he called as he rolled the window down. “Sorry I’m late.”
She didn’t answer, just stood and yanked the car door open. Slammed it shut behind her like she was hoping it might shatter. Jake swallowed whatever sarcasm was on his tongue and pulled away from the curb.
The silence lasted a good two minutes.
“Do you want to grab something to eat on the way back?” he asked carefully, glancing at her. “I know your mom won’t be home for a bit."
“No.”
“Alright,” he said slowly, trying to keep his tone neutral. “You don’t have to bite my head off. I’m just trying to help.”
“I didn’t ask for help,” Olive muttered, eyes fixed on her phone.
Jake’s grip tightened on the steering wheel. “Look, I get that I’m not your favorite person—”
“You’re not even a person to me,” she snapped, not looking up. “You’re just some guy my mom is dating who thinks buying popcorn and giving rides makes him part of the family.”
Jake exhaled hard through his nose. He made a sharp right and pulled over to the side of the road, throwing the truck into park with more force than necessary.
“What are you doing?” she asked, finally looking up.
“We’re not doing this passive-aggressive bullshit in the car,” he said flatly, turning to face her. “You don’t like me? Fine. But at least be honest about why instead of pretending I’m invisible.”
She blinked at him, stunned for a second, then shoved her phone into her hoodie pocket. “You want honesty? Okay.”
Jake raised his eyebrows, bracing himself.
“You’re not my father,” she said, her voice rising with each word. “You’re not even close. And you never will be. You can keep pretending like this happy family thing is gonna work, but it’s not. My dad doesn’t even care enough to call. He forgot my birthday. Again. So no, Jake, I don’t need another guy pretending to care when it’s convenient.”
The car went quiet, her words hanging in the air like smoke.
Jake blinked, stunned silent—not by her anger, but by the pain behind it. “Olive…” he started, but his voice caught.
She shook her head, eyes glossy now, but she blinked the tears away before they could fall. “Just drive.”
He wanted to say something—anything—but everything that came to mind felt like it would make things worse. So he shifted the truck back into gear and pulled away from the curb, the silence between them sharper than it had been before.
No more words. No music. Just the hum of the engine and the ache in his chest.
They didn’t mend things that night.
But for the first time, Jake saw the truth clearly. Olive wasn’t just angry—she was hurting. And no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t fix it with concert tickets or car rides.
Not yet.
But he wasn't giving up.
You knew something was off the second Jake walked through the door. He didn’t say anything at first—just set his keys on the counter a little too quietly, slipped off his boots, and ran a hand through his hair like he was trying to ground himself.
“Thanks for picking her up,” you said gently, glancing up from the dinner you hadn’t touched. “I know that wasn’t ideal.”
“She’s safe,” he replied, voice low. “But… it wasn’t great.”
Your stomach twisted. “What happened?”
Jake leaned against the counter, crossing his arms over his chest with a sigh. “We had a fight. She… she said some stuff. I didn’t handle it as well as I should’ve.”
You nodded slowly, trying to blink back the sting in your eyes. “Yeah. That sounds about right.”
Jake looked at you then, really looked at you. You weren’t crying, but you looked tired—bone tired. The kind of tired that didn’t come from work or errands, but from carrying too much for too long.
“She told me I’m not her father,” he said carefully.
“She’s right,” you whispered, pressing your lips together. “You’re not.”
The silence that followed wasn’t bitter. It was honest.
You turned away to busy yourself with clearing the dishes, even though they hadn’t been used. “You know… I didn’t expect my ex and I to stay friends. I didn’t even expect him to be particularly involved. We hadn’t loved each other in years, and ending it was mutual. We were better as two than we were as one.”
Jake stayed quiet, letting you speak.
“But I thought…” You swallowed. “I thought that at the very least, he’d show up for them. I thought no matter what happened between us, he’d still be their dad. And for a while, he was.”
You paused, gripping the edge of the counter like it might anchor you.
“And then one day, the calls stopped. The visits stopped. Olive made excuses for him for a while—said he was busy, said he forgot. But she knew. And Matthew… he still asks if they can call him at bedtime, like maybe tonight he’ll pick up. And every time he doesn’t, I have to lie through my teeth about why.”
Jake’s chest ached.
You finally turned to face him, arms crossed, but not in defiance—just holding yourself together. “Olive’s not mad at you, Jake. Not really. She’s mad at him. But you’re here, and he’s not. So she gives her anger somewhere to go.”
Jake moved toward you, slowly, giving you space to stop him if you needed to. You didn’t.
“I’m doing everything I can to keep them okay,” you said, voice cracking just enough. “But Olive grows colder every day, and Matthew still believes in people who have already left. And I don’t know how to fix it. I don’t even know if I can. Some days I feel like I’m failing them both.”
Jake didn’t say anything at first. Just closed the distance between you and gently pulled you into his arms.
You let yourself fall into him, your forehead resting against his chest, breathing in the calm that always seemed to follow him—even if it wavered sometimes.
“You’re not failing them,” he said softly, his voice vibrating through you.
“You’re doing everything they need, even when they don’t know how to ask for it.”
He paused, then added, “And I’m not going anywhere. Even if Olive wishes I would. Even if she never likes me. I’m still here.”
You closed your eyes, letting yourself believe him for a moment. Letting yourself rest, even if just for tonight.
Because if nothing else, you didn’t have to carry it alone anymore.
The next morning passed in the kind of hush that only comes after a storm — not tense, exactly, just careful. Olive had emerged from her room wearing headphones, sunglasses, and the universal look of don’t talk to me unless it’s life or death. Matthew, in contrast, was chatty and barefoot, eating dry cereal out of a mug like it was popcorn.
Jake was at the stove, flipping pancakes with the kind of cautious determination of a man who hadn’t cooked for kids much but really didn’t want to mess it up. You leaned against the counter beside him, sipping coffee, giving him an amused but supportive look every time a pancake came out semi-round.
“Do I get a gold star if these are edible?” he muttered under his breath.
“You get two if no one cries before noon.”
“High stakes,” he said, flipping another one onto the plate.
From the table, Matthew asked, “Do I have to go to school today?”
You raised your eyebrows. “Yes. Nice try.”
Jake turned around with the pancake plate in hand. “Alright, team. Syrup's on the table. Who’s ready to pretend this is better than it looks?”
Matthew cheered and Olive rolled her eyes — but quieter this time, more out of habit than spite. She took a pancake, poured a little syrup, then sat down and picked at it.
You caught the glance she gave Jake — not warm, not soft, but not full of fire either. Neutral. Tired.
He didn’t expect anything. He just sat across from her and let the silence sit.
A few minutes passed before Olive spoke, voice low, eyes not leaving her plate.
“Sorry about yesterday.”
Jake blinked, surprised, but didn’t jump on it. “For what?” he asked gently.
She shrugged. “Being... a lot. I was mad. I still am. But you didn’t deserve all of it.”
He nodded slowly, meeting her halfway. “It’s okay. You’ve got every right to be mad. Just... for what it’s worth, I’m not trying to take anyone’s place. I’m just trying to be around. That’s it.”
Olive didn’t answer, but she didn’t flinch away either. She just nodded once and went back to eating.
Matthew, bless him, completely oblivious to the emotional breakthrough happening five feet away, asked, “Can we watch a movie tonight? The three of us?”
Jake glanced at you. You smiled and nodded.
“Yeah, bud,” Jake said. “We can do that.”
The living room looked a little different when it was dimmed down and filled with soft lamplight and the sound of popcorn popping in the kitchen. The couch was a chaotic mess of mismatched blankets and pillows, a fortress cobbled together by Matthew earlier in the day, complete with a sign made from notebook paper that read: "Cuddle Zone: Entry Requires Snacks." Jake had laughed when he saw it, then took it as a personal challenge and returned from the kitchen with a bowl large enough to feed a small army.
Now, the three of you were curled up in the fortress, the movie halfway through, glowing on the screen in that bluish tint that makes everything else look soft and tired. Matthew had claimed the spot in the middle, legs sprawled across both your laps, his head resting on a cushion balanced between your shoulder and Jake’s arm.
You’d chosen a movie everyone had seen before—an old animated favorite, predictable and comforting. Something that didn’t ask too much of anyone.
Jake had come prepared. He didn’t try too hard, didn’t make any awkward jokes or commentary. He just sat, present and warm, occasionally handing Matthew more popcorn or brushing your knee lightly when he passed the bowl. He wasn’t filling the silence with effort. He was just… there.
And Olive was there too.
She sat curled on the far side of the couch, knees tucked under her, hoodie sleeves pulled over her hands, a quiet presence at the edge of the moment. She hadn't said much since dinner, but she hadn't disappeared back into her room either. She’d chosen to be here. That was something.
At one point, Matthew mumbled something about a plot hole in the movie and Jake leaned over, voice conspiratorial. “I mean, the main character is a singing raccoon. I think we passed logical realism a while ago.”
To your surprise, Olive gave a soft snort, barely audible. She caught herself almost immediately and looked down, as if embarrassed.
Jake didn’t push it. He just offered her the popcorn bowl wordlessly.
She took a handful.
It was small. Just a passing exchange. But you felt it—the shift. The subtle way the room warmed just a little more.
You glanced at Jake and found him already looking at you, his expression open and gentle. There was something in his eyes, something that looked like awe. Like peace. Like this. All of this—blankets and popcorn and one-word apologies and fifteen-year-old silence broken by reluctant laughter—it was everything.
Jake had never wanted kids.
But now? He couldn’t imagine not wanting this.
Not the clean, filtered version of family life. Not the perfect dinners or the Instagram-worthy moments. No—he wanted this. The complicated, messy, real-life version. The half-mended relationships, the learning curve, the quiet victories of a single laugh or a shared couch. He wanted every sigh, every sarcastic eye-roll, every awkward moment that came with loving people who didn’t owe him anything.
Because he loved you.
And whether Olive knew it yet or not… he was learning how to love her too. In her own time, in her own language.
The credits started to roll. Matthew blinked up at the screen, then yawned wide and dramatic like he’d just climbed Everest. “I’m not tired,” he said, his voice sleep-drenched.
“You’re literally falling asleep mid-sentence,” you said, brushing his hair back.
“Can I sleep on the couch?” he asked, already halfway curled into your side.
Jake smiled. “I’ll get the good blanket.”
As he stood and stepped toward the hall closet, Olive shifted slightly, pulling her knees up to her chest, her voice soft in the quiet.
“You don’t have to try so hard,” she said.
You looked over at her, surprised. “What do you mean?”
She shrugged, not looking at you. “Jake. I know he’s trying. I just… I don’t want him to think he has to do all this just to make us like him.”
You studied her, your heart aching in that complex way only a mother’s heart can. “He doesn’t think that, baby. He’s doing it because he wants to. Because he cares.”
Olive didn’t say anything right away. But when Jake returned with the blanket and tucked it gently around Matthew, she didn’t pull away when his hand brushed hers.
And for the first time, she looked him in the eye and said, “Thanks.”
Just that. A single word. But it was a door cracked open.
Jake gave her a small nod. “Anytime.”
The house had finally settled.
Matthew had been carried to bed without so much as a protest, half-asleep and mumbling something about needing more popcorn next time. Olive had disappeared into her room without a word, not slamming the door this time, which you counted as a solid win. The movie was long over, the lights dimmed low, and the living room was scattered with the remains of a cozy night: blankets askew, half-full mugs of cocoa on the coffee table, and a trail of popcorn Jake kept crunching underfoot.
“Okay, seriously, how did he get it this everywhere?” Jake asked, stooping to pick a kernel out from between the couch cushions.
“He eats popcorn like a wild animal,” you said, amused as you folded one of the blankets. “It’s part of his charm.”
Jake gave you a look. “Charm, huh? That’s what we’re calling it.”
You tossed a pillow at him. He caught it easily, laughing as he dropped it back onto the couch and crossed the room toward you. His T-shirt was slightly wrinkled, his hair a little messy from where you’d run your fingers through it earlier, and he looked so completely at home it made something in your chest swell.
“You’re beautiful when you’re smug,” you said softly, reaching out to straighten the hem of his shirt just to have a reason to touch him.
Jake leaned in, resting his hands on your waist. “I’m always smug. Does that mean you think I’m always beautiful?”
You grinned. “Don’t fish for compliments.”
“Not fishing,” he said, dipping his head to kiss your cheek. “Just confirming what I already know.”
You laughed quietly, leaning into him, hands slipping beneath his shirt to press against his warm skin. He didn’t flinch or tease — just let out a long, contented breath and wrapped his arms around you like you were the thing grounding him.
There was something sacred in that moment. The late-night hush, the soft rustling of the house settling, the way your bodies fit together like you’d been built to find each other.
Neither of you noticed the hallway light shifting slightly.
Just down the corridor, Olive stood tucked in the shadows outside her bedroom door, barefoot and quiet, the glow from the living room casting long shadows on the floor. She hadn’t meant to spy. She’d gotten up to get water, headphones off for once, and she’d paused when she heard you laugh.
Not your mom-laugh — the one you used when someone spilled juice or told a corny joke. But the real one. The laugh that used to live in old photos and short-lived moments before things got complicated. The laugh that lit up your whole face.
And it wasn’t just that you were laughing.
It was him.
Jake had his arms around you like he didn’t want to be anywhere else. He was smiling into your neck, whispering something that made you swat at him half-heartedly, laughing again like the two of you were the only people in the world. You looked happy.
Not polite-happy. Not “holding-it-together” happy.
Just... happy.
Olive didn’t smile. But she didn’t look away, either. She stood there, quietly watching this version of you, one she didn’t get to see often. One she didn’t know if she even remembered.
And without knowing why, without even wanting to admit it yet, she started to understand something:
Maybe Jake wasn’t trying to take anything from her.
Maybe he was just giving something back to you.
Quietly, she turned and padded back into her room, the door clicking softly behind her.
In the living room, you leaned your forehead against Jake’s and whispered, “Thank you. For tonight. For all of it.”
His thumb traced lazy circles over your hip. “You don’t have to thank me. This is the best part of my day.”
“You say that even when we’re cleaning up popcorn at eleven-thirty at night.”
Jake kissed you again, slower this time. “Especially then.”
[...]
Jake glanced in the rearview mirror just in time to see Olive roll her eyes —again— though this time, there was no venom behind it. Just the practiced exasperation of a teenager being forced into an uncool weekend plan.
“A bar,” she deadpanned, arms crossed, legs kicked up on the back of the front seat. “Seriously?”
Jake smirked, shifting lanes. “It’s not like I’m dropping you off at a biker dive in the middle of nowhere. The Hard Deck has food, good views, and I didn’t feel like cooking. Plus, your mom said she didn’t want you guys surviving off cereal and vending machine snacks while she’s stuck at work.”
“You say that like cereal isn’t an elite meal option,” Olive muttered.
“Reese’s Puffs and orange soda,” Matthew added from the back, proudly. “A classic.”
Jake shook his head, trying not to laugh. “Well, luckily for everyone involved, Penny makes real food. Burgers. Fries. That grilled cheese with the fancy bread you liked last time.”
“I did like that,” Olive said, almost to herself. Then: “Is Phoenix gonna be there?”
“She might be,” Jake said, glancing at her. “Why?”
“She sounds cool.”
Jake tried to hide the pleased smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Yeah, she is.”
There was a pause, just long enough to notice. Then Olive spoke again, her tone more curious than challenging. “So… how long have you known them? Phoenix. Rooster. The others.”
Jake blinked, surprised — but not wanting to spook her. “A while now. Since flight school, for some of them. Since Top Gun for most. The Navy’s big, but we all kind of circle back around eventually.”
“Are you all, like, best friends or whatever?” she asked, eyes fixed out the window.
Jake chuckled. “More like siblings. We love each other. We also want to strangle each other sometimes. Rooster leaves wet towels on the floor. Bob color-codes his spices. And Phoenix—well, she has this very charming way of calling me out in front of entire rooms full of people.”
Olive cracked a smile before she could stop herself. “So basically, she’s me.”
“Exactly,” Jake said, grinning. “You’d fit right in.”
Matthew leaned forward between the seats. “Do you fly with them all the time?”
“Not always, but when we’re all stationed together like now, yeah. We train together, run drills. And when we’re lucky, we just sit around Penny’s bar and talk about nothing.”
“That sounds kinda boring,” Matthew said.
“That’s because you’re ten and think ‘fun’ means screaming at soccer practice and losing socks at sleepovers.”
Matthew opened his mouth to object but then nodded. “Okay, yeah. That’s fair.”
They lapsed into an easy silence. The kind that didn’t need to be filled. Jake’s hands rested loosely on the wheel, the salt air drifting in through the open windows as they got closer to the beach. The radio played low in the background — some mellow '90s rock song that Matthew was humming tunelessly along with.
Then Olive spoke again.
“Why’d you even say yes to all this?” she asked, and Jake turned his head slightly.
“To lunch?”
“To… us,” she clarified, not looking at him but not bristling either. “Me. Matthew. All of it. You didn’t sign up for any of this.”
Jake took a moment. He didn’t want to brush it off or make a joke. He owed her more than that.
“I didn’t plan for it,” he said honestly. “I never thought I’d end up in a relationship that came with two extra humans and a whole built-in chaos package. But I met your mom… and suddenly, everything I thought I didn’t want didn’t matter anymore.”
Olive finally turned to look at him. Her expression wasn’t skeptical. Just thoughtful.
Jake smiled, eyes flicking between the road and the mirror. “You and your brother? You’re not some inconvenience I’m putting up with. You’re part of the deal. And not in a bad way.”
Matthew piped up again. “Does that mean I get to be your copilot when you fly?”
“Absolutely not,” Jake said instantly, laughing. “You’d eject us just for fun.”
“I would,” Matthew agreed proudly.
Olive let out a small laugh, shaking her head. “You guys are such idiots.”
Jake didn’t miss the warmth in her voice. The ease. It wasn’t a truce, not quite. But it was something better.
It was normal.
When they pulled into the Hard Deck lot and she unbuckled her seatbelt, Olive paused, hand on the door handle.
“I liked talking like that,” she said quietly. “Don’t make it weird.”
Jake gave her a soft smile. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”
She nodded, then opened the door and got out.
Matthew immediately shouted, “LAST ONE TO THE DOOR’S A ROTTEN BURRITO,” and took off sprinting.
Jake followed at a slower pace, the sun warm on his back and something lighter in his chest than he’d felt in weeks.
Progress.
The minute they walked into the Hard Deck, the scent of salt and fried food hit them like a wave—along with the sound of jukebox music, clinking glasses, and the easy, familiar laughter of the Dagger Squad. They were already gathered around their usual corner table by the open windows, nursing cold drinks and arguing over a pool game that had clearly gotten personal.
“There he is!” Rooster called out, tipping his sunglasses down his nose to get a better look. “Look who finally showed up with his entourage.”
Jake shot him a look. “Try not to scare them off in the first ten seconds, Bradshaw.”
Rooster put both hands up in mock surrender. “Hey, I’m charming. Kids love me.”
“Bold of you to assume,” Phoenix said, leaning back in her chair. “Remember your goddaughter cried every time you looked at her for the first six months?”
“She had a very expressive face. I don’t think that was about me.”
Jake glanced sideways at Olive, gauging her reaction. She was standing just a half-step behind him, arms crossed, doing her best unimpressed-teenager impression. But her eyes flicked from face to face, quietly taking everyone in.
Matthew, meanwhile, had already made himself at home.
“Whoa, is that a real fighter pilot?” he whispered loudly to Jake, pointing at Payback as if he were spotting a celebrity in the wild.
Payback grinned. “Guilty.”
“You look like a superhero.”
Jake muttered under his breath, “Hey, I'm also a fighter pilot. And don't feed his ego,” but Payback was already puffing out his chest and striking a mock pose.
“You hear that, Phoenix? Superhero.”
“You fly like a sidekick.”
The laughter that followed was easy, unforced. Jake nudged the kids toward the table. “Everyone, this is Matthew and Olive,” he said. “Be cool.”
“Define ‘cool,’” Fanboy said, eyes twinkling.
Jake gave him a warning glance, but it was too late — Fanboy was already leaning across the table toward Olive. “So… what’s your favorite way to torment Hangman? We’re always looking for new ideas.”
Olive blinked, startled, and then — before she could stop herself — smirked. “Well. His taste in music is awful.”
“I knew it!” Phoenix slapped her hand on the table. “He tries to pretend he doesn’t listen to country on long flights, but I’ve seen the playlists.”
“You made one called ‘Maverick Would Hate This,’” Rooster added, laughing.
“I never claimed to be perfect,” Jake said, deadpan.
“Yeah, well,” Olive said, sliding into a seat with a little more ease now. “Neither did we.”
Jake met your daughter’s eyes — and saw it. That spark of dry humor. The subtle shift. The door staying open, just a little wider than before.
He smiled and slid in beside her.
Matthew had launched into a full monologue about his soccer team and how he definitely would’ve scored a goal last week if the referee hadn’t been “so obviously blind.” Bob listened like it was breaking news, nodding thoughtfully and asking follow-up questions like he was analyzing game tape.
“You’re gonna love Bob,” Jake said under his breath to Olive, handing her a menu. “He’s quiet, but he’s the smartest one here.”
“You say that like it’s hard to believe.”
Jake raised an eyebrow. “You trying to roast me in front of my friends?”
Olive didn’t smile exactly — but there was something dangerously close to it tugging at the corner of her mouth. “Maybe.”
Phoenix raised her glass from across the table. “To Jake’s teenage nemesis. You’re already my favorite.”
Jake groaned. “God help me.”
But he was glowing. Everyone could see it.
And Olive, tucked between the teasing and the fries and the general chaos of fighter pilots acting like children, finally looked like she belonged — not just as your daughter, but as part of this.
Part of his world.
Everything was finally settling in. Then his orders came.
The tarmac was already humming with motion by the time you pulled up.
Waves of heat shimmered up off the concrete as the carrier loomed in the distance, the size of it enough to make Matthew’s eyes go wide. Planes gleamed in the morning sun, crews moving with swift, practiced efficiency. Everything smelled like metal, jet fuel, and goodbye.
You stood next to Jake near the open trunk of Rooster’s truck, your hand curled tightly around his. The duffel bag at his feet was heavy — so was the silence.
This wasn’t the first time he’d deployed. He was built for this life, raised for it, molded by it.
But this was the first time he was leaving you.
The first time he was leaving them.
And it felt different. It felt real.
You glanced to your left. Matthew was trailing a few feet behind, eyes locked on the nearby jet being prepped, quietly awestruck. But Olive was still near the car, arms folded, face pulled into that careful blankness she’d been perfecting since the day Jake told her about the assignment.
She’s come, though. That meant something.
Jake glanced down at you, brows drawn. “You okay?”
“No,” you said honestly, because there was no point pretending now. “But I will be.”
He nodded once and leaned in to kiss your forehead, his lips lingering a moment longer than usual. “You’ll hear from me as soon as I can write. I swear.”
“I’ll hold you to it.” You forced a small smile, one hand slipping into the pocket of his flight suit, needing just another second of closeness before it was taken from you.
Then Matthew bounded up beside him. “Hey, Jake?”
Jake turned, crouching to his level. “Yeah, bud?”
“Can I still be in charge of bug killing while you’re gone?”
Jake grinned, eyes shining. “You’re my first choice.”
“And can we—” Matthew hesitated, glancing at you for a second before continuing. “Can we call you sometimes? Even just to say hi?”
Jake’s voice cracked just slightly when he answered. “If I get one of those calls, that’ll be the best part of my day.”
You tousled Matthew’s hair as he nodded and wandered back, already chattering about planes to Rooster nearby. Jake exhaled and reached down for his bag.
“It's time.”
But then—
“Jake!”
His whole body stilled. You turned.
And there she was.
Olive had moved before she even realized it — now jogging across the tarmac, ponytail bouncing, Converse slapping against the pavement. Her face was twisted in something caught between panic and fury, tears brimming and very much not contained.
She didn’t stop until she reached him, and then she threw her arms around his waist so tightly it knocked the breath out of him.
Jake froze for half a second — stunned — and then wrapped his arms around her just as fiercely. His eyes slid shut, his chin dropped to her shoulder.
“Be careful,” Olive mumbled into the fabric of his flight suit, her voice cracking. “I mean it. You have to come back.”
Jake’s hand rose, gentle, to the back of her head. His voice was low and uneven. “I will, kid. I swear.”
“I’m not a kid,” she shot back, tears slipping past her lashes, “but I will not be okay if you don’t come back. So you better.”
He gave a small, choked laugh. “Deal.”
You blinked through tears as you watched them, that hug — tight and trembling — undoing every ounce of distance she’d tried to keep between them for so long. No performance, no pretense. Just a girl scared to lose someone she never meant to love, and a man terrified to leave behind the family he never thought he’d have.
When Olive finally stepped back, her cheeks were wet and she immediately wiped at them with her sleeves. “If you die, I’m gonna be so pissed.”
Jake laughed, raw and real. “That’s fair.”
Rooster called his name then — a signal, one final warning. Jake slung the bag over his shoulder and turned to you. Your arms were already around his neck, holding on like he was a lifeline.
“I love you,” you whispered.
“I love you more,” he said. “Take care of them for me.”
You kissed him like it had to last you six months. Because it did.
And then he stepped away.
He didn’t look back.
Not because he didn’t want to — but because if he did, he might not be able to keep walking.
The three of you stood there on the tarmac, shoulder to shoulder, watching him disappear toward the carrier — a green figure swallowed up by steel and sky.
Matthew took your hand.
Olive took the other.
And even with the ache in your chest, you smiled.
Because for the first time in a long time, it truly felt like family.
When a car accident leaves you with custody of your three younger siblings, your world crumbles. Navigating your own grief, funeral arrangements, and the children depending on you - it feels like there's no way out. But if there's one thing Bradley Bradshaw knows about, it's loss. A new position brings him back to San Diego, and back into your life right when you need it most. (from this anon request)
warnings: parental death, angst, hurt/comfort, sad dad bradley, w/c: 10k
for my 1k follower celebration! thank you so much to everyone who's ever read and supported my fics <3
It’s been seven hours since your parents died. Seven hours since the truck collided with your dad’s Chevrolet, on a freeway just two miles from your childhood home. They had been going out for dinner, their first night alone since the twins had been born.
They were stopping off at The Hard Deck to drop a birthday present off for Maverick, neighbour and long-time friend, before heading across town to hit the new Thai place that had just opened up.
At least, that’s what the babysitter had told the cops.
Your mom had been coming to visit you in San Francisco just next weekend. Want some time with my biggest girl, she’d said. Especially since we haven’t been around much recently, what with Olivia and Molly.
But now they’re gone, and your entire childhood resides only in your memory.
Never again will you go to a concert with your dad, continually teasing about his teenage girl taste, and the fact that you’re pretty sure he likes Lana Del Rey more than you do. You’ll never have coffee with your mom, gossiping about distant family members who neither of you have seen in years.
In a single instant, life has become abstract - you’re not sure who you are without them. You’re not even sure you want to find out.
The traffic’s slowed down, now that it’s after midnight. You’ve been driving since you got the news, knuckles white as you grip the steering wheel.
One second you were applying lipstick, getting ready to head out for a date. You’d met the guy on Hinge, and it was unlikely to go anywhere, but you’d been trying to force yourself to get back in the game. It felt like all your friends were starting to settle down, find their person. You’ve not had much luck on that front. Three months here, six months there - it never went anywhere.
You weren’t committal enough. Too unwilling to change. You’d heard it all.
Now all you can think about is your horrifically inappropriate shade of lipstick, and the fact that you’re never going to see your mom again.
You think you might be sick.
*****
You had been an accident. And unfortunate, but indisputable fact. Sure, your parents loved each other - but they certainly weren't planning for a baby at eighteen.
Fresh out of high school, they’d made the best with what they had - a tiny house in the San Diego suburbs, all while scrambling to find jobs. It’s a decision that would forever intwine your lives with the Bradshaw family.
Living in the slightly better house at the end of the street, Nick and Carole Bradshaw were approximately a year ahead of your family. Eleven months earlier, they’d had Bradley, and while they were slightly older than your parents, they were very much all in the same boat.
You don’t have many memories of Nick. Dying just after Bradley’s fourth birthday, you were barely even three. The last time you’d seen him had been at Bradley’s party - you’d spent the entire last hour perched on his shoulders, giggling as he chased Bradley around the back garden.
He seemed like a good man. A good husband. A good father.
But life went on, and your parents stayed incredibly close with Carole. Eventually both of you moved to another neighbourhood in San Diego, beside Bradley’s godfather Maverick, and his wife and stepdaughter, Penny and Amelia.
Things were good.
You don’t remember exactly when you became aware of your parents trying for another baby. There had been vague references to getting a sibling throughout your childhood, but when nothing ever came to fruition, you just shrugged it off. Bradley didn’t have any siblings, and neither did you. You didn’t need siblings when you had each other.
Each day was spent in your backyard or the Bradshaw’s, playing make-believe until you were exhausted.
Even in the throes of puberty, where Bradley was finding his footing in high-school, while you were still in middle school, he’d always make time for you. Would never let his cooler, older friends make fun of you, or make you feel less than.
You’re sure he must have caught his own flack for it, but he didn't let you see it.
Your teenage years passed, and still no sibling. Eventually, words like ‘infertility’ and ‘IVF’ began to get thrown around. Suddenly, nights when your mom was inconsolable became far more understandable.
It seemed like you were meant to be a three-person family.
Finally, they got Adam. Born three months before your twenty-first birthday - the jokes had made themselves.
It had been the last round of IVF they were going to have. It was too taxing, emotionally and physically, to keep going. Especially when you were coming of an age where you might want your own kids in a few years. Your parents didn’t want your kids to have aunts and uncles their own age.
You loved Adam. You did. You do. It’s just always been quite difficult to bond with a kid twenty years your junior. You were across the country at college for all of his major milestones, barely seeing your parents, nevermind anyone else.
It was also at this point that you lost contact with Bradley.
He’d joined the Navy, hellbent on following in Nick Bradshaw’s footsteps after Carole’s death. You wrote occasionally, sent Christmas and birthday cards, but it was never like it used to be.
That had been enough for your parents. Your family complete, mom and dad content with a son and a daughter.
If the cards had fallen differently, Adam might have been your only sibling.
Against every single odd, your mother found out she was pregnant again on her forty-second birthday. After fifteen years of fertility treatments, they conceived naturally just two years after stopping trying.
Oh how funny the universe can be.
Shock had quickly multiplied when the first ultrasound scan showed twins. You wanted to be happy for them. Really, truly. Your parents were finally getting the big family they’d once dreamed of.
You just wished it didn’t feel like you were being replaced in your own home. Your childhood bedroom had been immediately converted to a nursery, like there was no longer a place for you.
You understood. After some tears, you came to the conclusion that if losing your bedroom in a city you didn't live in was the worst thing in your life, you should be grateful. But that didn’t mean it didn’t hurt a little.
Visits thinned, relegated to holidays and summers, even after college. You moved back to the West Coast, opting for San Fran over Diego, and life has been fine. A little boring, not so great on the dating end, but fine. When you’d hoped for a change, this had certainly not been what you were wanting.
At least the kids are okay. A brief reprieve amongst the chaos. You’ve been on the phone to Maverick - he and Penny are staying with them until you make it there.
“Bradley’s here too.”
There was a name you hadn’t heard for a while.
You're not even sure when you thought about him last.
The roads start to blur together, until finally you're on your street. You haven't been home since Christmas.
The door opens as you pull into the driveway. You half-thought the tears would come as soon as you saw the house, but everything seems dry.
Bradley steps out, making his way over to you. He pauses for a second, allowing you to make the decision, before you throw yourself into his arms. His hands settle on your waist, and you let out a small sob as you bury your face into the crook of his shoulder.
“I’m so sorry, honey,” He murmurs, voice deeper than you remember. With all his deployments, the last time you saw him was Christmas a few years ago. His first after Carole had died.
Other than the occasional Instagram post, you have no idea what he’s up to these days. You hadn’t even known he was even living in San Diego again.
He looks good. Really good. Sporting a moustache that would look ridiculous on anybody else, he’s filled out in a way that makes your throat constrict slightly. The Navy has served him well.
“A-are the kids okay?”
“Penny and Mav put them to bed,” He replies. “The twins are fine, but uh… Adam was pretty upset. He knew something was going on from the babysitter - we wouldn’t have told him straight away otherwise, but things were so confused, and-”
“Thank you,” You whisper, pulling back. “For being there for them. I-I didn’t even know you were in town.”
“For the past few months. Moved into mom’s house.” He gestures at the near identical house next door.
It’s a horrible club to be joining. That of the dead parents. But the smallest, most selfish part of you is endlessly relieved that he knows how you feel. How he might be the only one who does.
“Was the drive okay?”
“Hm?” You murmur, distracted by the windows upstairs. So many memories flash through your mind - sneaking out to go to parties with Bradley at sixteen, sitting and stargazing with your dad on the 4th of July. Or that time Bradley fell trying to climb up, and had been in a cast all summer.
“The drive? You must be exhausted.”
“Oh, yeah. I’m okay,” You dismiss, making shaky steps into the house. It looks exactly as you remember it. Mav and Penny sit in the living room, faces grave. After Nick, and then Carole, you can tell they’re vastly unprepared to bury another set of friends.
“Oh, kid,” Maverick begins, wrapping you in a hug. “I’m sorry.”
Something about Maverick’s embrace, the way he cups your head against him reminds you painfully of your dad. “I-I don’t know what to do,” You cry. “I don’t know where to start.”
“Don’t worry about any of that right now,” Penny breathes, tears staining her own cheeks. “We’ll help you with whatever you need.”
A glass of water is pushed into your hand, a kiss pressed to your head, and you’re sat in the living room.
Chat is stilted, dancing around the obvious, and soon you begin to insist that they all head home, get some sleep. If it weren’t for the fact that they’re a maximum of fifty meters away at any given time, you’re not sure you would’ve been able to convince any of them to leave.
It’s only when you agree to Mav and Bradley coming over in the morning to help with arrangements, while Penny helps with the kids, that they filter out.
Soon, you’re alone, and the tears return in waves.
Choked sobs that had hidden themselves in the presence of others, now nearly bringing you to your knees.
This isn’t right.
Your dad should be on the couch, watching Cheers re-runs, while your mom knits and pretends that she isn’t watching (she always is).
The kids upstairs should have a real adult looking out for them. Not a girl, barely out of grad-school, who regularly forgoes breakfast because she can’t be bothered making it for herself.
You get very little sleep that night - wandering through to the kid’s rooms every hour or so to make sure they’re okay. Outside of the occasional babysitting gig as a teen, you have no idea what to do with anyone under the age of ten. You opt for the couch in your parent’s bedroom, rather than their bed.
Still unmade from the night before, you don’t think you can bring yourself to sleep in it just yet. It still smells of your mom’s shampoo, your dad’s aftershave.
It’s such a strange sensation, to be somewhere that should be so familiar. Instead, it’s like you’ve wandered into another universe, one where your parents are dead and nothing makes sense anymore.
*****
Adam’s forgotten about yesterday’s incidents by the time morning comes round. He prances into the bedroom, face dropping into a frown when he sees the bed empty.
“Hey, kid,” You murmur, opening your arms for a cuddle.
“Where’s Mommy?” He asks, chewing on one of his fingers as he allows you to pull him onto your lap.
You swallow, trying desperately to come up with a way to tell your four-year-old brother that both his parents are dead. “There was an accident yesterday, and Mommy and Daddy got really hurt.” A lump forms, and you pray that you can keep it together long enough to get through this. “The doctors weren’t able to help them, and they died.”
There’s a moment of quiet, as Adam considers your words. “They’re not here?”
“They’re not here,” You repeat quietly, a tear trickling down your cheek. “But I’m going to look after you and the girls, okay? And Aunt Penny and Uncle Mav. S’ okay to be sad.”
“Mommy’s not coming back?”
You shake your head, pressing a quick kiss to his forehead. “No, honey. I’m so sorry.” A whimper sounds from the nursery. The girls are waking up. “Why don’t you head downstairs, and I’ll grab Liv and Molly, and I’ll make you pancakes?”
Seemingly placated, Adam nods and heads downstairs, while you try and wrangle the twins. It’s a challenge, but you manage to get them into their highchairs, just as the door rings.
It’s Bradley, looking far too put-together for 6:45am. “I uh, saw that the curtains were open - figured you were up. How are you holding up?”
“I don’t think it’s really sunk in yet,” You admit, leading him to the kitchen. “Kind of just feels like I’m playing pretend.”
Bradley greets Adam with a wave, and drops a kiss to each of the girls’ heads. It feels so natural that a guilt tugs at your stomach. Bradley isn’t even family, and yet he feels far more familiar to these kids than you do.
“It’ll feel like that for a while,” He replies. “You want me to make breakfast?”
“Oh. I was just going to make pancakes.”
“Are you any better at cooking than you were as a teenager?” Bradley asks, the smallest smile tugging at his mouth.
Despite everything you laugh, shaking your head with your lip between your teeth.
“Got it. I’ll cook then.”
“I think I can survive pancakes,” You protest.
“Okay, grieving lesson 101. Learn to accept help.” His voice is firm, and you find yourself nodding. “Mav’ll stop by later - he’s got all the lawyer’s numbers, and funeral planning. Believe me, last thing you want to be doing is thinking about catering right now. Let us handle the paperwork, and we’ll ask you about anything important, okay?”
“Thanks, Brad.”
You’re overwhelmed by their presence, their willingness to drop everything to be here. A comfortable silence falls, Adam chattering nonsense in the background as Bradley cooks.
“Bradley?” You ask.
“Yeah?”
“When does it start to get easier?”
He looks over at you, with a candour that makes your heart sink. “My mom? I think it took me about a year.”
“That’s a long time,” You whisper.
“I know.” He reaches out, almost tentatively, taking your hand. His thumb rubs circles onto your palm. “But you’ll get through it.”
“Can you maybe help with changing Adam’s insulin sensor? It needs done every two weeks, but he doesn’t like swapping them out.”
Bradley nods. “Yeah, of course. What do you need me to do?”
“Just chat to him, keep him distracted.”
You and Bradley make an excellent team. Bradley keeps him talking about baseball the entire time, allowing you to swap his sensor with relatively few tears.
It’s one of the only things you feel like you can manage. Ever since Adam got diagnosed last year, your parents made sure that everyone in the family was up-to-date on what to do, how to keep him safe. Everyone knows where the insulin and glucagon can be found, and how often his Libre sensor needs changed.
In an attempt to get you all out of the house, Bradley suggests a walk to the local park. He’s got Adam on his shoulders, and you push the twins.
It gets your mind off of everything for a little bit, and for that you're grateful.
You wonder what it looks like from the outside. If people assume that you’re married, had kids straight out of college. You suppose they must. You don’t hate the idea as much as you should.
*****
“I guess, what we’re saying is that you have options,” The lawyer says, sitting back in her chair. You, Maverick, Penny and Bradley are crowded into the cramped office. “You’re the legal guardian of the kids, but we understand that’s a lot for a twenty-five-year-old to deal with. As you’ve discussed already, Pete and Penelope would be willing to take them-”
“I’m going to keep them,” You interrupt. It’s been a decision that’s eaten away at you for the past week. It was never a question of adoption - you couldn’t ever do that to your own siblings. But after a particularly hard night, when Penny had offered it to you, a tiny part of yourself had wondered.
Wondered if it would be so bad, for them to grow up with two parents, who were far more capable and experienced than you are. Penny’s a far better mother than you could ever hope to be - maybe you’d be doing them a favour?
Maybe everybody would be better off if you weren’t in charge.
Then you’d stood in the nursery, after the twins had fallen asleep, with tears streaming down your face, and realised that you couldn’t give them up. Not for anything. You owed it to them, and your parents, to try.
Maverick nods approvingly. “We’ll be here for whatever you need, kid. Whenever you need it.”
“I’ve got a permanent position in San Diego now,” Bradley adds. “I’ll still have to ship out occasionally, but I’ll be here too.”
The rest of the afternoon is spent going over will logistics, funeral arrangements, and adoption papers. Something about health insurance means you need to formally adopt the kids, a process that’ll take a while.
But with Adam and his diabetes, it’s something that has to be done.
Slowly but surely, things seem to be becoming a little more manageable. Maverick and Penny explained any of the financial aspects you don't understand, while Bradley's hand stays firmly on your knee the entire meeting, tracing soothing patterns onto your skin.
*****
You don’t fall apart until the tenth. Two weeks, four days and three hours after your parents die. The funerals are over, the flowers are dying, and now there’s just grief. Raw, unfiltered grief that’s been pushed under your need to care for the kids.
But tonight, Adam has been asking questions you don’t know how to answer. Crying tears you don’t know how to soothe, sobs only ceasing when Bradley arrives after work.
You busy yourself with the girls, trying to soothe Liv’s sore throat while Molly does everything she can to avoid a bath - all while pretending that Adam’s rejection doesn’t bother you.
The fact that Bradley’s the sun, moon, and stars to him - and you’re just the poor mother substitute. The perpetual bad guy. The one who won’t let him see Mommy and Daddy.
You hold it together for approximately ten minutes after the twins go down. Standing in the kitchen, leaning against the island, a small sob escapes as you wrap your arms round your shoulders. Trying to ground yourself, stop your head from pounding so viciously.
It’s only when you hear Bradley’s footsteps padding down the stairs that you swallow, turning to the mountain of dishes piling up in the sink and busying yourself. He’s just spent the last hour comforting Adam. You don’t want him to feel responsible for you too.
“Is he asleep?” You ask, voice far thicker than you’d like.
“Yeah - took some convincing, but he’s out.”
“There’s some pasta in the fridge, if you want to take it for dinner,” You manage, back still pointedly turned.
“You don’t want me to stay?” You wish you could unhear the hurt in his voice, the fact that he’s the only reason you’ve survived the past few weeks, while you can’t even look him in the eye.
There’s nothing you want more than for him to stay. To let this unsteady rhythm you’ve both concocted continue for as long as its able. Until he decides to move on.
Because he will. The kindness he’s shown you is immeasurable, and you’ll never be able to thank him enough, and yet you know it must be finite. One day, he’ll meet a girl, fall in love, and you’ll go back to just childhood best friend.
“Is everything okay?”
You’ve been quiet for too long. Bradley’s perceptive. He always has been. A normally endearing trait, you surprise even yourself when a cry slips from your lips.
A dam shatters, and the sobs wrack your body.
Bradley’s across the room in seconds, pulling you into him. His arms circle your waist, strong and steady as he keeps you upright. Just like he’s been doing since the crash.
“I don't think I can do this,” You whisper, voice hoarse. “I can barely look after myself. Nev-nevermind them.”
"I know it's hard," He murmurs, pressing his lips to your temple. "You're doing the hardest fucking thing in the world, kid. You've gotta give yourself some grace. They were your parents too."
"I-if I let myself feel it, I don't know where it'll end. I don't know if it'll end." Another cry bubbles up, and you bury your face in his shoulder. "I'm so scared, Bradley."
“Mav and Penny and I, we’re here for whatever you need, okay? Anything.”
You nod, trying to quell your tears. “Y-you’ve done so much already. I can’t ask you to do any more-”
“You aren’t,” He replies. “I’m offering. I love those kids, I love you all. I'd do anything for you.”
Your grip on him tightens just slightly, needing to ground yourself.
“Do you have the life insurance payout yet?”
You detach from him slightly, hands dropping to his forearms. “I used it to buy the house. There was still a lot of the mortgage to pay off. A-and I couldn’t afford the payments without it. The last thing they need is to be moved, on top of everything else-”
“Hey,” He interjects, voice soft. “You don’t have to explain yourself to me, okay? You’re doing what you need to. Go run yourself a bath, try and relax for a bit.”
“I need to do the dishes, and make lunch for tomorrow-”
He shakes his head. “I’ve got it.” Your protests die on your lips. A bath does sound nice. “We can watch a movie or something, after you’re done.”
You wipe the last of your tears, and press a kiss to his cheek. “I don’t know what we’d do without you.”
He’s going to make someone incredibly happy someday.
The thought leaps into your head unprompted, and you swallow it back. You don’t need more reminders of how temporary this is.
*****
The next day is even worse. Adam’s doing his best moody teenager impression, while Molly’s contracted Olivia’s cold.
Penny spends the afternoon, and makes things slightly more bearable, but her and Maverick have theatre tickets that night. She offered to cancel, but you’d insisted they go. They needed some normality too. It’s easy to forget that Mav and Penny have known your mom and dad since their twenties. They’re grieving almost as much as you are.
You barely make it to seven before your tears start too. It’s all you can do to dial Bradley’s number.
“Is everything okay?”
“I-I,” You stammer, hardly able to even get the words out. “I don’t know what to do. T-the girls are sick, and I can’t get any of them down, and I don’t know what I’m doing-”
“I’ll be over in a second.”
The phone cuts off, and true to his word, the bell goes in approximately half a minute. You’ve never been more grateful to see someone in your life. You’re sure you must look like a total mess, hair unbrushed and mascara dripping down your cheeks, but Bradley doesn’t comment. Instead, he takes Olivia from your arms and presses a kiss to your forehead. He greets Adam, who looks considerably happier to see Bradley than he was to see you, and whispers a couple of words into his ear.
You can’t make out what he says, but Adam immediately softens, before approaching you and offering a hug.
“Why don’t you get Adam, and I’ll get the girls?” Bradley offers, and you nod gratefully.
Whatever Bradley said worked wonders, and Adam’s far more amenable to bedtime than he was before.
It takes Bradley a little longer, and a lot more sniffling, but forty-five minutes he appears down the stairs, and all is quiet again. “Come on,” He murmurs softly. “You’re exhausted.”
“It’s only eight,” You reply, voice barely more than a whisper. “I haven’t made myself dinner yet.”
“Sounds like a night for pizza in bed then,” He replies.
And so, twenty minutes later, Bradley’s tipping the delivery guy, before clambering into bed with you. It’s the best meal you’ve had in your life, tucked into his side as some cheesy rom-com plays in the background.
“How do you do it?”
“Do what?” Bradley asks, eyebrow raised.
“How are you so good with them? So natural? It feels like I make the wrong choice at every possible turn.”
He shrugs slightly, pulling you in closer. “It’s easy when they aren’t yours. I’m a novelty to them - if they were my kids, you’d be the exact same.”
You’re not sure you agree, but you nod, placated with his answer.
It doesn’t take long to drift off to sleep, still curled up against him. And the next morning when you wake up to a solid shape beside you, an arm draped across your waist, your heart soars.
*****
You know you're being unreasonable. Bradley's been the best thing that's ever happened to the kids - endlessly patient, full of energy, always down to play. He's shouldered things you wouldn't expect from a close relative, much less a distant family friend.
When there was a problem with the house insurance, Bradley spent three hours on the phone to agents, working out a plan that worked best for you.
Every Saturday, when another week passes and your parents slip further from your grasp, he turns up at 7pm on the dot, armed with casserole and ice cream. He takes Olivia from your arms, and soothes them all to bed with his stories and tales, allowing you the briefest moment of reprieve.
For the first month, he'd end each night holding you while you cried, pressing soft butterfly kisses to your forehead as he promised better things. Promised that things would get easier, that he'd be there for whatever you needed.
But it can't last forever. Made starkly obvious by the woman in the park today.
You’d been having a picnic, while Bradley was continuing Adam’s baseball education. From your perspective, it was just throwing a ball back and forth, but they’d both insisted there was considerable technique and skill to it. You’d taken the girls to go get ice-cream, and had come back to a woman chatting to Bradley, while Adam busied himself with a mitt. You couldn’t hear what was going on, but Bradley smiled, shook his head, and she went on her way.
Turning back round, he was immediately by your side to help with the ice-creams, hand reaching out to push a stray hair back from your face.
You understand the thought process. She saw an attractive guy, with a cute kid, and no ring. You'd have taken those odds with Bradley if you were her.
And when he turned her down, you had no idea what to think. The last thing you want to do is hold him back. Keep him from any kind of happiness.
Even if it killed you a little, you'd be thrilled for him. Even if it meant you became relegated to his past, meant only for occasional visits and cards at Christmas.
Maybe you'd find someone else too. Someone that liked kids, didn't mind some baggage. Maybe this ache in your chest won't last forever.
You can tell he knows something's up when he slips into bed wordlessly, clicking the light off as he goes. You've been lying on the edge for the past twenty minutes, cheek turned out to the window as you try and quell the awful guilt festering low in your stomach.
Bradley's freshly twenty-six. The last thing he wants is to be tied down to three kids. To you.
You're being selfish with him. And it breaks your heart.
But he's in your bed tonight, and maybe that's enough for now.
When you shuffle over towards the midline, far closer to him than you've ever dared before, he finally speaks. "You alright?"
"Can't sleep," Is all you can muster.
"C'mere," He murmurs, voice gravelly as he reaches out for you. You let him loop a hand round your wrist, pulling you across the bed until you're settled against his chest. It feels so terribly right that you want to bawl. Instead, you press your face into the crook of his shoulder and let out a shaky breath.
His arm is draped across your waist, and you're almost chest-to-chest. It's the closest you've been since childhood.
"Better?"
"Better."
*****
Bradley gets orders to deploy the following week. It’s only three months, hardly anything by Navy standards, but the idea of going that long without him makes you feel a little ill. You don’t remember the last time he spent the night in his own house. Each night you somehow manage to get closer, waking up fully intertwined as the kids throw themselves on top of you both.
The house feels too big without him, even with three children racing around.
You both made the decision not to bring the kids to base to say goodbye. After the year they’ve had, neither of you want to make a big deal of Bradley’s leaving. Instead, last night he came home armed with three build-a-bears, each one with a sound-bite of him singing.
American Pie, Adam’s favourite song, much to Bradley’s delight.
Shake It Off for Olivia.
And that godawful new Benson Boone song for Molly.
The idea of Bradley Bradshaw standing in build-a-bear, singing quietly into a little machine, just so the kids have something to remember him by, makes you want to sob. If Bradley Bradshaw’s out to ruin all men for you, he’s doing an excellent job.
Penny said her goodbyes to Bradley at the house, before Maverick drove you both out to base. Now, you’re standing on the tarmac, watching on as Bradley and Pete say their goodbyes. As soon as Maverick’s pulling back, he suddenly spots someone across the lot that he’s got to go say hello to. A squeeze of your shoulder as he passes, and you’re left with Bradley.
“You'll write?” He knows the answer, but when this is the last time he’s going to see you until November, he’d like the reassurance.
“Every day,” You murmur. “I-we’re really going to miss you, Brad.”
He reaches out, pulling you in for a tight hug. “I’m going to miss you too. But it’ll be over in a flash. Promise.”
You somehow can’t imagine that being true. “Stay safe. Don’t do anything stupid, okay?”
“When am I ever stupid?” He asks, smiling until he sees your expression. “Don’t answer that.”
Too quickly, it’s time for him to go. “See you soon, sweet girl.”
And then he’s gone.
Bradley wonders how you're getting on today. If Adam's talent show went well, or if the twins are still teething.
They'll be eighteen months by the time he gets back. Not much older, in the grand scheme of things, but he'll know.
At that age, consistency is everything. Adam's old enough to know Bradley, understand that he's going away for a little while - but Olivia and Molly? He might return a complete stranger.
Sitting in the barracks, head in his hands, he wonders if this is how his dad felt every time he left him and his mom behind.
He knows what Jake would say if he were here. Something snarky, probably. A comment about how they aren't even your kids, nevermind his. That Bradley Bradshaw must be the only bastard on earth who can land himself with diaper duties before first base.
He slips the picture out of his wallet. The one at the picnic. Nat had taken it, the five of you all crammed onto one blanket. Adam's clambering over Bradley's shoulders, and Olivia sits on his lap, reaching up for her brother. You've got Molly, smile wide as you watch the scene before you. Your eyes are on the kids, but his are very much on you.
A guilt festers in him, but he feels happier than he has in years. Ever since his mom died he’s felt totally aimless, drifting from one mission to another, little care as to whether he lived or died. Now, the idea of not going home to you all at the end of the day feels inconceivable.
It just makes him feel terrible that four people had to lose their parents for that to happen.
"Bradshaw," A voice greets, knocking him out of his trance. "How's it going?"
Seeing the picture clasped in Bradley's hand, Reuben steps forward to take a look. "Cute kids. This your first deployment since having them?"
They're not mine. They're my best friend's siblings, but I'm pretty sure I'm in love with her, and I think it would kill me if I don't get to see those kids grow up.
"Uh, yeah. It is."
“Ah, first one’s always the hardest. But it’s so much better getting to go home at the end of it. I used to go home to an empty house after deployments-” Other than a visit to Penny and Maverick, that had been Bradley’s experience with deployments. “-and let me tell you - going home to your kids after a few months? Best feeling in the whole world. I cried the last time I saw my wife on the tarmac.”
Bradley imagines what life would be like if you were his wife. If, when he gets home, he’d be able to pull you close, and kiss you until your lips are pink and swollen, before heading home to the kids.
He wonders what your own kids would look like. His and yours. He doesn’t even know if you’d want that now, not with the three you’ve already got, but he doesn’t mind. As long as you’re happy, he’d be happy too. In whatever form, whatever capacity that turns out to be.
*****
The babysitter’s left, and the house is quiet. You’d managed to transfer your work to the San Diego offices, but unfortunately that means two days a week in the office. You’re still grateful that you can stay at home with the girls most of the time, but you’re starting to feel it. Balancing work and the kids, all while worrying about Bradley every day is taking a toll.
All three of them are sleeping, totally exhausted after Uncle Mav decided that they should go to a local theme park first thing, before the babysitter arrived. You’ve never used her before, so Mav and Penny offered to take them in the morning to make her day a little easier.
You’re going to grab some leftover pasta for dinner, when you frown. Adam’s insulin is missing.
Pulling out your phone, you shoot a quick text to the babysitter.
You: Hey, have you seen Adam’s insulin anywhere? Green and orange pens.
Andie: it had fallen out of the freezer, so i put it back!
Your heart sinks. Frozen insulin is unusable. You must have knocked it out of the fridge this morning before work. Andie wouldn’t have realised, and just put it back in.
That’s a thousand dollars of medication down the drain.
You have no idea how you’re supposed to pay for more, if insurance doesn’t cover it. Hands shaking, you dial the number. Maybe you can catch them before they finish up for the day.
You get a polite but tired-sounding woman on the phone, who is very apologetic, but firm about the fact that they can’t do anything. You can only afford base coverage, and that doesn’t have any stipulations for accidents.
After the car payments, and school, and insurance, you’re running low. Really low. It’s not something you’d ever admit to Bradley or Maverick, unless the kids were at risk.
Maybe you can sell something. Your mom’s engagement ring, your dad’s watch - there has to be something you can do.
The tears come anyway, and it isn’t until your phone rings that you realise what time it is.
You let out a quiet curse. This is Bradley's call night. The single video call he gets for this entire month. After tonight, he'll be stuck with e-mails until he's home.
Four weeks of not seeing his face. You’re not sure how you’re going to cope. Hastily wiping at your eyes, you accept the call, and move through to the kitchen.
“Hi, Brad,” You smile, desperately hoping the camera doesn't pick up your tear tracks.
He looks tired, but happy. His hair is cropped closer than you like, an unfortunate side effect of military duty. But he’s okay, and that’s what matters. You can’t help the feeling of dread that seems to fester in your stomach each time you think about Bradley being somewhere in the middle of the ocean, doing things he can’t tell you anything about.
“What’s wrong?” He’s frowning immediately, and you want to curse yourself. You should’ve made more of an effort to freshen up before getting on the call.
“I-it’s nothing, just a long day at work.”
“Kid, you look like you're about to sob. Please tell me what's going on.”
“The power died today - i-it must've been right after I left for work. And all of Adam’s insulin for the month is ruined.”
“Did you call the insurance company?”
“They won’t cover it,” You reply, voice weak. “We don’t pay enough to get replacements - all we get is the base coverage. But uh, it’s fine, I’ll work something out. He has enough for tonight.”
“I can send you the money-”
“No!” You interject immediately. “God, Bradley, you’ve done too much. It’s okay, I can work it out to tomorrow - go to the bank, see what they can do-”
“Sweetheart, I really don’t mind. I don’t want you to have to sell anything, or take out a loan or anything. The money’s just sitting there in my account, anyway. I’d always rather it went to the kids, or you.”
“My dad has a watch, that-”
Bradley’s face falls, as he shakes his head. “Please. I’m not letting you sell your parent’s things. Let me send you the money.”
“I just- I don’t really want to talk about it, is that okay? Can we talk about anything else?”
He nods, eyes still concerned. “Of course. You decided what you want to do for your birthday yet?”
You shake your head. “Just a quiet day, I think.”
“What if I told you I had some Stevie Nicks tickets with your name on them? It’s the day after your birthday, so not quite-”
“You didn’t,” You gasp. “How the hell did you get them from Japan?”
“I left very detailed instructions with Mav and Penny. I think the seats are terrible, but we’ll have fun. It’s in LA, so I’ve booked us into the Garland too, so we don’t have to worry about the drive back.” Sensing the question on your tongue, he continues. “I’ve already asked Mav. They’ll stay with the kids.”
“You’re insane,” You laugh, still wiping at your eyes slightly.
“In a good way, I hope?”
“The best.”
“I’m glad. We can plan it properly when I’m back. Maybe catch lunch in the city beforehand, go to the pier? Whatever you want, honey.”
“You’re going to make me cry again,” You mumble, dabbing at your eyes.
“As long as it’s happy tears.”
“The absolute happiest.”
*****
Just minutes after you hang up, a notification comes through on your phone.
Bank transfer: $1500 has been deposited into your account ending in XXXX, from Bradley Bradshaw.
07/07. 21:37.
Dear Bradley,
You shouldn’t have sent all that money, it’s far too much! You’ve done so much for us already, I can’t even begin to thank you the way you deserve. But since I figure you wouldn’t take kindly to me sending it back, thank you <3 I think Adam’s insulin should be about 1k, so I can send the rest back afterwards. Really. I don’t know what I’d do without you.
Missing you lots, and I’ve attached some pics of Adam’s last game - he insisted I send you some, so that you can see how he’s been practicing his throw! They lost, but it was a lot closer than it’s been recently. He attributes it all to you.
The girls are settling into daycare. I miss them during the day, but I really just couldn’t handle working from home and juggling them both at once. And the staff are so lovely - very hands-on, and they always come home with some kind of arts and crafts.
They’ve already decided that they want to go to the zoo when you’re back, plus a picnic. Sorry to start booking you in for social stuff before you’re even home.
Stay safe and thank you again x
07/08. 05:19.
Kid, I really truly don’t want to see that money back in my account. What’s the point of having it if you can’t use it for the people you love? Buy yourself something nice (and by that I mean by something for you, not for the kids).
Tell Adam he’ll be coming for the big leagues in no time, guy’s a pro! I think that calls for a new mitt when I get home. And I’m so glad Liv and Mol are doing well, I know you’d been worried about the time apart.
We’re about to go offline for a little while, but I’ll be in contact as soon as I’m able. Would you be able to send some more pictures? I have a few of the kids, but there’s only one with you. I don’t know, no worries if not - just missing all of your faces. There’s only so much of Reuben and Mickey that a man can take.
You’re doing so well, honey.
See you soon,
Bradley x
07/10. 18:03.
Hi Brad,
Hope you’re doing okay, and staying safe. As usual, we miss you loads. I got Adam’s insulin sorted, so we’re all good on that front. He says thank you, and I’ve attached a picture of the drawing he did of you both. You’re apparently on holiday in Paris - some not-so-subtle signals for after I get that promotion maybe?
Mav and Penny took the kids so that I could go to Nat’s birthday, which was really nice. They all send their love, and I sent a pic of everybody. I used most of the money left over for Adam’s baseball summer camp (I’m sorry! I know you said to use it on me, but you really should’ve known that was going to happen), but I did treat myself to a dress so you couldn’t be too annoyed. There should be a picture of that somewhere in the files too - I don’t know why I sent it really. Proof that I can spend money on myself? Anyway, feel free to discard.
Sent you a bundle - I didn’t really know what you wanted, so I thought too many was better than not enough. Please email as soon as you’re able - you know I worry.
Can’t wait to see you x
07/17. 03:58.
Hi honey,
That’s us just back to base - can’t tell you any more than that, but we’re all safe. Sorry for the stupid hour, but I wanted to reply before I went to bed.
The new dress looks beautiful. Really. Wish you’d spent more of the money on yourself, but I’ll take what I can get. Green is definitely your colour, though. I’m glad you had a nice time at Nat’s, and that the kids are still doing well.
I love Adam’s drawing, and it’ll get pride of place in my office back in San Diego. With the art and the baseball, I think we might have quite the ladies man on our hands in the future.
Can’t wait for these two weeks to be over, so I can come home to you all.
Love,
Bradley x
It’s the slowest two weeks of his life. Made bearable only by the photos you continue to send, he tries to have one on him at all times, slipped into his flight suit. More often than not, it’s the solo shot of you, in the floaty green summer dress that makes him feel dizzy each time he looks at it.
If Bradley Bradshaw were a smarter man, he’d realise that keeping your best friend in the crevice of your heart saved only for loves of your life is a very telling act. That you’re the first person he thinks about in the morning, and the last at night.
For the first time in his life, it’s not just Maverick and Penny waiting for him. As soon as Bradley’s feet are on the tarmac, he’s sifting through the crowds. Before he can even find you, a shape bursts forwards from the throngs of people, and Adam starts sprinting in his direction. Letting out a laugh, Bradley hoists his duffel bag higher, ready to catch him as he throws himself the final few feet.
“Bradley!” He exclaims, arms immediately wrapping around his neck.
“Hey, kiddo,” Bradley replies, arm tightening round the boy as he starts to move. “Long time no see.”
“We missed you.”
“I missed you too. Care to point me in the direction of your sister?”
Adam glances around, before offering a vague gesture to his left. Bradley follows his finger, and finally his gaze lands on you.
In the green dress.
Liv is balanced on your hip, Molly clinging to your leg. And when you smile at him, a lump forms in his throat.
He thinks he understands what Reuben was talking about now.
All of Bradley’s fears of the twins not recognising him evaporate when Molly smiles up at him, toothy and wide as he makes his way over. She takes some unsteady steps towards him, letting out a giggle when he scoops her into his arms.
Suddenly feeling left out, Olivia starts to reach out too.
“Let’s wait until Bradley puts the others down, okay-” You begin, but he shakes his head.
“Wait, hold on, I can make this work,” He murmurs, readjusting Adam and Molly as he takes Olivia, still somehow managing to find a way to hug you at the same time.
“Hi,” You breathe.
“Hi,” He replies, dropping a kiss to your forehead as he balances the three kids. Another second passes, and then Mav and Penny reach out to take the kids back, allowing you and Bradley a second alone.
“You’re okay?”
He nods, and then he’s hugging you again, far tighter than the one with the children. Your arms fasten round his neck, while his tighten round your waist, pulling you just off the ground as he holds you close. “Missed you.”
“Missed you too. Thank you for the money, Brad. You really saved us.”
“Don’t mention it,” He mumbles. “Really. I’d do anything for you guys.”
“Ready to go home?”
Home. Not his mom’s old house, but the one next door. The one he can’t ever imagine leaving. “More than anything, honey.”
*****
You muddle your way through dinner, having spent three months trying desperately to get better at cooking. While there’s a marked improvement, you’re not sure you’ll ever reach Bradley’s level. But the pasta was edible, and Bradley seemed to appreciate the effort.
Exhausted from welcoming Bradley back, the kids all go down relatively easy, and when Penny and Mav head back home, it’s just you and Bradley. You’ve worked your way through a bottle of wine, and are sitting far closer than you normally would.
Your feet are in his lap, his thumb stroking gently at his ankle.
“Listen, feel free to tell me if this is insane - but uh, I was thinking that maybe we should get married.”
You almost choke on your drink. “What?”
“I get really good health insurance with the Navy - i-if you wanted to, we could get married, and I could adopt the kids - and you wouldn’t have to worry about them.”
“Bradley…” You start, totally at a loss for words. “I-I can’t ask you to do that.”
“What if I want to?” He whispers, eyes earnest, and you can feel yourself welling up. It’s not how you imagined a proposal going, not by any stretch, but the tenderness in his voice makes your knees weak. It would be nice to not have to spend every month wondering if you’d be able to make the healthcare payments.
“Y-you’re sure?”
“Yeah. I am.”
Things move pretty quickly. Neither of you are sure when Bradley’s going to get deployed again, and he needs to have formally adopted the kids to get them put on his health insurance.
Adam is ecstatic with the news, and has already signed Bradley up to talk at career day about being a pilot. And the girls, while not quite at the speaking stage, adore him too. For the first time, you feel like you might be making the right choice.
It’s a tiny affair. Just you, Bradley, the kids, Maverick, Penny and Amelia. You’d agreed not to dress up, and Bradley had suggested your new green one. He’s wearing slacks and a shirt, hair bleached a little from the sun.
It takes everything in you to remember that this isn’t romantic. It’s a platonic wedding, happening only for the sake of the kids.
Something that becomes clear when it’s time to kiss the bride, and Bradley kisses your cheek. You’d been expecting it. Of course you had. The two of you aren’t together, and there’s no reason to believe that Bradley would choose a room with his family and the kids to make his first move.
But it reminds you of what today really is.
A duty. Nothing more.
You wait until Bradley’s distracted by the twins to sneak off to the bathroom, allowing a few tears to escape as you go.
This isn’t how it was meant to go.
For you or Bradley.
Bradley shouldn’t be caging himself in at twenty-six to three kids. This is your reality, but it doesn’t have to be his.
*****
The two of you settle into a rhythm in the house, cautious and a little awkward. It’s hard to think platonically about a man who you wake up next to every morning, who you raise children with. No matter how far apart you start the night, by morning there’s always a knee between your thighs, or his face pressed into your hair. Normally you can untangle yourself before Bradley wakes up. Makes things less weird for both of you.
He’s still your best friend, and you figure it’s probably a lot better than some of your friends who married for love.
So things move on, and while the grief is still very present across all your lives, Bradley alleviates it a little.
Right after Christmas, you get a wedding invitation from Jake, something Bradley had assumed he’d never see. Ever the eternal bachelor, it seems that he’s giving it up to settle down with his girlfriend, Bea.
With everybody now stationed in San Diego, you’ve spent a decent amount of time with them both. They’re a nice couple, they make a lot of sense.
And they’re disgustingly in love.
Like, more love than you could ever have expected Jake Seresin to be capable of showing.
Adam is Jake’s number one fan, and had been thrilled when they’d asked him to be the ring-bearer. Bradley had gotten a little huffy, put out at not always being his favourite anymore. He’d been pacified when Olivia had crawled onto his lap, wanting cuddles during The Lion King.
The wedding is beautiful. Standing in a new dress that Bradley had insisted you buy, after he had seen you hovering over it online one too many times, you feel pretty for the first time in months. His arm has been settled on the small of your back all night, and you’d teased him relentlessly for crying when Adam walked down the aisle.
You can’t help but feel like this is what Bradley deserves. Someone like Bea, whom he can love completely and openly. Not you, riddled with trauma and baggage that would make even the most experienced therapists wince.
He deserved a wedding like this. Not a court-house cheek kiss, full of adoption papers.
“What are you thinking?” Bradley murmurs, lacing his fingers through yours as you watch Jake and Bea have their first dance.
“I-I was just thinking about our wedding,” You reply, trying desperately to keep your voice steady.
“Yeah? What about it?”
“I don’t know, it’s stupid,” You dismiss, feeling the familiar prick of tears in your periphery. You won’t cry today. You won’t make Bradley feel worse than he probably already does.
Sensing the tone, Bradley drops it, pressing a quick kiss to the back of your knuckles. “Can’t believe Jake’s getting married. Never thought I’d see the day.”
“I thought for sure Bob would get married first out of all of you guys - he’s been with Chloe for so long.”
“Did I tell you they were talking about getting married in London, to be near Chlo’s family? Would maybe be nice to make a holiday of it. Take the kids, do Scotland-”
He’s cut off by the DJ asking for couples to get up and join the Seresins. Bradley’s immediately on his feet, offering you his hand.
“Oh, Brad, I don’t know-”
He doesn’t reply, just laces his fingers through yours, and pulls you to the dancefloor. Holding you tightly against him, you rest your head on his shoulder as he starts to sway.
A Frank Sinatra ballad plays in the background, and you try and keep your attention focused solely on Bradley. This is a happy occasion. You shouldn’t be ruining it with all this over-thinking.
“You look really beautiful,” He murmurs, head dipped to speak directly into your ear.
“You don’t look half-bad yourself.”
“No, I mean. You look really beautiful. Prettiest girl I’ve ever seen.”
This feels like dangerous territory, and you swallow. “Brad-”
“I wish I could’ve given you something like this, like today.”
His words tip you over the edge, and a small sob escapes. Eyes widening, Bradley pulls back to look at you. A few of the nearest couples on the dancefloor also turn, concerned. “Oh, kid. I’m sorry- wait, fuck. Hold on.”
He’s leading you outside, pointedly ignoring any attention you’re both receiving. It’s colder than usual for San Diego, and he drapes his suit jacket over your shoulders, thumb reaching out to wipe at your tears.
“What’s wrong, honey?”
“I’m sorry,” You cry, chest heaving as you try and regain control of yourself.
His arms are gripping yours, almost as if trying to keep you upright. “Don’t apologise, sweet girl. Was it talking about the wedding?”
“Y-you deserve better than this.”
“What?”
“You deserve a wedding like that. A wife like that. Not… whatever this is.”
Everything is pouring out. All the doubts of the past year, every insecurity, all the guilt about trapping Bradley. You don’t think you could bottle it up now if you tried.
“We’re holding you back.” Your voice is miserable, full of terror that he’ll agree. That he’ll leave, and you’ll be alone again. “That should be you in there. With someone that you love.”
“With you-” He begins, but you cut him off, another sob bubbling up.
“You don’t have to keep pretending, it’s okay.”
“Sweet girl, when I think about the rest of my life, all I can see is you. You, and the kids, and 23 Ridgemont Lane.”
The tears continue to trickle down your cheeks. “Bradley, you’re so young. What about if you meet someone, down the line-”
“That’s not going to happen-”
“You might want more, more than this - and I wouldn’t blame you-”
“Sweetheart, please let me talk for just once second-”
You’re spiralling. You know you are. But something about watching Jake and Bea in there makes you want to sob. That might not be in the cards for you, but you want it desperately for Bradley.
“I don’t want you to hate me one day.” The shake in your voice is borderline pathetic. It’s an admission. One you haven’t been sure you’re strong enough to make. That Bradley holds your heart in his hands, and he can do whatever he pleases with it.
“I could never hate you,” He whispers, reaching up to cup your cheeks. “God, kid, no. You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”
You’re about to protest, when he closes the distance and presses his lips to yours. Your eyes flutter closed in surprise, hands resting on his chest.
He’s softer than you imagined, the slight scratch of his moustache the only friction.
It’s a kiss that knocks your world off its axis. One that you’re pretty sure would knock you off your feet were it not for Bradley’s arms holding you up - one curling at the nape of your neck, the other dropping to your hip, bring you closer, ever closer.
It’s a little uncoordinated, and it’s only when his nose bumps yours that you begin to realise that this is real.
You’re kissing Bradley, and he’s kissing you, and you’re not sure you ever want it to end.
He's smiling against your mouth, pressing you into the wall of the venue.
You’re not sure how much time has passed when he pulls back. Maybe minutes, maybe hours. “I love you,” He murmurs, nose brushing yours. “So much it kind of terrifies me.”
You let out an almost incredulous laugh. “I love you too.”
“Yeah?”
You nod, leaning in to kiss him again. “Can’t tell you how bad I’ve been feeling these last few months, thinking we were holding you back.
He’s shaking his head. “I'm right where I want to be, sweet girl. I want to be there for Adam starting elementary school, and for the twins starting to talk more. I want to fix up the basement, so that the kids have a playroom, and I want to build you one of those shed-things that give you a little peace and quiet after a long day.”
“You’ve thought about this a lot, huh?” You mumble, pressing butterfly kisses all over his face.
“I want to make sure the girls know that there’s no guy out there who will ever be good enough for them, and I want to teach Adam to play the guitar. Acoustic, not electric, for the sake of all our ears. But mostly, I really, really want to love you the way you deserve. I want to be a comfort during the bad times, and celebrate the good, and the rest of the time I just want to be near you.”
His arms are wrapped around you again, pulling you in tightly as you cry into his shoulder.
“What do you say?” He breathes. “Want to get married for real this time?”
How lucky you are to have Bradley Bradshaw in your life.
summary: you and bob are obviously into each other, but he's hesitant to make a move claiming you're too young for him, until a whole lot of miscommunication—jealousy, tension, the works—and a training accident lands you in hospital...
notes: the lew spiral is still spiralling and i almost struggled writing this because i love him so much??? anyways, it's heaps of fun, has all the tension, jealousy, angst, fluff, and of course... lots of horny thoughts! please let me know what you think!!! (p.s. shout out to the critical role nerds for the callsign, iykyk)
warnings: swearing, miscommunication, reference to a slight age gap (but it isn't specified and it's also described as 'barely there'), teasing, short skirts (sorry bob), jealousy, switching pov (kind of), plane crash, very minor description of injury, and horniness so 18+ ONLY MDNI! (let me know if i missed anything)
word count: 18022 (i have no chill whatsoever)
your callsign is vex
Bob Floyd never thought of himself as someone who took particular interest in the weather—unless it had to do with flying, of course. But on the ground? He couldn’t care less. Or, he shouldn’t.
Especially not when it comes to what the weather makes people wear. How is that any of his business? It shouldn’t matter how hot it is outside or how that directly affects the amount of material someone’s wearing. It really shouldn’t.
But it does. And not just with anyone. No—this has everything to do with you.
You, in that damn sundress and those ridiculous cowboy boots that shouldn’t be giving Bob a semi in the middle of the goddamn bar.
And yet, there you are in all your glory. Legs on display, that flowy little skirt just barely covering the curve of your ass. And fuck if it isn’t making it impossible for Bob to keep his eyes from wandering.
“God damn,” Jake says, his southern drawl thick as his green eyes lock onto you—or more specifically, your ass. “Do you think she knows?”
Bob blinks, brows pulling together as he turns toward Jake, trying—and failing, miserably—not to sound annoyed that he’s checking you out. “Know what?”
“What a girl like that does to guys like us,” Jake replies easily.
Reuben chuckles and takes a slow sip of his beer. “Oh, she knows. She definitely knows.”
“Ugh,” Natasha groans. “Could you creeps stop looking at her like she’s something to eat? It’s gross. She’s our friend. Our teammate.”
Jake opens his mouth, lips already curled into his usual smirk, but Natasha puts a hand up to stop him.
“And she’s barely younger than us, so don’t say anything weird about her age.”
Jake rolls his eyes and lifts his beer. “Wasn’t gonna…”
There’s a beat of silence as Bob lets his eyes drift back to you, drinking in the way you’re leaning against the bar. Elbow propped, hip cocked, one boot crossed over the other, and your head tipped just slightly as you talk to the dark-haired stranger beside you.
“Wait,” Mickey leans forward, squinting—very unsubtly—across the bar. “Is that her date?”
Natasha nods. “Think so. Looks like the guy she showed me.”
Bob’s head snaps toward her, dark blue eyes wide. “She’s on a date?”
Mickey giggles. Reuben snorts. Even Bradley has to hide a laugh behind his beer.
“Alright,” Jake says, slapping a hand on the table in mock outrage. “Who didn’t tell Bob?”
Natasha shoots him a flat look before turning back to Bob. “Didn’t you hear us talking about it at lunch? She met some guy on Hinge or something.”
“Said she was gonna go home with him and let him keep her up all night,” Jake adds with a wicked grin. “Y’know, since we’re starting night rides next week—figured she’d get used to staying up late.”
“I was intentionally leaving that part out,” Nat says, glaring at Jake. “But thanks for clearing it all up, Bagman.”
Jake tips his beer toward her. “Anytime.”
Bob’s jaw twitches. His teeth are clenched so tight it hurts, but he can’t relax—not with that guy’s hand on your hip, fingers digging into the soft fabric like he has some right to touch you. Like you belong to him.
Which you don’t. You don’t belong to anyone.
At least, that’s what Bob has to keep telling himself.
“Easy, Floyd,” Bradley mutters beside him. “You keep staring like that, the poor guy’s gonna catch fire.”
Bob doesn’t respond. He can’t. His voice is gone, breath caught somewhere in his throat. He’s too focused on your smile—how it flickers, just a little off. Not quite like the one you wear with them. With him.
It shouldn’t matter. He shouldn’t care whether or not you’re giving that stranger the same bright smile or soft laugh you always give him. Because it’s none of his business.
Who you date and what you do—none of it is his business. You’re allowed to wear tiny dresses, flirt with strangers, and laugh at guys who think they’re clever.
It shouldn’t matter.
But it does.
God, it fucking matters—way more than it should.
Because for the first time in weeks, you’re not looking at him. You’re looking at... that guy.
And even though he tells himself—repeatedly, a thousand times a day—not to enjoy being the centre of your attention... he does.
He lives for it.
“You know,” Reuben says slowly, lips curled into the tiniest smirk, “this wouldn’t even be happening if you’d sack up and—”
“Payback,” Natasha warns. “Don’t.”
“What?” He raises both hands in mock innocence. “All I’m trying to say is, if he likes her that much, he should just ask her out. She’s clearly into him. We all know it.”
Bob’s eyes flick between you and Reuben, his brows furrowed slightly as his thoughts tug in opposite directions. On one hand, yeah, Reuben’s logic makes perfect sense. Bob’s not blind—he sees the way you look at him. The way your face lights up when you talk to him, the quiet smile you wear just for him, the blush you try to hide when he says something low and teasing.
But on the other hand? He just can’t do it. You’re young—too young. And he’s... well, he’s not old, but he’s older. It’s not a huge age gap, not really, but that paired with how drop-dead gorgeous you are? It’s enough to make him feel like a—
“Nothin’ wrong with being a cradle-snatcher,” Jake chimes in, eyes sparkling as he lifts his beer.
Bradley chuckles quietly. “Jesus, Hangman. You’re on fire tonight.”
“Why thank you, Rooster,” Jake replies smoothly.
Natasha rolls her eyes and downs the rest of her beer in one long swig, looking thoroughly done with all of them.
The conversation shifts then—to next week’s night ops training—but Bob barely hears it. The pounding of his pulse is too loud, drowning everything out. And he can’t stop watching you.
The way your hands move when you talk, how your dress sways as you shift your weight, the gentle curve of your smile. Even over the music and chatter, he swears he can hear your laughter—if he strains.
And it kills him. Because he’s not the one making you laugh tonight.
-
“Wanna get out of here?” Ryan asks, his voice low in your ear, breath warm against your neck.
But not in a sexy way. Not in the way that sends goosebumps down your arms or makes your skin prickle with anticipation. It just makes you feel warm—too warm—in the packed, overheated bar.
Honestly, for the last forty-five minutes, while Ryan has been telling you all about his super interesting job—he's a carpenter, it’s not that interesting—you’ve been seriously considering hopping behind the bar to help Penny and Jimmy.
“It’s barely nine,” you say, forcing a polite smile as you tilt your head.
“Yeah,” he chuckles, scratching the back of his neck. “But I’ve got to be at work by six tomorrow morning, so I figured if we ducked out now, we could... you know, mess around a bit before bed.”
The way he says it nearly makes you laugh. He sounds like a teenager trying to sneak in some action before curfew.
“Look,” you sigh, laying a hand on his knee, “this has been fun, but I’m just not your girl. And honestly? I was kinda hoping this would distract me from someone else, but... you’re not him. I’m sorry. It’s not your fault—this one’s on me. But, uh... good luck!”
He looks completely flabbergasted. Like the blank stare you’ve worn for most of the evening—or the way your gaze kept drifting across the bar toward someone else—wasn’t a hint. God, he might be even dumber than you thought.
You slip off the barstool with a clipped smile, wishing you looked more sincere, but your body is already moving toward where you really want to be—where your squad is.
Where Bob is.
You’re just about to head for the booth when your eye catches on Penny—and the very large crowd waiting to be served.
“Damn it,” you sigh, pivoting sharply and hurrying around the bar.
You slip through the swinging wooden doors behind the bar and fall in beside Penny, listening closely to the man ordering drinks—his voice raised over the music and chatter. Without hesitation, you start grabbing clean glasses, catching Penny off guard as you begin pouring pints of golden beer.
“Sorry,” you say with a soft laugh. “I saw the crowd and couldn’t just let you suffer.”
She rolls her eyes but smiles. “I’d tell you to scram if you weren’t so gorgeous—and a literal lifesaver.”
You give her a cheeky wink before lining up the beers on a tray for the man. Penny swipes his card, and he’s gone in half the time. Then the next patron steps up, and you keep working smoothly, moving effortlessly behind the bar and easing the pressure.
Eventually, the line dies down, and Penny takes full advantage of your presence by sending Jimmy out back for more stock. You stay behind the bar while she ducks off to collect empties, keeping yourself busy wiping benches, refilling lime wedges, and unloading the freshly washed glasses.
You’re so focused on scrubbing at a particularly stubborn stain on the bar top that you don’t notice someone approach—someone you usually have a hard time not noticing.
“You don’t work here,” Bob says, voice light, lips twitching at the corners.
You glance up, your heart immediately jumping into overdrive. “I could,” you say, straightening. “Maybe I should quit the Navy. Bartending might be my true calling.”
He chuckles. “You’re one of the best fighter pilots in the country, and you think slinging drinks is your destiny?”
You shrug, leaning forward casually—knowing exactly what you’re doing. His eyes flick down to your chest for a split second before snapping back up, fast enough to pretend it didn’t happen.
“Hey, don’t knock it. This job is harder than it looks.”
“Oh, I don’t doubt that,” he says softly, watching with quiet intensity as you pour him a pint of cherry soda—without him even needing to ask.
You slide it over with a small smile. “What do you think? I’m a pretty good bartender, huh?”
His cheeks tint pink, the flush dusting across his nose. “Yeah. I think you make a very pretty bartender.”
You smirk. “Was that a compliment, Lieutenant?”
He rolls his eyes and drops a crumpled ten onto the bar like it might save him from saying more.
You shake your head. “Don’t worry, it’s on the house.”
“You sure you’ve got that kind of authority?” he teases.
“Penny said our drinks are free tonight,” you reply, smug. “Payment for being an excellent bartender.”
“And for filling the tip jar faster than I’ve ever seen,” Penny chimes in as she reappears, arms full of empty glasses.
Your cheeks heat as Bob’s gaze flicks toward the overflowing jar.
“Wow,” he chuckles softly.
You flick your hair dramatically and bat your lashes. “Perks of being a pretty bartender, I guess.”
Then you turn around and bend over to grab something from the fridge—very aware of the effect—and sure enough, Bob promptly chokes on his soda. He coughs, his whole face turning red as he pounds a fist against his chest.
“Jesus,” he mutters under his breath, “more like consequences of a skirt that short.”
You snap upright, brows lifting and eyes gleaming with amusement. “Bob Floyd, did you just comment on the length of my skirt?”
He blinks fast. “No.”
You tilt your head, fighting a grin. “You sure? Because the colour in your cheeks looks a little guilty to me.”
He straightens up, his usual walls clicking into place like armour. “Didn’t say anything.”
You roll your eyes and plant both hands on the bar, leaning forward just enough to make him squirm. “Bob, I’m not a baby. And I’m not some virginal schoolgirl, either. You’re not going to hell just for flirting with me.” You pause, letting your gaze hold his. “Hell, if you did it more often, I might take you to heaven.”
His throat bobs as he swallows hard, and you see the want flicker in his eyes—just before he reins it back in.
“But if the age gap is that big of a deal to you—which, for the record, is barely anything—then maybe stop looking at me like you’re picturing me naked.” Your voice drops. “Mixed signals can really confuse a girl.”
You hear the softest laugh from Penny, but your eyes stay locked on Bob’s—daring him to look down again, to do something other than walk away.
He clears his throat. “Thanks for the drink.”
Then he turns and walks away, heading straight back to the booth where all your friends are—acting like they haven’t been watching, but you know better. They’re all too nosy for their own good.
You sigh heavily. “Men. Fucking impossible.”
Penny laughs again, resting a hand on your shoulder. “Fighter pilots, actually. They’re a very special breed of difficult.”
“Hey,” you giggle. “I am a fighter pilot.”
She nods, smirking. “And there’s not a doubt in my mind how difficult you’re makin’ life for that boy right now.”
You press your lips together and give her a flat look—because yeah… she’s not wrong.
After all, why else bring a guy to the bar you knew your friends would be at—you knew he would be at? Why wear a dress this short? And why spend half the night with your eyes locked on him, just wishing he’d walk over and interrupt your lousy date?
-
Graveyard shift. Bat hours. Vampire runs. Ghost hops. Night rides.
Whatever you want to call it—the squad hates night ops.
It’s dark, it’s eerie, and your NVGs fog up if you so much as breathe wrong. Fatigue hits harder, the skeleton crew slows everything down, and visibility is shot—so you’re flying blind, trusting your radar and your WSO to keep you alive.
“You know what’s great about night ops?” Mickey says, head tipped back in his chair. “Nothing. Not the dark, not the sleep deprivation, not the existential dread at two a.m. while staring into the black void wondering if your wingman ghosted you or just changed frequency.”
You roll your eyes and take a sip of coffee.
“It’s night one, Fanboy,” Natasha mutters beside you. “We still have four weeks of this. Are you going to complain the whole time?”
Mickey shrugs. “Yeah. Probably.”
“Did Mav piss Cyclone off or something?” Reuben asks.
You shake your head. “Nah. He heard there might be a mission coming up with night flying. Figured we should get ahead of it.”
“Or he just hates us,” Javy sighs, eyes half-shut.
Natasha snorts. “Did you sleep at all today, Coyote?”
“Nope,” he grumbles, shifting a glare toward Jake. “Someone had his whale noises up too loud and bit my head off when I told him to turn it down.”
Jake shoots him a look. “They help me sleep. If you’ve got a problem, buy some earplugs.”
“Damn,” you mutter. “Glad you’re not my wingman tonight, Coyote.”
He shifts his glare your way and flips you off lazily before letting his eyes shut completely.
“So, Vex,” Jake says, twisting in his seat toward you, “never did hear how that date went the other night.”
You arch a brow. “Oh, so now I have to report back on all my dates?”
Jake’s lips twitch, his gaze flicking toward Bob. “Dates? As in plural? Just how many are we talking here?”
“That’s none of your business,” you reply, taking another sip of coffee.
There’s a brief pause, and his eyes narrow—seeing through you a little too easily. “The date tanked?”
Natasha snorts and you quickly elbow her in the side.
“Yes,” you mutter. “It sucked. He was boring. And no, I didn’t get laid. So yes, I’m in a less-than-favourable mood.”
Jake’s smirk turns wicked. “Sweetheart, if getting laid is what you need, you only have to ask.”
Your brows shoot up. “That so?”
He nods.
You turn to Javy, who’s about one breath away from snoring. “Coyote.”
His eyes snap open. “Huh?”
“Want to fuck me?”
He startles—eyes wide, mouth dropping open. “I—uh, what?”
Laughter rumbles through the room—everyone giggling softly at poor, confused Javy.
Well... almost everyone.
Bob isn’t laughing. In fact, he’s not even smiling, or looking your way. His eyes are glued to his phone—even though you can see the screen is blank.
Which means he’s definitely listening.
You shift in your chair and give Natasha a sidelong smirk. Her brow furrows slightly—a silent question about what you’re up to—but she nods anyway, signalling that she’ll follow your lead no matter where it goes.
“Does anyone know if Cyclone’s single?” you ask, voice light and dripping with faux innocence.
Mickey’s eyes go wide. “Admiral Simpson?”
You nod, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “Yeah. He’s hot.”
“Agreed,” Natasha says—and from the way her mouth curves, she’s not just playing along. She definitely agrees.
“Isn’t he married?” Reuben asks.
Javy frowns, still half-asleep but clearly paying attention now. “Nah, I think they divorced.”
“So,” you say slowly, “what I’m hearing is... he’s single?”
Bradley’s gaze flicks to Bob—just for a second—before settling back on you, reading you like a damn open book. “Bit old for you, isn’t he, Vex?”
You shrug with a smile. “Not at all. I like older men. More experience.”
Out of the corner of your eye, you catch the way Bob shifts in his seat—just slightly, but it’s enough. He’s not looking at you, but the tips of his ears have turned pink, and his jaw is locked tight as he keeps his eyes on his phone. Still blank.
“I swear he’s still married,” Mickey says, clearly trying to get this train back on the rails.
“Yeah,” Reuben adds. “Didn’t they do couples counselling?”
“They did,” Maverick says, breezing into the room like the punchline to your joke. “Didn’t stick. So yes, he’s single.” He pauses in front of you, green eyes sparkling with amusement. “But I’m not sure how he feels about dating subordinates. Want me to find out?”
You match his smirk with one of your own, sitting up a little straighter as you meet his gaze. “How generous of you, Captain. That would be great.”
He chuckles, shaking his head as he moves to the front of the room and sets a stack of papers down on the desk. “Alright, aviators,” he says. “Welcome to night ops.”
After an hour-long briefing and way too many questions about why you’re all stuck on night training, Maverick orders everyone to get ready for the first hop. You’re on deck with Jake, Natasha, and, of course... Bob.
The four of you ride in silence across the flight line, packed into one of the motorised carts as Maverick drives you from the squadron building to the hangar. There’s a low buzz of anticipation in the air, but no one says much. It’s late, and everyone is focusing on their own little preflight rituals.
Once you reach the hangar, the ground crew directs you toward the night ops staging area where your NVGs and gear are laid out. You’ve done enough of these late-night flights to know the drill, so you join the others in wordlessly collecting your kit and starting to suit up.
By the time you make it out onto the tarmac, your jets are already prepped and the crew chiefs are finishing up their walk-arounds. You head over to your jet, nodding to the plane captain before starting your own pre-flight check—walking the length of the fuselage, scanning for anything off, running a practiced eye over control surfaces, landing gear, intakes. It’s second nature by now, but you don’t cut corners. Especially not in the dark.
Once you’re satisfied, you turn to face the runway and pull your helmet on, checking the vision through your NVGs. It’s blurry—just enough to make you squint. The image is skewed, the edges fuzzy, crawling inward like shadows that shouldn’t be there.
You mutter something sharp under your breath, reaching up to adjust the settings yourself when—
“Don’t move.” The voice is low. Steady. Too close.
You freeze instinctively as Bob steps in—right into your space, like you’re the only two souls on the glowing stretch of tarmac. His gloved hand finds the side of your helmet, fingers sliding into place with steady control. It should feel clinical—routine—but it doesn’t. It burns. Even through the goddamn helmet.
“I can fix it,” he murmurs, eyes on your goggles, not your face. “Tilt your chin up.”
You obey—barely—and he leans in, his body almost touching to yours. One hand on your cheek-plate now, the other carefully turning the tiny focus dial above your temple. You can feel his breath against your skin, warm and shallow, and it sends a pulse through your ribs that you’re trying desperately not to show.
“Didn't this happen last time?” he asks, the corner of his lips twitching. “You jam the strap too tight.”
“I like it snug,” you mutter, not trusting your voice with anything flirtier. Not when he’s this close.
Bob hums, low in his throat. “Of course you do.”
Your heart stutters.
He adjusts something with a flick of his thumb—the pad of it grazing down along the side of your face, slow and careful. Like he's memorising the shape of you under the gear. Your jaw flexes.
“You always get this close when you’re adjusting gear?” you ask, pretending the heat in your voice is a joke and not a plea.
Bob stills for a beat. Just one.
Then—very softly—he whispers, “Only yours.”
You swear your knees nearly give.
But before you can breathe or speak or lean the half-inch forward that would start something you probably shouldn’t want this badly, Bob finishes the final adjustment and lets his hands fall. Slowly. Like it costs him something.
“There,” he says, voice low but distant now. “Better?”
You blink behind the goggles. “Yeah. Clear.”
He lingers for half a second more—just enough to feel like maybe he wants to say something else—then turns and walks back toward the others without another word.
You don’t move. You can’t. You’re just standing there in the dark, goggles perfectly focused, heart pounding like you’re about to hit Mach 1.
It takes an embarrassingly long minute for you to remember how to function. To stop thinking about how close he’d just been—how you could smell him, feel his heat, and how, if you’d tipped your chin up and stretched just a little… you might’ve been able to kiss him.
But then you hear Maverick shouting across the tarmac, calling for a final rundown before wheels-up.
You shake your head, yank your helmet off, and join the others for a quick debrief before splitting up again and climbing into your jets. You settle in, strap your helmet back on, check your now perfectly focused NVGs, and run your usual internal systems check.
Then—after the green light from ground crew—you’re in the sky. Squinting through your goggles, seeing the world saturated in green and grey, and wondering why the fuck no one has invented a better form of night vision yet.
“Remind me again why we’re stuck on the graveyard shift,” Jake says, voice dry. “Because as much as I love flying blind through pitch-black nothingness, I’d really rather be in bed right now.”
“You’re not blind, Hangman,” Maverick replies. “We’ve got one of the best WSOs in the world with us.”
“Oh, good,” Jake says sarcastically. “My life’s in the hands of Phoenix’s baby on board.”
You roll your eyes. “I’d rather have my life in Bob’s hands than yours, Bagman.”
His chuckle crackles through the radio. “Yeah, I know where you’d like to have Bob’s hands. And it’s not holding your life.”
Heat rushes to your cheeks, making the cockpit suddenly feel way too hot—your flight suit practically suffocating.
“Hangman,” Maverick warns. “Be professional.”
Jake scoffs. “Oh, so those two can eye-fuck each other all night long, but I can’t say the obvious out loud?”
There’s a pause—a beat where you wonder if he’s finally pushed it too far—but then Maverick’s laughter cuts through.
“Yes. Because they do it quietly.”
Your eyes go wide and you almost—almost—fumble a right bank. “Mav!”
More laughter crackles through the radio, Natasha now joining in. You’re just about to tell them all to stick it when the mood shifts, and the laughter stops.
“Vex, check your two,” Maverick says, voice sharp and low. “Something’s throwing heat.”
“Negative,” Bob cuts in. “Let me scan it first.”
You hesitate, holding formation, but frustration flares under your skin. Did Bob really just override a direct order?
“Confirming IR spike,” Bob says after a beat. “Something’s cooking down there, but it doesn’t match any known signature.”
You glance down at the blur on your MFD. “I’ll break off, check it out.”
“Wait. Don’t.” Bob’s voice is low but tense, edged with something more than caution.
“Why?” you snap, anger prickling your chest.
“I... I don’t like it,” he says. “It’s not worth the risk.”
You grit your teeth and break off anyway, flying low and steady toward the suspicious heat signature.
“I’m going to check it out, Mav,” you say, voice tight. “Hangman, got my six?”
“Copy,” Jake replies.
You bank left, staying quiet as you approach the stretch of uninhabited grassland. Your HUD flickers with the steady IR pulse—a dull orange glow against the dark terrain. Too concentrated for a campfire. Too controlled for a random burn. It’s creeping north—methodical.
You drop lower when you spot flashing lights—fire crews moving with purpose, reflective gear flickering like stars in the NVG haze. This isn’t an accident. It’s a controlled burn.
“Mav, why is there a fire in a training zone?” you ask. “Shouldn’t that be logged?”
“It’s just brush management?” Maverick asks, sounding almost relieved.
“Affirmative,” Jake replies before you can.
“Copy. I’ll flag it with air traffic—looks like someone forgot to tell the rest of us.”
You and Jake return to formation without issue.
“Lucky it wasn’t Bigfoot, huh Bob?” Jake says, his smug grin practically audible. “Might’ve leapt right onto Vex’s jet and dragged her into the woods.”
There’s no response, just the soft static of the open channel.
Then Natasha mutters, “Don’t be a dick, Hangman. He was being cautious.”
“Well, I’m sure she appreciates the concern,” Jake says. “But she’s not made of glass.” He waits for a retort—gets none—and chuckles. “And if she’d died out there, I would’ve avenged her. Dramatically.”
“Hangman,” Maverick sighs. “That’s enough. Bob’s got better eyes than the rest of us tonight. Maybe don’t piss him off.”
Still, nothing from Bob. You even crane your neck, catching sight of his and Natasha's jet—nothing but a shadow at your five o’clock. Like you could somehow see him in the cockpit, tensing his jaw or rolling his eyes at Jake’s jabs.
Frustration simmers in your chest. You know he was just being cautious—or protective—but this is your job. He doesn’t get to tell you what you can and can’t do, especially when it’s a direct order from your CO. Even if you were dating, you wouldn’t let him boss you around—well, not outside of the bedroom, anyway. He can care. He can worry. But making it sound like you’re incapable? That’s what he just did. And it makes your skin crawl.
The rest of the flight passes without incident, but the comms stay unusually quiet—even Jake gives up his teasing—and you’re still pissed by the time you’re back on the ground.
You move through the post-flight motions with a frown on your face and your jaw locked tight. First, the ground crew helps you out of the jet and you do a quick walk-around. Then you ditch your night gear, knock out a maintenance report, and sit through a short debrief with Maverick before jumping in the cart back to the ready room.
By the time you walk in, the others are already gone. You’re not sure if you were too caught up in your own grumpiness to notice them pass you on the way over, but you don’t bother asking. You’re still too busy being pissed.
In fact, you’re so busy scowling at the coffee machine as it splutters out an espresso shot you know is going to taste like dirt that you don’t notice someone step up beside you.
“I’m sorry,” Bob says, voice soft. “About what happened up there.”
You jump—just slightly—then twist to face him, arms crossed tight over your chest. He's standing just a few feet away—helmet gone, flight suit half unzipped with the collar tugged open just enough to make your stomach flip.
“I didn’t mean to undermine you.”
“Sure felt like it,” you mutter.
“I know.” His eyes finally lift to meet yours—midnight blue, heavy with regret and something else that makes your breath catch. “That’s why I’m apologising.”
You turn back to the coffee machine, hoping the clatter and gurgle of the old machine will cover the sudden pounding of your heart. “Look, I get you were trying to be cautious, but Mav gave me a directive. You don’t get to override that just because your gut didn’t like it.”
“I wasn’t thinking about you as a teammate back there,” he says quietly. “I was thinking—”
“That I’m a little kid?” you snap, spinning to face him again. “Because whatever issue you have with my age, I need you to remember that I got here the same way you did. I worked my ass off to be the pilot I am today, and I don’t need someone second-guessing me just because they’re a little older. Especially when I know what I’m capable of.”
His frown deepens. “No, it—it’s not that at all. I just—I didn’t see what it was, it was dark, and when you went low...” He drags a hand through his hair. “I couldn’t breathe. I thought, what if something happens to her?”
You blink, startled by the raw edge in his voice.
“If anything had gone wrong, it would’ve been my fault,” he says, softer now. “I’m the WSO. I should’ve seen it first.”
“Bob,” you whisper, stepping closer before you can stop yourself. You can feel the heat radiating off him now. “If I ever end up in a bad spot, that’s on me. I trust you to have my back, always—but it’s my responsibility when I make a call. And I broke off because I knew you’d be there. You and Phoenix, Mav, Hangman... I knew I had the best team in the sky behind me.”
His jaw clenches as his gaze drifts over your face, like he’s trying to memorise every inch.
Then he moves closer—close enough for one of the clips on his suit to catch yours—and reaches out. His fingers hook gently into the edge of your suit’s hip pocket, tugging you forward just enough to make your breath hitch.
“You’re not just my teammate,” he murmurs. “Don’t you get that? I care about you. More than a teammate. More than a friend. I—”
“I don’t believe it,” a familiar voice cuts through the room. “The famous Dagger Squad stuck on the graveyard shift? What’d you do, lose another bet?”
Bob startles, stepping quickly away from you with bright red cheeks, unnecessarily adjusting his glasses.
You turn toward the door, ready to rip into whoever just decided to interrupt the closest you’ve ever gotten to Bob... when you realize who it is. It’s Trevor—an old friend from flight school and one of the newer instructors on NAS. You’ve been meaning to catch up with him, but being in an elite squadron doesn’t leave you much time for a social life.
“Damn,” you say with a playful smile, “who let you in the building?”
He steps fully into the room, wearing his signature shit-eating grin. “Vex,” he says, voice full of mock disbelief. “You’re still here? I figured Maverick would’ve canned your reckless ass by now.”
Jake swivels in his chair to look at you. “So you’re a renowned little chaos gremlin? Good to know.”
You roll your eyes and step toward your friend. “Guys, this is Trevor—or Grinder—I’ve known him since flight school. He gave me my callsign, actually.”
Trevor snorts. “Technically, Admiral Prescott gave you your callsign. What exactly was it he said again? That you’re a living, breathing vexation who’s going to be the sole reason for his retirement?”
Jake and Natasha giggle from across the room, and Trevor grins proudly.
You narrow your eyes at him. “Want to tell my squad how you got yours?”
He tips his head, brows raised. “Maybe I should get to know them first.”
Then his eyes flick toward Jake—grinning, handsome, utterly clueless Jake. Yep. That’s the real reason Trevor decided to drop by your squadron building tonight, because he knew Jake ‘Hangman’ Seresin would be here. The very pilot he’s had a crush on for more months than you care to remember. He’s been bugging you for ages to introduce them, even though you told him—repeatedly—that you’re not sure Jake swings that way. He wasn’t deterred though; he said he’s happy to figure it out and see if he can negotiate if not. You just rolled your eyes.
“So, Grinder,” Natasha says, “what do you do?”
Trevor’s face lights up and he quickly launches into a long-winded explanation of his new role as a flight instructor. He walks toward her as he talks, inching closer to where Jake is seated not far from Natasha.
You turn back to Bob, clearing your throat. “Sorry about him. He’s... a lot. But you were saying...?”
He shakes his head, keeping his eyes fixed on the floor. “Nothing. It’s fine.”
You frown. “It didn’t sound like nothing.” You take a slow step forward. “Didn’t feel like... nothing.”
“It’s okay,” he says quickly, his eyes snapping up as he forces a tight smile. “We can talk later. Really, it’s fine.”
You hesitate, wanting to push but knowing it’s no use now—those walls are well and truly back in place.
“Okay,” you say, nodding once. “Later.”
-
Unfortunately, later never comes.
You want to talk to him toward the end of the shift, but you’re both so exhausted after the first night that you can’t find the energy to push him for answers. So you let it go and head home.
The next night, you’re on opposite hops, which means you don’t see him until the debrief in the early morning—when, once again, everyone is too wiped out to talk and just wants to wrap up and get home.
The rest of the week slips by the same way. Every little thing keeps getting in the way of you and Bob actually talking. Even Thursday night, after a routine hop, when you’re both finally in the ready room and the moment couldn’t be more perfect—Trevor bursts in again, and Bob shuts down.
When you finally leave base on Friday morning—glaring at the well-rested day-shifters on your way out like it’s their fault you’re dead inside—you make a promise to yourself. You’re going to talk to him this weekend. It doesn’t matter when or how or if you have to fake an emergency just to get five uninterrupted minutes. You’re going to do it. Because whatever weird, half-finished thing is hanging between you and Bob has been living rent-free in your head all week—and honestly, it’s starting to redecorate.
“You sure you don’t mind?” Trevor asks, even though he’s already at your door with a duffel bag and a pillow.
You roll your eyes. “Why would I mind?”
He shrugs as he steps into your apartment. “I don’t know. Maybe you were planning to invite that gorgeous little blue-eyed lieutenant over.” He throws a cheeky wink over his shoulder. “You know, the one with the glasses. I’ve seen the way you look at him and—oof—does the man know what he’s in for? I mean, he looks at you just the same but—actually, come to think of it… why haven’t you screwed his brains out yet?”
You shut your eyes and let out a deep sigh. When you open them again, Trevor is already sprawled across your three-seater couch like he owns the place.
“First of all, he’s not little—you’re just freakishly tall—and secondly…” You step slowly toward the lounge, shoulders sagging in defeat. “He’s too good.”
Trevor frowns. “Too good? Like… too good for you or—?”
“That. And he’s respectful,” you say, flopping onto the end of the couch. “He’s got this thing about our age gap. It’s not a big one, but it’s… there, I guess. Maybe it’s also because we’re in the same squad.”
“Yeah,” he says, tone cool and baiting as he casually searches for the TV remote. “I mean, if I was in love with a guy—which, you’re clearly in love with him—I wouldn’t stop until he had a restraining order against me.”
You snort. “Yeah? Well, I like my job and my squad, so—”
He lets out an exasperated sigh. “My God, Vex. Don’t take everything so literally. The man’s in love with you too. Just fucking go for it before your whole squad murders both of you for being whiny dumbasses.”
He finds the remote and flicks the TV on, giving you a very pointed look—brows raised—before settling in and scrolling through streaming apps.
And God, you hate to admit it, but maybe he’s right. Maybe instead of teasing Bob, you just need to go for it. Cut through the hesitation, stop him from overthinking, and make the damn decision for him.
“Fine,” you say, standing up with purpose. “I’m going out tonight, by the way.”
“Good,” he replies, not even glancing your way. “Just keep it down if you bring him home. He might look like an uptight officer, but I can tell that man fucks.”
“Trev!”
He chuckles. “What? I’m just saying.”
You roll your eyes, cheeks burning, and storm off toward your room.
Tonight, the squad has decided to go bowling. Everyone wanted to shake things up from the usual at The Hard Deck, and the only thing you could all agree on was bowling.
Even though you hate the gross bowling shoes that have been worn in by a hundred other people—and the sticky holes on the balls after grubby little kids have been shoving their nasty fingers in them.
But when Bob mentioned that he’s actually pretty good at bowling… well, how could you protest?
Plus, it’s still short skirt weather—Bob’s favourite, as you’ve come to notice—and bowling in a tiny skirt feels like a fun, flirty little risk you’re more than willing to take.
All in the name of science, of course. And your hypothesis? Bob doesn’t stand a chance.
At 7PM, Natasha picks you up, shooting a very pointed look at the flowy little sundress you’re wearing under your denim jacket. But she doesn’t say a word.
The drive to the bowling alley isn’t far, and soon you’re walking inside with Mickey and Reuben—who arrived around the same time. Jake, Bradley, Javy, and Bob are already there. They’ve got a lane, swapped into their shoes, and Jake is busy squeezing creative versions of everyone’s callsigns into the limited-character name slot.
“Can’t you just be ‘Roster’?” he asks Bradley.
Bradley frowns. “Can’t I just be Brad?”
“Ugh,” Natasha groans. “No way. You’re not a Brad. Just put Roo.”
Jake’s face lights up like he just solved the mystery of why the sky is blue. “Good one, Phoenix. Thanks.”
“What am I?” she asks.
“Phone,” Javy replies, deadpan.
Natasha blinks. “Phone? As in P-H-O-N-E?”
“Yep,” Bradley chuckles.
“What the fuck, Bagman?” She steps up to the little tablet where he’s typing the names. “Move. You’re an idiot.”
You stifle a laugh and turn to Mickey and Reuben. “Want to get shoes?”
They both nod, and you head toward the main counter—though not without catching the way Bob’s eyes drop to your legs, his throat working on a swallow as you walk away.
You grab your shoes and rejoin the group, flopping down beside Bob just close enough to make him squirm. Then you lean forward, swapping your Converse for the white, red, and blue striped Velcro bowling shoes.
When you’re done, you stand up and put one foot out. “These shoes are hot. Might have to steal them.”
“You know what,” Jake says with a smirk, “I think you’re just gorgeous enough to make ‘em work. What do you think, Bobby?”
You glance down at the man sitting beside you. The poor guy who’s basically eye-level—thanks to these ridiculously low seats—with your ass. The man whose glasses are just a little foggy by the bridge of his nose as he breathes a bit faster than usual. His cheeks are pink, lips parted, and his eyes are so wide—and so blatantly glued to your short, short skirt—that you can barely keep from laughing.
“Bob?” you ask, voice full of faux innocence.
He clears his throat, blue eyes flicking up to your face. “Y-Yeah. It’s a nice dress.”
There’s a beat—everyone turns to Bob—and then they all burst out laughing. Mickey curls over, Reuben tips his head back, Jake’s face twists up, and Natasha has to hold on to Bradley’s shoulder to keep from falling over.
Bob blinks, brow furrowed, looking back at you as the red in his cheeks deepens. “He wasn’t—we weren’t talking about the dress… were we?”
You shake your head, biting back a smile. And with the way he’s looking at you—wide-eyed, breathless, full of heat—you feel a spark of boldness rise up in your chest.
You reach out, pinch his chin between your fingers, and tilt his face up toward you. Then you lean in, slow and teasing, until there’s barely an inch of air between you—your voice a soft whisper just for him.
“Don’t worry, Bobby,” you murmur. “I wore this dress just for you.”
Then you straighten up with a wicked smile, leaving him speechless, blushing, and absolutely wrecked.
You resist the urge to look back—even with all the teasing going on behind you—as you browse the rack of bowling balls. You pick one, mostly for its colour rather than its weight, and carry it over to the ball return where the others have already placed theirs.
“We ready?” Natasha asks, finally tapping ‘finish’ on the tablet.
The names pop up on the screen above the lane: Roo, Hngmn, Pback, Fboy, Nix, Bob, and Vex.
“Rooster,” she calls, “you’re up.”
Bradley steps forward, grabs a ball, and promptly sends it flying into the gutter. That’s all it takes. One terrible bowl and the trash talk ignites—like gasoline on an open flame.
“Jesus, Rooster,” Reuben says. “My nephew could bowl better than that blindfolded—and he’s six, man.”
“Yeah, dude,” Mickey laughs, “you sure you should be flying jets with that kind of coordination?”
Bradley flips them off before picking up the ball again, dialling in his focus and managing to knock over seven pins on his second try.
“Alright, losers,” Jake says, swaggering up to the ball return. “Time to watch how a real man bowls.”
Unfortunately for everyone, Jake is obnoxiously good at bowling and casually lands a spare without breaking a sweat. But then Reuben steps up and nails a strike, which earns him an impressive amount of booing.
“What can I say?” he grins as he drops back into his seat. “I’m just too good.”
Next up is Mickey, who insists he has a ‘signature move that never fails’. He then immediately wipes himself out and lands on his ass as the ball rolls tragically slow down the lane. It takes everyone a solid few minutes to recover from laughing.
Natasha follows, and—with terrifying precision—manages to hit a spare, knocking down a seven-ten split like it’s nothing.
“Alright, Baby,” Jake says, clapping a hand on Bob’s shoulder. “You ready to show us what you got?”
Bob rolls his eyes and shrugs off Jake’s hand, the corner of his mouth twitching as he stands and heads for the ball return. You’re not sure if it’s intentional, but the jeans hugging his ass are outrageously distracting, and it takes a considerable amount of effort to look at the pins instead of his backside.
By the time you finally manage to drag your eyes down the lane, the pins are already gone—swept clean away as Bob turns around with just the faintest hint of a smug grin.
“Fuck,” Reuben mutters. “Bob can bowl.”
“Oh, damn,” Mickey giggles. “Going after that is gonna suck.”
You shoot him a look as you push out of your seat. “Thanks, Mick.”
Bob doesn’t sit down right away—he steps over to the ball return, picks up your ball, and hands it to you with a soft smile.
You take it, intentionally placing half a hand over his. “Thanks.”
He nods once, then retreats to where the rest of the squad are waiting.
“Need a little guidance, Vex?” Jake drawls, voice low and smug. “I give excellent hands-on instruction.”
You roll your eyes, sliding your fingers into the holes. “I think I’d rather roll a gutter ball than have you breathing down my neck, Bagman. But thanks for the offer.”
There's a chorus of oohs behind you as you turn back toward the lane. You step forward, swing the ball back, and—thunk—release it way too late. You’re honestly surprised it doesn’t leave a dent in the floor. It wobbles down the lane before veering off and sinking into the gutter just before the pins.
“Damn,” you sigh, turning around with a sheepish grin. “I’m going to score lower than Rooster.”
There are a few murmured insults about your lack of bowling skill, but you barely hear them. Bob catches your eye, his lips parted like he’s about to say something—offer to help maybe—but then he just... doesn’t.
You watch him sink back in his seat as you pick up your ball and turn to the lane—this time with a bit more intention.
Bending lower than strictly necessary, you wiggle your fingers into the ball’s grip and line up your shot with exaggerated focus. The hem of your dress shifts just enough to tease the tops of your thighs, and you don’t have to look to know Bob’s watching. You can feel it—the weight of his stare, the sudden shift in the air like gravity is a pressing down just little harder.
You swing the ball back and release with a cleaner motion this time. It rolls straight—miraculously—and clips five pins on the right. Not bad. Not great. But right now, you're more interested in the reaction behind you.
When you turn, Bob’s gaze jerks up like he’s been caught red-handed. His lips are parted, cheeks flushed, and he looks absolutely wrecked—like someone just knocked the wind out of him with a feather.
Jake whistles low. “Pretty sure what I just witnessed is actually a crime in several states.”
Reuben leans forward, eyes on Bob. “Oh, no. I think Bob is broken.”
Mickey snorts. “Somebody reboot him.”
Bob blinks hard, still dazed, and mumbles something under his breath. The rest of the squad continue laughing quietly, their eyes flicking between you and the flustered lieutenant—who is now very interested in the floor.
You smile to yourself as you walk back, fighting the urge to smirk too hard as you drop into the seat beside him.
“You know,” Bradley says as he steps up to the ball return, “if I’d known this game was about showing as much ass as possible, I would’ve worn my shortest skirt.”
You roll your eyes and lean back, crossing your arms over your chest. “Please. You would've blinded everyone—and that’s probably the only way you'd have a shot at winning.”
The squad bursts out laughing again while Bradley shoots you an unimpressed glare. Then he grabs his ball, turns toward the lane, and kicks off the next round.
You stay quietly pressed to Bob’s side while the others take their turns. And honestly? You don’t care if the game ever continues. With his jean-clad thigh snug against your bare one, you could stay right here all night.
And Bob doesn’t seem eager to move either. He stays close, legs aligned, knees brushing, arm grazing yours—his warmth wrapped around you like your favourite blanket.
You’re seconds away from resting your head on his shoulder when Mickey pipes up, announcing that it’s Bob’s turn. He shifts slowly, giving you a soft smile as he stands and walks toward the ball return.
This time, instead of watching his ass, your eyes track his hands.
You’ve always had a thing for hands—especially Bob’s. They’re just... really nice hands. Big and steady, with long fingers that look like they could touch you in ways that would rewrite your entire understanding of pleasure. You’ve imagined those hands everywhere—ghosting over your skin, gripping your thighs, digging bruises into your hips, clawing down your back.
You’ve thought about them more than what could ever be considered healthy. You could write poetry about those hands. Recite sonnets. Start a religion.
And when those fingers sink into the bowling ball holes?
Well, fuck. There’s nothing PG about this game—not when your brain is spiralling into fantasies about all the downright filthy ways that Bob Floyd could ruin you.
“Hey,” Javy nudges your shoulder, knocking you out of your Bob-induced daydream. “It’s your turn, dude.”
You blink, shaking your head and hoping your blush isn’t as obvious as it feels as you push out of your chair and walk up toward where Bob is.
“Do you—uh, do you want some help?” he asks, holding your bowling ball in his hands.
You fight the grin threatening to break across your face, nodding. “Sure.”
“Hey!” Jake calls from behind you. “I offered first.”
Reuben snorts. “Yeah, but she doesn’t want to bone you, does she?”
Both you and Bob ignore them. You take the ball from his hand and move up to the lane, slipping your fingers into the holes and holding it at your chest.
“Okay, coach,” you say with a small smirk. “Tell me what to do.”
“Alright, here,” he says, voice barely above a whisper as he reaches out and gently takes your wrists.
His touch is light, reverent, and it makes your breath catch. He adjusts your hands around the ball, slow and precise, like he’s memorising the shape of you. How warm you are. The way you respond so eagerly to his touch.
“Fingers like this,” he murmurs. “You want a solid grip. Not too tight.”
Your heart stutters. His hands are big—warm and rough in the best way—and they settle over yours like they were made to. When he steps closer to correct your stance, his chest brushes your back, and you feel everything. The press of him. The tension in his thighs. The tremble in his exhale.
“Now,” he says, gently guiding your arm, “swing back like this—smooth, steady…”
You try to follow, but it’s hard to focus when his hands slide down to your hips, positioning them with the lightest squeeze. You swear he groans under his breath—just barely audible, like he’s suffering.
“That’s… yeah. Perfect.”
He freezes.
You don’t move. Neither does he. His hands are still on your hips, his breath coming faster now, his body just slightly more rigid.
And then you feel it.
Oh.
Oh.
You shift your hips—just a fraction—and he instantly jerks back like he’s been electrocuted.
“Shit—uh, yeah, you—you got it. You’ll do great,” he stammers, voice suddenly strangled and two octaves higher. “I—uh—I’ve got to—bathroom. Real quick.”
You turn just in time to see him rush off, pink in the ears, tripping slightly over a chair leg.
“Was it something I said?” you call after him sweetly.
Jake cackles from the bench. “Nah, I think you just short-circuited the poor guy.”
Natasha leans forward, watching Bob disappear down the hallway. “Oh no,” she says with a grin. “I think Bob is completely falling apart at this point.”
You grin, still tingling from where his hands touched you, as you turn back toward the lane. You roll the ball and, somehow, end up getting a spare—despite your brain being completely stuck on Bob... and what exactly had made him bolt so fast.
Bradley gets up for his turn as you move dazedly back to your seat, mind hazy with thoughts of how Bob had felt pressed against you.
“God, you’re so gone,” Natasha says with a soft laugh.
You roll your eyes, but the dopey smile refuses to budge.
“It’s a shame he’s too stupid to do anything about it,” Jake mutters.
Natasha shoots him a look. “He’s not stupid. He’s cautious.”
Reuben chuckles. “Yeah, well, if tonight’s anything to go by, Bobby might be throwing caution to the wind pretty soon.”
You sigh as you sink into one of the low seats. “Not tonight, unfortunately.”
They all look at you, confused.
“Trevor’s staying at my place,” you explain simply.
The group gasps—everyone but Natasha staring at you in disbelief.
You frown. “What?”
“I thought—” Mickey glances around like someone else might back him up. “I thought you only liked Bob.”
You and Natasha—the only two in this group with any emotional intelligence, apparently—exchange a look.
“She’s not into Trevor,” Nat says dryly. “And he’s definitely not into her.”
“Yeah,” you add. “He’s gay.”
“Like, very gay,” Natasha says. “Like, into Hangman gay.”
Jake’s head snaps toward her. “Excuse me?”
“Ohhh,” Mickey sighs. “That makes so much sense.”
Reuben laughs. “Is that why he’s been stopping by every couple nights?”
You laugh too, nodding. “Yeah. He’s been stuck on nights since getting stationed here, and he’s been bugging me to introduce him to Hangman. Thought it was fate when he found out our squad got moved to nights too.”
“Excuse me,” Jake repeats. “What exactly makes a man extra gay for being into me?”
The whole group breaks out laughing—Bradley included as he returns from taking his turn.
“You’re just... pretty,” Javy says with a shrug.
“So?” Jake throws up his hands. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It’s a compliment, dude,” Reuben says. “Just take it.”
Jake huffs, but the rest of the group turns back to you.
“So, why is he staying at your place?” Mickey asks.
“Yeah,” Bradley adds, “and why can’t you bring someone home? It’s your place.”
“His plumbing at the barracks is all messed up, so I offered him my couch,” you explain, before looking at Bradley. “And I could bring someone home, but I’m pretty sure he’d make it weird. Plus, I’m not exactly a fan of… being quiet.”
Jake tips his head back with a dramatic groan. “God, why is it always the quiet nerds who get the hot freaky girls?”
You giggle and pat his knee. “Oh, Hangman. You’re delusional if you think Floyd isn’t a freak too.”
“Ugh,” Natasha groans. “Why does this feel like you’re talking about my brother?”
The rest of the squad nods, unspoken agreement passing between them while Jake’s eyes flick around in horrified disbelief.
“What’d I miss?” Bob asks, suddenly reappearing at the edge of the group.
Everyone falls silent.
“Hangman’s stalling,” Natasha says coolly, “because he realised he’s going to lose.”
Jake narrows his eyes at her as he stands. “You’re going down, Trace. This next one’s a strike.”
He stalks off toward the ball return, and the game resumes.
Thankfully, Bob doesn’t question the odd look Mickey gives him as he sits down beside you. Only this time, he keeps his distance—at least an inch between your bodies, careful not to let even the fabric of his shirt brush your arm. He doesn’t look at you, either. His gaze stays locked on the lane, watching each turn with intense focus. And he definitely doesn’t offer any more hands-on guidance for the rest of the night— though the blush on his cheeks stays stubbornly in place.
After two games of bowling, a round of hot dogs, and more shit-talking than could possibly be quantified, everyone decides to call it a night. It isn’t even that late, but with your wrecked sleep schedules, you’re all starting to feel a little loopy.
You swap back into your own shoes, return the bowling pair, duck into the bathroom, and head for the door. Everyone but Bob is already outside, but like the gentleman he is, he’s still inside—waiting by the claw machine with his nose buried in his phone.
“Hey, superstar,” you say as you approach. “How’s it feel to be the best bowler in the squad?”
He glances up with a soft smile. “One of the best,” he corrects. “I only won the first game.”
You smirk, confidence flooding your gut. “Was it first-game luck or my skirt that threw you off during the second?”
His face flushes bright red, eyes going wide like he’s just been caught in a lie. “I—uh, no, I just—”
You roll your eyes playfully. “I was joking, Bob. Calm down.”
He presses his lips together and nods, eyes flicking down to your bare legs for the briefest second before returning to your face.
You nod toward the doors. “Come on. Let’s get out of here before the others get suspicious.”
He nods and gestures for you to lead the way—so you do, swinging your hips just a little extra.
He hesitates for a beat, and you can feel his gaze sear into the exposed skin of your legs before he doubles his steps to catch up and walk beside you.
“I was wondering,” you say quickly, forcing the words out before you lose your nerve. “Did you—um,” you clear your throat, “want to hang out tomorrow night?”
He glances at you, blue eyes swimming with something you can’t quite place.
“Just us,” you clarify, voice dropping. “Kind of like… a date?”
There’s a pause. An awkward pause.
The hairs on the back of your neck rise and your stomach twists.
“Um,” he drops his gaze to the ground, brows knitting. “I—I can’t tomorrow. I’ve got—I mean, I haven’t done laundry like… all week with the shift change, and I really need to catch up before Monday.”
Heat floods your face, embarrassment settling heavy and sour in your gut.
“I’m sorry,” he mutters, still staring at the floor.
You dip your chin and blink hard, swallowing the burn rising behind your eyes. “No problem,” you say, keeping your voice even. “Hope you have fun doing laundry.”
Then you double your pace and slip out the doors, not bothering to hold it open. You cross the parking lot quickly, making a beeline for Natasha’s car without so much as a glance toward the others. You yank the passenger door open, slide in, and slam it shut.
- Bob -
“What’d you do?” Natasha asks, arms crossed and eyes narrowed.
Bob takes a slow breath as he drags his eyes up to meet her glare. “Nothing,” he mutters.
“Yeah?” She arches a brow. “So, Vex will say the same thing when I ask her?”
He pinches the bridge of his nose, rubbing the spot where his glasses sit. “Probably not, Phoenix. But you know what? I don’t really feel like explaining myself to you right now, so please—just drop it.”
She rolls her eyes and lets her arms fall to her sides, keys jingling in one hand. “I really thought you were one of the good ones, Floyd. I’m a little disappointed.”
Then she turns and mumbles goodbye to the rest of the squad—who are all watching with wide eyes—before walking to her car and climbing into the driver’s seat.
Bob can still feel your glare through the windshield, even if the dark night doesn’t let him see you clearly inside the car.
As soon as Natasha peels out of the lot, Bob feels the shift—the boys’ eyes snap toward him.
“So,” Jake says, brows raised, “what did you do?”
Bob exhales and leans back against his car, arms crossing over his chest. “She asked me out,” he says quietly, “and I told her no… because I have laundry to do.”
There’s a collective intake of breath. The atmosphere sharpens with something unspoken but easily understood: Bob fucked up—bad.
“You what?” Reuben asks, leaning in.
Bradley lets out a low chuckle. “Holy shit, Floyd. That was dumb.”
“I know,” Bob huffs.
He’s not sure why he couldn’t tell Natasha but has no issue telling the others. Maybe because Natasha was about to get in a car with you and hear the story anyway—so why bother? Or maybe it’s because he’s a little afraid of Nat. And he knows, deep down, that he messed up. He just didn’t feel like getting chewed out by his sharp-tongued pilot tonight.
“Why the hell wouldn’t you say yes?” Jake frowns. “She’s so into you—it’s almost a joke. And she’s gorgeous. Who cares about the age gap?”
Bob’s eyes snap toward him, brow furrowed. “You’re the one who always has something to say about it. You literally call me a cradle-snatcher, like… once a week.”
Jake rolls his eyes. “Because it’s fun to get a rise out of you. I don’t actually mean it.”
“Yeah, dude,” Javy adds. “If we thought it was wrong, we’d say something. We make fun of you both because it’s obvious you’re obsessed with each other.”
“Honestly,” Mickey pipes up, “I thought you two were already dating and just keeping it from us.”
Bob buries his face in his hands, the heat in his cheeks burning against his palms. “For fuck’s sake.”
“Oh, wow,” Reuben mutters. “Bob just swore.”
Bradley drops a hand on Bob’s shoulder. “Maybe you should call her. Or—I don’t know—go see her tomorrow. Apologise. You don’t have to date her, but if that’s how you feel, you need to be clear. Don’t lead her on. And you definitely owe her an apology for that shitty laundry excuse.”
Bob nods slowly, letting his hands drop. “Yeah. I know.”
Mickey chuckles, pulling his keys from his pocket. “Good luck, dude.”
They all say their goodbyes and head for their cars, leaving Bob still leaning against the side of his own, a far-off look in his eyes and guilt twisting in his chest.
He barely sleeps that night.
Every time he closes his eyes, he sees the profile of your face after he said no—the way your eyes glossed over, your jaw clenched, and your lips pressed into a thin, unshakable line. The memory cuts through him like a blade.
He hates the thought of hurting you. But more than that, he hates himself—because he knows he did. He knows you cried, whether it happened in the car or the moment you got home. Either way, the result is the same—he made you cry. And that thought alone makes him feel sick.
Before the sun even rises, he’s out of bed. Sleep abandoned, guilt gnawing at his insides, he laces up his shoes and goes for a run—trying to outrun the tight knot in his chest. He knows he’ll have to sleep later and stay up again tonight, thanks to another stretch of night shifts. But that doesn’t matter. What matters is talking to you. This morning. If you’ll even let him.
After his run, sweat still cooling on his skin, he finally works up the nerve to text you: ‘Hey, sorry about last night. Are you free this morning?’
An hour passes. Nothing.
And he knows you’re ignoring him—because you’ve reacted to a couple of messages in the group chat. You’re awake. You’re just not answering him. And honestly, he doesn’t blame you.
By ten o’clock, he can’t stand it anymore.
The ache in his chest is unbearable. His head is pounding. The guilt in his stomach is curling tighter with every passing second. But it’s not just guilt. It’s not just the regret of hurting a friend’s feelings.
It’s worse—because it’s you.
You’re his favourite person in the whole damn world. He can admit that now. You make him laugh. You make him feel like himself. And as much as he’s tried not to need you… he does. Desperately.
The age gap isn’t the real problem—it never was. Maybe it’s just an excuse, something to hide behind because deep down, he doesn’t think he deserves you. But that’s not good enough anymore. He has to fix this. Even if you never forgive him, even if things can’t go back to how they were—he has to try.
Because Robert Floyd knows now, without a doubt, that he’s in love with you.
And God, he hopes he can say it out loud—because it might be the only thing that can save him now.
Before Bob even knows exactly how he’s going to say everything that’s been spinning through his head, he’s already outside your apartment building. He knows where it is because he helped you move in after the Dagger Squad was made a permanent unit at North Island.
He still thinks about that day, too. About the exercise tights you wore—how they clung to your ass like a second skin. About the loose tee you eventually peeled off because you were overheating, leaving you in nothing but a sports bra. And when you finally took a break, beer in hand on your new balcony, he watched you cool down… and watched your nipples pebble beneath the Lycra fabric.
Bob felt like a total creep that day, but that hasn’t stopped him from—repeatedly—getting off to the memory of you on that balcony. Cheeks pink, lips wet with beer, eyes so wide and innocent, even though he’s pretty sure you knew exactly what you were doing to him…
He shakes his head and forces his feet to move—into the building, into the elevator, and up to your floor. The hallway feels both way too long and not nearly long enough as he approaches your door. Then, with a deep breath, he raises his hand and knocks three times.
His heart is caught in his throat, hammering like it’s trying to escape. He’s felt pressure in the cockpit, but nothing like this. This is worse than pulling 8 Gs.
The door swings open, and he opens his mouth to immediately beg you to hear him out—but… it’s not you.
“Bob,” Trevor says with a sleepy grin and a wicked glint in his eye. “What a surprise to see you here.”
His hair’s a mess, his cheeks are flushed, and his eyes are half-lidded. He looks like he either just woke up… or just got done doing something naked and personal with someone else. Which might explain why he’s shirtless, wearing nothing but a crooked pair of boxers that—at least in Bob’s opinion—aren’t leaving much to the imagination.
“I—uh, Trevor?”
Trevor nods, brow furrowing slightly. “The one and only. You good, man? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
Bob wishes it were a ghost. Because what he’s seeing right now is ten times more horrifying than anything spooky or undead.
He clears his throat. “Y-Yeah, I’m good. I just—um, I was going to ask Vex if—”
“Who is it?” you call groggily from deeper inside the apartment, your voice thick with sleep.
Trevor smirks over his shoulder. “Floyd!”
“What?”
He nudges the door open a little wider, revealing you in nothing but an oversized U.S. Navy tee. Your hair is mussed, your cheeks are flushed, and your eyes are narrowed—definitely not surprised. Just… pissed.
“What are you doing here?” you ask, arms crossed tight against your chest.
Bob stares, wide-eyed. You’re not shocked. You’re not flustered. You're still mad. How could you still be mad at him now?
“I—uh, well—” He shakes his head and steps back, his stomach swirling nauseously. “Nothing. It’s fine. Just—forget it. You two have fun.”
Then he turns on his heel and practically jogs down the hall, mashing the elevator button hard enough to hurt. He can hear your voice behind him, Trevor’s too, but he doesn’t care. He doesn’t want to care. He just wants to get the hell out of here before he goddamn cries over the fact that the woman he loves just jumped into bed with the next guy right after he turned her down.
Does he have any right to be this angry? Probably not. But still—why couldn’t you see it from his point of view? Why couldn’t you understand he was just… hesitant? That he needed some time to wrap his head around it?
But no. You couldn’t be patient. You couldn’t wait.
Because maybe you’re not as into him as everyone keeps saying. Maybe you never were.
God, he should’ve known. He should have known it was too good to be true. Why would someone like you want someone like him? And why would you waste your time waiting—when you could have just about any man you wanted?
- You -
“What was that about?” Trevor asks, his head still half-stuck out the door like Bob might suddenly come back.
You drop onto the couch, shoving aside the blanket Trevor had been using. “Don’t know,” you mutter. “Maybe he was thinking about apologising for being a jerk, but then decided to just keep being one.”
Trevor turns to you with a puzzled frown. “What?”
“You heard me.”
He shuts the door and walks slowly toward to the lounge. “Yeah, but I didn’t understand you. What’s with the attitude?”
You sigh, rolling your eyes. “I asked him out last night.”
Trevor gasps—loudly.
“But he said no.”
He rears back, brows drawn. “What? Why?”
“Because he has laundry to do.”
Trevor’s eyes go wide, his mouth falling open. “No.”
“Yup,” you mutter, sinking deeper into the cushions. “That’s what the attitude is for.”
He nods slowly, still staring. “Right… but then why did he show up here?”
You shrug. “Maybe to apologise. Or maybe he was going to let me down for good. Tell me to stop flirting with him, or whatever.”
Trevor frowns again, his eyes glazing over like he's lost in thought.
You nudge his knee with your foot. “What’s that look for?”
“Nothing,” he says quickly, though the curiosity stays fixed on his face.
“Trevor…”
He exhales a short breath. “I mean—do you think he thought… you and I…? You know?” He gestures vaguely between the two of you. “He knows I’m gay, right?”
You snort. “Yes, Grinder. Bob Floyd, along with all of North Island, is very aware that you’re gay. I was literally talking about it with the squad last night.”
He nods. “Good. ‘Cause if he didn’t, me opening the door shirtless and you in that ridiculously oversized tee might’ve looked real bad.”
You barely hear him as he continues to rant about men and miscommunication. Instead, you flick on the TV, letting the background noise of old cartoon reruns wash over you while the memory of last night replays on loop.
You let yourself feel it—let your chest ache with it—and hope it’s enough to kill off this stupid crush once and for all.
But deep down, you know the truth.
Whatever this is, it stopped being just a crush a while ago.
And you’re starting to fear that maybe—just maybe—you’ve accidentally fallen in love with Bob Floyd.
You spend the rest of the day sulking on the couch like it’s your full-time job, while Trevor obliterates your kitchen trying to make homemade macarons to ‘cheer you up.’ Normally, you’d be in there with him, correcting his technique and keeping the apartment from burning down, but not today. Today, you’re tired and heartbroken.
The two of you stay up late trying to adjust to the coming week of night shifts, but by two a.m. you’re passed out on the lounge… and promptly woken at four by Trevor’s snoring. That’s when you give up, throw on your shoes, and go for a run—hoping to burn through enough energy to sleep through the day before shift.
Trevor is gone by the time your alarm goes off at eight p.m., giving you an hour to tidy the apartment before showering and heading off to base. You stopped living on base when the Dagger Squad was made permanent at North Island, same as most of the others. It’s nice not having to share bathrooms or constantly wonder whether you’re going to get all your socks back from the laundry room. But you’d be lying if you said you didn’t miss running into your friends all the time—running into Bob.
The sky is dark and the base is quiet as you park your car and make your way to the squadron building. Your stomach twists nervously at the thought of seeing not just Bob, but your whole squad. You know they’d all know by now—that you asked Bob out and he shut you down.
Honestly, you wouldn’t even be surprised if Maverick knew.
“Hey,” Natasha says, meeting you by the stairs before you enter the briefing room.
You give her a tight smile.
“Feeling any better?”
You shake your head, lips still pulled into a watery smile as you push the door open.
Bob is already in his usual seat—because of course he is—but he doesn’t look up when you walk in. He doesn’t give you that soft smile he usually does whenever he sees you.
Instead, he keeps his eyes locked on the lid of his travel mug, jaw tight as he flicks the little tab open and closed.
Natasha gives you a sidelong glance, her brows drawn curiously. She knows what happened—you told her—but you haven’t yet filled her in on the part where he showed up at your apartment and then left in a hurry.
You shake your head, giving her a silent look that says you’ll fill her in later. Then you turn and make your way to the back of the room, sinking into one of the furthest possible chairs from where Bob is seated.
It isn’t long before Maverick walks in and starts the briefing. He rambles on about a possible mission on the horizon, which means upcoming hops and drills are going to be more purpose-driven. He wants to work closely with the WSOs, having them and their pilots fly point to spot anything the night might hide from the F/A-18E drivers.
You’re not particularly bothered by that, because after tonight, the rest of your hops are scheduled with Reuben and Mickey. Which means you only have to deal with Bob for one night. Just one. You only have to pretend to listen to him for one night. Then you get almost a full week’s reprieve.
“Alright,” Maverick says, shutting his notebook. “Phoenix, Bob, Hangman, Vex—you’re on deck. The rest of you, head to the ready room.”
Everyone shuffles out, the group splitting down the corridor as half of you head outside and the other half veer toward the ready room.
You let Natasha and Bob take the lead, half-listening to Jake whine about how much he hates NVGs and how night shifts ruin his gym schedule.
Then the cart ride is silent—tension so thick that even Maverick doesn’t bother breaking it.
Once at the hangar, you start gearing up and going through the motions—chatting with ground crew, checking your jet, adjusting your equipment, running internals. You wait until it’s your turn to be taxied out, then climb into the cockpit and try to settle your nerves.
You take a deep breath and call on every ounce of focus and maturity you have just to stop yourself from shutting off comms. You might be pissed right now, but this is your job. The job you worked way too hard for to let some ridiculously gorgeous lieutenant break your heart badly enough to get you grounded.
Tonight, the sky is clear but moonless—the darkness heavier than usual. You check your instruments twice—three times—and remind yourself it’s just another hop. You’ve done this a thousand times before.
But still, your hands stay tight on the controls.
You fly in relative radio silence for the first twenty minutes, squinting through slightly misaligned NVGs. You’d fiddled with them on the ground until you gave up and told yourself your vision was good enough. It’s quieter than usual, and you’re not sure if that’s because no one has anything to say—or because the night feels eerily still.
Natasha and Bob are flying point, with you and Jake in the second element. Maverick is out here too, but only observing—watching closely as you run a low-level, terrain-following route meant to simulate a high-risk strike.
You’ve done this kind of thing a hundred times, even at night. But something about this hop feels off. Or maybe it’s just you, flying like you’ve got something to prove—to yourself, or to someone else. You haven’t decided yet.
Then Bob’s voice crackles through the comms, steady and low. “Vex, you’re a little wide on your spacing.”
You bite the inside of your cheek and flick your radio toggle. “Copy.”
You fall back into formation as the terrain-following manoeuvres begin—tight dips, sweeping curves, a mock run on radar targets ahead. You lock in, gripping the stick, head tipped forward, forcing your focus to drown out the simmering frustration.
It’s not an easy run, but you’ve done it before. You know the tricky spots, and you’re watching out for your team, flying just a little closer than what’s usually comfortable. You’d be flying almost perfectly—if it weren’t for Bob’s corrections crackling through the radio. His voice in your ear every few minutes, low and steady. Commanding. It’s making your skin crawl and your pulse race.
You know you’re better than this. You’ve trained to handle the worst. To stay sharp pulling 10 Gs, to keep cool weaving through canyons at Mach 2. And yet somehow, Bob Floyd’s maddeningly smooth voice telling you and Jake how not to crash is what’s making you consider pulling the damn ejection handle.
“Vex, you’ve got a ridge coming up,” Bob says, his tone sharper now, more urgent. “Drop throttle. Adjust heading five degrees right.”
You hesitate. Your altimeter says you’re good, and your gut says you’re fine. You think—no, you know—you can hold it.
“Vex—” he tries again.
“I’ve got it,” you snap, breathless as you press on, trying to hold your line.
Jake cuts in with something sharp, but you don’t catch it—because suddenly the warning tone in your headset screams.
Your heart lurches.
Terrain. Too close. Too fast.
“Pull up! Pull up!” Bob’s voice slices through the comms. “Vex, you’re too low!”
You grit your teeth, trying to correct, trying to climb—but it’s too dark, too fast. Everything is a blur.
“Vex, listen to me—pull up!” His voice cracks. “You’re going to hit—”
“Eject!” Maverick shouts, raw panic in his tone. “Vex, eject now!”
“I can save it,” you mutter, voice strained. “I can—"
Then you see it. A flash of jagged terrain through the cockpit glass—a dark silhouette where there should be sky. And in that split second, the truth hits you like a punch to the chest.
You’re not going to make it.
Your hand flies to the ejection handle, pulling it hard.
The canopy blasts away with a deafening crack, wind slamming into you like a freight train. The violent jolt of the seat launches you skyward, your body wrenched into the dark as the jet disappears in a blur of motion below.
Then—freefall.
The sky spins. The world tilts. The parachute deploys with a brutal yank that rattles your spine.
But you’re too low. Far too low.
You don’t even have time to brace.
You hit the ground hard—a bone-snapping impact that knocks every breath from your lungs. The force slams through your leg with a sickening pop.
White-hot pain detonates through you.
Your vision flashes. Your stomach turns. You can’t even scream.
And then… everything goes still.
Muted.
Quiet.
Like the world took a breath—and left you behind.
-
You wake to the steady beep of a monitor. Your eyelids are heavy, your mouth is dry, and there’s pain everywhere. It’s not as excruciating as it had been right before you blacked out, but it’s there—dull and throbbing, a bitter reminder of what had happened when you ejected from your jet.
It feels like it was only seconds ago, but you know better than that. You’re not that out of it.
The sharp sting of antiseptic hits your nose. There are low murmurs nearby, the shuffle of feet across tile, and the distant sounds of other beeping machines. Even before you manage to open your eyes, you know—you’re in a hospital.
The white and blue walls are almost blinding, but after a few sticky blinks, your vision finally sharpens. You roll your tongue against the roof of your mouth, searching for moisture.
You try—and fail—to sit up. Your body is too heavy against the crunchy hospital pillows, and your right leg is pinned down even more by a thick black-and-white brace.
“Ow,” you mutter, voice hoarse and barely audible.
There’s a sudden gasp beside you, then a quick shuffle of movement.
A warm hand wraps around yours as dark blue eyes swim into focus above you, wide and full of concern—rimmed red, with deep purple shadows underneath.
“You’re awake,” he says, voice rough before he clears his throat, like he's trying to swallow down something heavier.
“Bob,” you whisper, lips cracking as they stretch into a soft smile.
He doesn’t say anything. He just looks at you. His face is pale, exhaustion carved into every line, his eyes scanning your face like he’s trying to memorise it. Or maybe—trying to recognise it. Because whatever softness was there fades fast, replaced by something harder. His lips flatten into a thin line. His hand tightens around yours… then lets go.
He stands straight, jaw clenched, and turns to the wall to press the nurse call button.
You frown, but before you can speak—if you even could with how dry your mouth is—a nurse rushes in.
“Oh, you’re awake!” she says brightly, green eyes lighting up as she stops beside the bed. “How are you feeling?”
You clear your throat. “Thirsty.”
She nods and quickly wheels the little table over, pouring water from the pitcher into a small plastic cup. She then hands it to you before using the bed remote to ease you into a more upright position.
“Thanks,” you rasp after a few sips, your voice clearer now.
The nurse smiles softly, her eyes flicking between you and Bob. “He didn’t leave your side. Not for a second.”
You turn to look at him, but all traces of warmth are gone. He looks almost angry, his gaze fixed straight ahead—not at you or the nurse, but at the wall. His jaw is tight, his shoulders tense, and his hands are clearly balled into fists in his pockets.
He’s still in his flight suit, which means he’s been with you since the second search and rescue found you.
“I’ll give you two a minute,” the nurse says. “I’m just going to grab the doctor, alright?”
You nod, not even looking at her, and she shuffles out of the room, swinging the door half shut on her way.
Bob’s eyes flick to you. “Are you in pain?”
You shift slightly, the dull throb in your leg pulsing back to life. “Yeah,” you wince. “A little. But it’s bearable.”
He doesn’t move. His whole body is tense, only his eyes locked on you—sharp and unrelenting.
“You have a hairline fracture in your femur,” he says.
You glance down at the brace wrapped around your leg.
“You’re lucky it wasn’t a full break,” he adds. “You’d have been grounded for at least six months—or longer. Probably would’ve had to requalify, if you even got cleared again.”
You swallow hard. He’s angry—really angry. The way he’s looking at you, it’s like he’s torn between wrapping you in his arms or walking out the door and never looking back.
“You didn’t listen,” he says, voice cracking as he takes a step forward. “You were supposed to listen to me, and you didn’t. I—I told you just last week that if something happened, it would be my fault.”
Tears sting your eyes, blurring your vision. “This isn’t your—”
“No,” he snaps. “It’s not. This is your fault. Because you were reckless, and cocky, and too caught up in your own shit to listen to a perfectly sound call from your WSO.”
You blink, warm tears slipping down your cheek. “Bob, I—”
“Don’t,” he says, voice low and raw. “Don’t say my name like that. Don’t look at me like I’m the only person you want to see right now.” He lets out a shaky breath, dragging a hand through his hair. “I’ve been here for two days. I haven’t slept. I haven’t eaten. You scared the shit out of me. I thought you were dead. You went down so fast, you—you—”
The door swings open and a middle-aged woman with white-blonde hair pulled into a tight bun steps in. “Lieutenants,” she greets briskly. “Sorry to interrupt, but there are a few things we need to go over.”
Bob straightens immediately. “Thank you, Doctor. I’ll be leaving now.”
Her brows knit together, but she doesn’t stop him as he turns and walks out.
His footsteps are heavy. Forced. Like it’s taking everything he’s got to walk away and not look back.
After a whirlwind of doctors, nurses, and a long debrief with the flight surgeon, you're finally discharged. You can’t drive—of course—so they pack you into a general escort car with your leg still in the brace and a pair of crutches tossed in beside you. Fantastic.
Once you’re home, you collapse into bed and immediately pass out. But it’s not exactly restful. Your brain won’t shut off—won’t stop replaying the way Bob looked at you, the anger in his voice, the exhaustion written all over his face. How he never left your side. How he still hasn’t responded to your text thanking him for staying. Or the one where you apologised for not listening to him in the air.
You want to talk to him. Need to talk to him. Because you're not planning on staying grounded forever, and when you’re back on your feet, you’re not transferring out. The Dagger Squad isn’t just a group of friends—they’re your family. Bob included. In a completely non-incestuous way, obviously. Even though there are definitely some things you’d like to do to him that would make a family dinner wildly uncomfortable.
But first, he has to reply. He has to acknowledge that you exist.
When you wake again, it’s dark, and your phone is lit up with a flood of messages from the team. You take your time replying to each one, then hobble into the bathroom, ditch the brace, and take the hottest, longest shower your body can tolerate.
The next few hours are spent on the couch, anxiously watching the clock until Natasha finally texts you to say they’ve been dismissed. Which means Bob is off. Which means he has no excuse.
But still—nothing. You call. He doesn’t answer. Then Natasha texts again to let you know she watched him decline it.
Great. Another win.
Two whole days pass, and still no word.
You’re supposed to be on bed rest for two weeks before the flight surgeon clears you for light duties, but you’re going stir-crazy. With the squad on night shifts and your circadian rhythm completely fucked, you haven’t spoken to anyone but Trevor—once, over the phone—in forty-eight hours. Unless you count text messages, which you don’t.
All you want is to talk to Bob. Ask him why the hell he came to your house that day. Why he was so pissed at you that night. And why he thinks it’s okay to spend two full days sitting beside your hospital bed and then just vanish like none of it happened.
At this point, you don’t even care if he professes his undying love for you—though you’d strongly prefer it—you just want an explanation. You want to know what you did to hurt him so badly, and how to make it right. Because more than anything, you need him. And if friendship is the only version of him you’re allowed to have... then you’ll take it.
Even if it kills you.
By the third day… or night—you’re not even sure anymore—you decide to take matters into your own hands.
Your alarm blares at four a.m., an hour before you know the squad will be dismissed, and you wriggle out of bed and into a loose pair of sweatpants before securing your brace over the top. Then you tug on your stupidly oversized U.S. Navy shirt, grab your crutches, and hobble out the door.
You know where Bob lives—in the least creepy way possible—because you all moved out of the barracks around the same time, and you helped each other move. So, you call an Uber, hauling your injured self into the back seat with grim determination and only a small amount of whining.
It’s barely a ten-minute drive, which gives you about half an hour to crutch your way up the fire stairs—because of course the elevator requires a swipe card—to his apartment.
You know it’s ridiculous. You could’ve just waited in the lobby. But you don’t want to give him the chance to run away—again, in the least creepy way possible. The plan is to corner him at his apartment door, and maybe guilt-trip him a little with how much effort it took just for you to get there. At the very least, he’d have to escort you back down to the lobby with his swipe card… and maybe you could ‘accidentally’ sabotage the lift so it broke down. Then he’d be stuck with you.
Jesus. Thirty-six hours alone and you’re already in full-blown serial killer mode.
It takes twenty minutes to reach his floor, with plenty of breaks along the way, but eventually, you make it. You hobble down the hallway and lean against his door, dropping your head back with a soft thunk.
Not even a minute later, Natasha texts you to say they’ve been dismissed—because of course you filled her in on your plan.
And then you wait. With a racing pulse, a throbbing leg, and about a thousand thoughts spiralling through your brain. You wait.
At one point, a neighbour emerges from a nearby door, startling you. They give you a deeply dubious look before slipping into the elevator, and you make a mental note to tell Bob that they might warn him about a crazy, broken-legged woman lurking outside his apartment.
Your breathing picks up as the minutes pass—faster and faster until it feels impossible to catch. You feel dizzy, like you might pass out just waiting for him. But then—ding.
The elevator doors slide open, and Bob steps out.
Seeing him for the first time in three days shouldn’t feel like a religious experience—but it fucking does. God, he looks good. Even sleep-deprived, rumpled, and sporting messy helmet hair, he’s a walking wet dream in a flight suit deliberately designed for your destruction.
“Hey,” you say quietly, not wanting to startle him.
He jumps anyway—just a little. His feet still, eyes widening behind his glasses, brows pulling together.
“What are you doing here?”
You push off the door, steadying yourself on your crutches. “Good to see you too,” you say dryly. “I’ve been alright. A little lonely, borderline insane. My leg’s killing me after a thousand stairs. But hey—you look... tired. How’s the squad?”
He studies you for a moment. His frown softens, and you swear the corner of his mouth twitches.
“I am tired,” he says. “The squad’s fine. Also tired.”
You nod. “Cool. So... everyone’s tired.”
He pulls his keys from his pocket and starts walking toward you, closing the distance.
“That all you came to talk about?” he asks.
You roll your eyes and shuffle aside. “What do you think?”
He sighs. “I think I’m not going straight to bed anymore.”
The door swings inward and he steps through, holding it open for you—wide as possible.
“That would be correct,” you say, flashing a grin as you hobble inside.
He shuts the door behind you and slides the chain lock into place.
You try not to appear as awkward as you feel, but crutches aren’t exactly graceful—and you haven’t had much practice. You make your way past the kitchen toward the small living room, where a plush cream sofa waits with perfectly fluffed pillows and a decorative throw draped neatly over the back. You’re just about to drop onto it when a warm hand catches your elbow.
“Here,” he says softly, his other hand reaching to take the crutches from you.
He’s so close you can feel his warmth. You catch his scent—clean linen, a hint of jet fuel, and something subtle and spicy that’s so unmistakably him.
“Thanks,” you murmur, eyes locked on his lips.
He helps ease you down slowly onto the couch before straightening and setting your crutches aside, leaning them against the wall beside the TV cabinet.
“Let me just get changed,” he says, already turning toward his bedroom without a second glance.
He’s gone less than a minute. When he returns, he’s wearing dark blue joggers and a white sleep shirt worn so thin it’s almost translucent.
“Water?” he asks, detouring into the kitchen.
You shake your head. “I’m good—but thanks.”
He’s stalling. You know it. But you can be patient.
He pours himself a glass, drains it, then pours another before finally making his way back into the living room. He sits at the very end of the chaise lounge—about as far from you as possible.
“Okay,” he says. “You want to talk?”
You nod, adjusting your posture even though you're already stiff with nerves.
“Look,” you begin, eyes dropping to your lap. “I know why you’re mad about the accident—I get it. It was stupid. I was reckless. I deserve to be in this stupid brace. I shouldn’t have ignored you, and I shouldn’t have let personal shit bleed into work. I’m sorry.”
You glance up, but he doesn’t react—doesn’t move. He just blinks.
Still, you press on. “If I could go back, I would. If there was anything I could do to make it up to you—or the squad—I’d do it. But we’re here now, I feel like shit, and the accident is on my record. I’m just glad none of you, or Mav, are in trouble because of me.”
He’s still silent, but you can see it now—his eyes keep flicking down to your shirt, his frown darkening each time.
“What I don’t get,” you say, your voice tightening, “is why you were already mad that night. Why you came to my apartment that morning but ran off without—”
“That’s irrelevant,” he cuts in, voice low—lethal.
You frown. “What do you mean irrelevant? The whole reason I was in a bad mood that night is because you rejected me and then acted like I did something wrong.”
His eyes widen. “Oh, so it’s my fault now? That what you’re saying?”
“No,” you snap. “Of course not. God, Bob, none of this is your fault. It’s mine. It’s all mine. I was the idiot who asked you out, the idiot who got mad when you said no, and the idiot who let it affect her at work. I’m not blaming you. I just want to understand.”
He takes an infuriatingly calm sip of water, gaze still fixed on your torso.
“You want to know why I said no when you asked me out?”
You shake your head. “I know why you said no.”
His brow creases. “You do?”
You sigh, eyes falling to your fingers as they toy with the hem of your shirt. “Because you don’t like me. That’s it. And I need to accept that. I shouldn’t have pushed it, or forced myself on you, and—”
He scoffs—sharp and dry—cutting you off. “You’re joking, right?”
You look up, blinking slowly. “Um… no. Not really.”
His laugh is sharp—bitter and cracked—so not Bob.
“You think I don’t like you?” he says, voice rising—unsteady now. “Are you insane?”
He stands suddenly, running a hand through his hair as if trying to keep himself from flying apart.
“I have never cared about anyone the way I care about you. You are the only damn thing I think about. I can’t sleep, I’m not hungry, I can’t focus—I just want you. All the time. Do you know how maddening that is?” His eyes are wild when they meet yours. “And yeah, I said no when you asked me out, but that wasn’t because I didn’t want to. God, I wanted to. I wanted to say yes so badly it hurt. But I was scared.”
He paces now, voice building like the pressure in a cockpit.
“It wasn’t about your age—that was just a dumb excuse. It was you. You’re gorgeous, you’re smart, you’re funny, and you’re so sharp. You walk into a room and everything shifts. And I kept thinking, how the hell does someone like you want someone like me?”
His voice cracks, and he stops pacing, facing you full on. “So yeah. I panicked. I said no. And the second you walked away, I regretted it. I hated myself for it. And that morning—I came to tell you. I was ready to throw it all on the table.” He swallows hard, jaw flexing. “But then he answered the door. Like he lived there. Like he belonged. And you—”
He gestures at you, helpless. His eyes—dark blue and burning—shine with the storm he’s been holding back.
“You just stood there. In his shirt. Like you hadn’t just ripped my heart out and stepped over it. Like I was nothing. Like I’d missed my shot and you’d already moved on.” His voice dips—raw now. “And now? You’re here. In the same goddamn shirt.”
He laughs again, broken this time.
“And I know I had no right to be angry. I know it. But Jesus Christ, do you have any idea how fucking hard it is to look at the woman you love knowing you’re the one who ruined it? Who let her go?”
He’s panting now, standing between the couch and the coffee table with wild eyes and flushed cheeks. Just looking at you. Waiting.
You swallow hard, blinking fast to keep the tears from falling. Your pulse is racing, pounding in your ears like a war drum. You can feel your heart hammering against your ribs, threatening to break bone. You can’t breathe. You can barely think. There’s only one word echoing in your head.
“Love?” you whisper.
He rubs his hands down his face, letting out a shaky breath.
“Yes. Love.” His arms drop to his sides as he meets your eyes again. “I love you.”
Your heart lurches into your throat.
“But that doesn’t change anything,” he adds quickly, dropping onto the couch—closer this time, close enough that his knee brushes yours. “I don’t expect it to change anything. I let you down, and you moved on. You had every right to. I should never have been angry about it—and for that, I’m sorry. Just…” He sighs again. “Just give me some time, okay? Just let me—”
“Trevor’s gay,” you blurt, louder than you mean to.
He blinks. “What?”
“Gay,” you repeat. “He’s gay. Like, so incredibly gay he’s into Hangman.”
Bob’s lips part, a soft breath slipping out.
You lean forward, brows drawn tight. “His callsign is Grinder. I mean, yes—partly because he’s a hard worker—but mostly because he got caught on Grindr before a briefing once and... it just stuck. But—Bob, I thought you knew—” You cut yourself off, eyes going wide. “Oh my God. You were in the bathroom when I told the squad.”
The room falls into a heavy, eerie silence.
The air between you crackles—so thick, so charged, the smallest spark could burn the whole damn building down.
“Hangman?” he whispers, nose scrunching just slightly.
You nod. “Hangman.”
He blinks slowly, wide eyes swimming with emotion. “So, you didn’t—”
“No,” you snap, frustration flaring hot beneath your skin. “Is that what you thought? That I asked you out, and when you said no I just ran off to find the nearest guy who’d fuck me?”
He cringes—actually cringes. “That’s just how it looked, I—”
“So you assumed?” you cut in, voice sharp. “You didn’t even ask. You just decided to get all broody and jealous and pissed off, even though you’re the one who rejected me?”
You want to pace like he did, storm out, slam a door, something—but you can't. Not with your stupid leg.
“I know I had no right,” he mutters.
“Damn straight you didn’t,” you bite out. “You think I’d do that? You think I’d throw myself at someone else just because you said no? Jesus, Bob, I’m looking at a decade-long mourning period after you. I’m in love with you. Do you really think I could move on? Ever? Let alone the next fucking—”
His mouth is on yours before the word leaves your lips.
It’s not a kiss—it’s a collision. A detonation. A goddamn freefall.
His hands are in your hair, on your jaw, trembling as they try to hold you steady while his lips crash into yours with blistering need. It’s hot and desperate and unrestrained, all teeth and tongue and pent-up ache, every ounce of frustration and longing he’s carried igniting in a single breathless second.
You gasp, shocked by the force of it—your lips parting, letting him in.
And then it’s chaos. Raw, searing, beautiful chaos.
His touch is everywhere, frantic and reverent, as if he’s trying to memorise you with his fingertips and palms. Your hands claw into his shirt, his shoulders, his hair, dragging him closer, gasping into his mouth like you’re both trying to breathe each other in.
You feel like you’re on fire. Like this kiss could split you in half.
There’s a sharp pain in your leg from how hard you’re leaning in, but you don’t care. You’d burn your whole body just to keep this going.
Because he kisses you like it’s the last thing he’ll ever do. Like stopping would kill him. And you kiss him back with the same reckless hunger—because you’ve wanted this forever. Because he’s yours. And you’re his. And nothing else exists anymore but the way he’s holding you like he’s afraid you’ll disappear.
“I love you,” he breathes against your lips. “I love you. I love you. Please don’t go. Don’t ever leave.”
You press your forehead to his, a breathy laugh slipping out. “I’m not leaving.”
“Good,” he murmurs, then kisses you again—soft, lingering.
His lips find the corner of your mouth, then trail down the line of your jaw to your neck. Your skin ignites beneath every brush of his mouth, like your whole body is wired to spark beneath his touch.
Your stomach flips like you’ve been dropped from a height. Your thoughts dissolve into haze. Limbs weightless, breath shallow. All you can feel is the hot press of his lips and the growing ache in your stupid leg.
“Bob,” you whisper, broken and breathless, as his tongue traces the hollow where your shoulder meets your neck. “Bob, m—my leg.”
He jolts back like he’s touched a live wire, eyes wide. The sudden loss of him leaves you cold, shivering in the space he’s no longer filling.
“I’m so sorry,” he gasps.
You shake your head quickly. “It’s fine. I’m okay.”
He looks so heartbreakingly beautiful it makes your chest tighten. His glasses are askew, his cheeks flushed, lips kiss-swollen and wet. His eyes are wild and wide, pupils blown so far they swallow the blue.
Then he frowns, glancing down at your shirt. “So... whose shirt is that?”
You blink, then glance down. “Oh. No idea. Barracks laundry mix-up, I think. Makes a good sleep shirt, though.”
He chuckles softly, the pink in his cheeks creeping all the way to the tips of his ears as his eyes lock on yours. “It looks good on you,” he murmurs, voice low and rough, “but I think I prefer the short skirts.”
Your heart trips, racing straight into your throat. “Bob Floyd,” you gasp, eyes wide with faux scandal, “did you just admit how much you love short skirt weather?”
He rolls his eyes, all sheepish charm. “Only when the skirts are on you.”
“That so?” Your lips curl into a slow smirk. “Well, unfortunately, I think this—” you tap the brace on your leg “—means short skirts are officially out. For now, at least.”
He exhales hard, gaze dropping for just a second before snapping back to yours—burning now. There’s a hunger there, dark and open and unfiltered, something you’ve maybe only glimpsed before. It sparks heat low in your belly, your thighs aching to clench—if it weren’t for your stupid goddamn injury.
Then, low and shameless and deadly serious, he asks, “What about sex?”
The question punches the breath right from your lungs. Your cheeks flush hot as you bite your lip to hide the grin already threatening.
“Can you be gentle?” you ask, voice barely above a whisper.
“I can try,” he mutters, so deep and rough it settles right between your legs and spreads like wildfire.
Your head is spinning. Logic fading fast. You don’t care how sore your leg might be—you want him. All of him. Finally.
So you lean in, brushing your lips to his in a soft, teasing kiss as you murmur against his mouth, “Then what the fuck are you waiting for, Floyd?”
summary: you've been best friends with rooster for years and you're both obviously in love with each other, but he refuses to cross that line... until you accept some help from hangman and he takes the game just a little too far
notes: i don't want to say this sucks because i'm actually so proud of getting it done... i was severely burnt out the past week and struggling big time, so i really hope it's not terrible and y'all really enjoy! plus, the ending had me giggling and kicking my feet... as always, please let me know what you think, i love all the feedback (it honestly keeps me going)
warnings: swearing, italics, alcohol consumption, hangman is a bit of a dick but still lovable, kind of cheesy, description of injury and blood (very minor), and it gets a bit horny (18+ ONLY MDNI)! please let me know if i missed anything
word count: 17266
your callsign is chick
You’ve known Bradley Bradshaw since your first day at the academy, and he’s been ruining your life ever since.
With his stupid sun-kissed skin and ridiculously perfect hair. Those damn pink lips, always curled into a soft smirk beneath that criminal moustache. And those big brown eyes—so deceptively innocent as they watch you, like they know you better than you know yourself.
Even the way he speaks gets you hot. That low drawl in his voice, the way he stretches certain words, and—ugh—the way he says your name.
He’s a walking, talking hazard to your health. Engineered in a lab and designed specifically to make your brain short-circuit. All he has to do is look at you, talk to you, flash that smug little smirk—just exist—and you’re malfunctioning.
You want him like a shot of whiskey on a cold night. Need him more than air when you’re drowning. He’s everything you can’t have but can’t stop craving.
And the worst part?
You know he feels it too. That he wants you just as badly.
But Bradley Bradshaw is too fucking scared to cross that line and risk everything for something real.
“Rooster!” Maverick calls across the tarmac. “This isn’t a photo shoot for Hot Pilots Weekly. Move your ass!”
Laughter ripples through the squad—breathless but alive—as you all keep circling the cones on the concrete. Because today, Maverick decided push-ups just weren’t enough. Today, he wanted to torture his squad.
“Don’t slow down, Bob,” Hondo says, stopwatch in hand by one of the cones.
“I can’t see,” Bob huffs. “My glasses are fogging up.”
“Must suck not being in peak physical condition,” Jake quips, picking up the pace to pass Bob and Mickey.
You’re just a stride ahead—and seriously considering faking a faint so you can ditch this godforsaken flight suit.
“Hey, little chick,” Jake says, falling into step beside you. “Lookin’ good.”
“Save it, Bagman,” you mutter, breathless. “I’m not in the mood.”
“See, you say that,” he says, that cocky grin still in place despite running for the past twenty minutes, “but your eyes are telling a different story.”
You let out a huff—something between a laugh and a gasp for air. “God, you’re insufferable.”
“But I’m wearing you down, right?”
You roll your eyes. “You’re wearing my patience down.”
“Alright, that’s enough!” Maverick calls. “Bring it in.”
There’s a collective groan as everyone slows to a walk, dragging themselves toward him without an ounce of urgency—tugging off gloves and unzipping flight suits as they go.
Maverick had made everyone run in full gear. He claims it’s conditioning, but you’re pretty sure it’s just because he’s evil—and possibly an undercover sadist.
You fumble with your zipper, yanking it down before shrugging the suit off your shoulders and pulling your arms free. The rush of cool air against your skin is nothing short of divine, and you let out a soft moan without even meaning to. You don’t even care that you’re down to just a sports bra—since you ran out of clean undershirts this morning and had already resigned yourself to suffering.
When you glance up from tying the sleeves of your suit around your waist, you catch Bradley staring. His wide brown eyes are locked on you, roaming over your bare skin like they have every right to. His face is flushed, lips parted, breath coming in quick gasps as he slows to a stop. Feet rooted to the ground, he just stares—clearly flustered—and somehow, you’re not convinced the run is entirely to blame.
You walk right past him, lips twitching. “Thirsty, Bradshaw?”
He clears his throat and falls into step beside you. “Hungry, actually.”
“That so?”
He nods.
You arch a brow. “Anything in particular you’re craving?”
His tongue darts between his lips as they curl into a slow smirk, his eyes dropping down your body. “Yeah,” he says, voice low. “Something I’ve been thinking about for a while.”
You want to laugh—because yeah, it’s been a long fucking while—but instead, you press your lips together and shake your head.
Maverick drones on about how maintaining your body is just as important as maintaining your jet before launching into an unhinged story about ‘back in his day’—but you’re barely listening. You can’t. Not with Bradley’s eyes flicking toward you every few seconds. Not with the way he’s standing so close, suit half off, his undershirt clinging to his body in ways you only wish you could.
It’s downright criminal—the way he can still look this sinfully good after a full day of torture. No one should look like that after a gruelling workout. No one.
“You’re all dismissed,” Maverick says, snapping your attention away from the little droplet of sweat sliding down the side of Bradley’s neck. “And don’t forget—my place at six.”
“Oh, hell yeah,” Mickey grins, turning to Reuben beside him. “I’ve been thinking about a steak all damn week.”
Reuben frowns. “Then why wouldn’t you just cook one for yourself?”
“Don’t know how,” Mickey says with a shrug.
Maverick chuckles as he turns away, Hondo falling into step beside him.
The others continue roasting Mickey for his inability to cook a steak while you head for the locker rooms, eager to get the hell out of this damn suit and under the cool spray of a cold shower—something you need for more than one reason.
You almost make it when a heavy pair of footsteps echo down the hall behind you, and you don’t need to turn around to know who it is. You recognise him just from the sound of his stride. Is that sad?
“You trying to follow me into the shower now, Bradshaw?”
He tips his head, lips curling into that crooked little half-smile. “Is that an offer?”
You press your back to the women’s locker room door, nudging it open. “You know you’re always welcome.”
A beat of silence stretches between you—electricity crackling softly in the air as you hold his gaze. Your lips are quirked in challenge; his cheeks flushed, eyes wide with want—even though you already know exactly what he’s about to do.
He’s going to defuse the moment. Because he’s scared.
“Raincheck,” he mutters, voice tight—almost strained—before clearing his throat. “I was going to ask if you wanted a lift tonight? To Mav’s.”
“Oh.” You take half a step back into the locker room. “That’d be great.”
He nods once. “Pick you up at ten to six.”
“Can’t wait,” you say before turning sharply and pushing all the way through the door.
You know it was just a joke—an offhand comment—but the little stab of disappointment still lands in your gut. You should be used to it by now. He’s been rejecting you for years. But it still stings. Especially when he’s looking at you like that—gaze hot and full of every emotion he refuses to name.
Now you definitely need an ice-cold shower.
Because for a moment, you let yourself imagine dragging Bradley into the locker room. Peeling off his flight suit. Tasting the sweat on his skin. Pressing him under the hot water, feeling his body move against yours—his hands, his mouth, his arms wrapped around you and his cock—
“Ugh,” Natasha’s voice bounces off the tiled walls. “My ass is basically slow-roasting in this fucking suit. If I peel this thing off and hear a squelch, I’m retiring.”
You snort a laugh as you pop open your locker.
“You’re better than a cold shower,” you tell her, watching as she starts wriggling out of her suit. “Did you know that?”
She narrows her eyes. “Gross. Were you daydreaming about Bradshaw again?”
-
Once a month, Maverick invites the whole squad over to his house for a barbecue. It’s a cute little tradition he started when the Dagger Squad was made a permanent unit based at North Island. He says it’s to keep morale up and make sure Bradley and Jake are always getting along—but you know it’s really just because he loves it.
Your phone chimes just as you’re slipping your feet into your shoes. It’s a text from Bradley, announcing that he’s out the front of your apartment block.
You grab a jacket—just in case—before heading out the door and turning sharply toward the fire stairs. You’ve refused to take the elevator ever since it broke down a couple months ago. It’s supposedly fixed now, but you’re not taking any chances. Those two hours you were stuck in there with your neighbour ‘Crabby Carl’ were some of the worst of your life.
“I’m coming, I’m coming, I’m coming,” you chant to yourself as you bolt down the stairs.
You shove the door open on the bottom level and breeze through the lobby, darting outside just as Bradley presses on his car’s horn.
You stop abruptly at the passenger-side door, brow furrowed and eyes narrowed. “You were barely waiting two minutes.”
He looks like the embodiment of sin sitting behind the wheel of the Bronco—lust, to be exact. With one hand on the steering wheel and the other on the gear stick, he looks like he’s posing for some defence force recruitment ad created by horny graphic designers. He’s wearing a ridiculous Hawaiian shirt—one that shouldn’t look as good as it does, but of course it looks good on him—unbuttoned to his sternum, showing off a delicious stretch of sun-kissed skin that makes your mouth water.
He tips his head forward, peering over the rim of his sunglasses. “You gonna keep staring or are you gonna hop in?”
You roll your eyes and yank the door open, trying—and failing—not to blush.
“Nice shirt,” you mutter. “Did you mug a tourist for it?”
He chuckles as he flicks on the indicator. “Actually, this is vintage Bradshaw. And I know you love it.”
You scoff, fighting the smile pulling at your lips. “Someone’s full of himself this evening.”
His eyes cut toward you as the car stops at an intersection, a sharp smirk curling at his lips. “Jealous?”
Your eyes widen. Your cheeks flame. Your breath catches in your throat. Did he seriously just ask if you’re jealous of him being... full of himself?
The silence between you is thick with static, crackling dangerously as he holds your gaze—brown eyes lit with something reckless. Something sharp that steals the air from your lungs and makes you forget your own name.
You’re used to flirting with Bradley—you’ve been doing it for years—but every now and then, he gets bold. No warning, no reason. Just a sudden shift in heat, like he lives to catch you off guard.
The blaring of a car horn startles you both. Bradley’s cheeks flush as his head snaps forward, foot pressing quickly on the gas.
The rest of the car ride is quiet, save for the soft crackle of the radio—but thankfully, Maverick’s place isn’t far from yours. It’s barely been ten minutes when Bradley pulls up to the curb in front of the small, sun-faded beach house.
You try not to stare as he cuts the engine and pulls the key from the ignition, but it’s hard not to watch the way his shirt shifts. The way it falls open a little more as he leans forward. His skin is so golden, so warm—something you wouldn’t mind burning your fingertips on.
“You alright?”
Your eyes snap to his face, cheeks heating. “Yeah, sorry.” You quickly unbuckle your belt. “Zoned out.”
He chuckles, pushing open the driver’s side door. “You know, it’s not polite to stare at someone’s tits.”
“That so?” you ask, arching a brow as your lips curl into a half-smirk. “So the way you were looking at me after training today... what was that?”
He ducks his head, fighting a smile as his hand tightens on the door handle. “Oh, that wasn’t polite at all.”
Then he slips out of the car and shuts the door, leaving you to catch your breath—for the second damn time in less than twenty minutes.
Once you finally remember how to breathe, you climb out and follow him up the front porch steps. He doesn’t bother knocking—just opens the screen door and turns the brass knob on the weathered oak door, pushing it open like it’s his own house.
There are already voices inside—mostly bickering—and the clink and clang of pots, pans, and other cooking utensils. The kitchen sits at the very back of the house, just before a sliding set of double doors that open onto a spacious deck.
It’s not a big house—it’s cozy—and you love it. From the worn wooden floorboards to the peeling wallpaper. It has so much charm, and so much potential to be the ultimate vintage beach shack. You always joke to Mav about leaving it to you in his will—and he usually fires back with something suggestive about leaving it to Bradley, so it will be yours someday.
“You are not cooking,” Natasha’s voice echoes down the hall. “Last time you cooked, everything was beyond burnt.”
“Well, the last time you cooked, the steaks were still mooing,” Jake fires back.
“Mav, could you please tell Hangman that steak is supposed to be pink in the middle?” Nat says.
“Mav, tell Phoenix to eat her weird, witchy, voodoo blood sacrifices in the privacy of her own home,” Jake retorts, his voice rising with every word.
You snort quietly as you round the corner into the kitchen, just as Maverick lets out a long, exasperated sigh.
“Would the both of you just shut the hell up?” he mutters, glancing up from where he’s unwrapping various cuts of meat. A smile curls across his face as he spots his two newest arrivals. “Rooster is cooking tonight.”
Bradley sighs like he’s just been asked to scrub the barracks with a toothbrush, but he doesn’t argue. He just moves into the kitchen with easy familiarity, greeting the others like he hadn’t been with them all day, then starts helping his godfather unpack the barbecue haul.
“Here,” Natasha says, sliding a beer toward you. “You’re going to need this. Seresin is in fine form tonight.”
Jake’s head snaps toward you, his grin firmly in place. “I’m always in fine form, Phoenix.”
You tip your head, furrowing your brow in faux confusion. “Didn’t I score higher than you on the last PRT?”
“Actually,” Natasha cuts in, lips twitching, “I’m pretty sure we both did.”
Jake’s smirk flickers, just slightly. “Those tests are rigged. They’re designed better for assessing female fitness.”
“The U.S. military is more than eighty percent male,” you say flatly. “Why on earth would the tests be rigged in favour of women?”
Reuben claps a hand on Jake’s shoulder. “Face it, man. You’re not actually that fit. You just look it.”
Jake’s eyes go wide.
“You’re hot girl fit,” Natasha adds, her grin sharpening.
“Oh my God,” you giggle. “That’s so true. You look good, but you’re not actually that good.”
Jake’s gaze swings back to you, eyes sparkling. “Did you just say that I look good, little chick?”
Your smile drops as you narrow your eyes. “You won’t be looking good with a broken nose if you keep calling me that.”
“Alright, that’s enough,” Maverick sighs, stepping between you and Jake with a tray full of meat. “No violence indoors. If you want to fight, take it to the park across the road—and don’t mention my name if the cops come. They don’t like me very much.”
Laughter ripples through the group as everyone starts moving outside. Maverick and Bradley take the meat trays while Bob, Natasha, and Jake gather bowls, plates, knives, and forks. You grab the tongs, spatula, and grill fork before following them out the back door and onto the deck.
Javy, Mickey, and Reuben have already claimed spots around the large table. There are a few wicker lounge chairs that match the outdoor setting, and a couple of extra seats that have been pulled from Maverick’s indoor dining set. And at the far end of the deck is where the barbecue is—right next to the two-seater lounge that, somehow, you and Bradley always end up sharing.
“Chick,” Maverick calls as you cross the deck. “You helping?”
“Do I have a choice?” you ask, squeezing between the back of Mickey’s chair and the deck railing.
Maverick shakes his head. “No, not really.”
You roll your eyes as you reach the barbecue and Maverick gives you a quick pat on the shoulder before walking off, leaving you with Bradley.
You set the cooking utensils down and turn to him with your hands clasped behind your back, standing as if at attention. “Reporting for duty, chef.”
Bradley gives you that soft little half-smirk, glancing at you from the corner of his eye. “Sure you’re ready for the barbecuing big leagues, baby bird?”
You press your lips together, trying desperately to ignore the way your heart flutters at the nickname. It’s lame, and a little cheesy, but he’s been calling you that since flight school—since your very first real flight, when you admitted how nervous you were about getting in an actual jet. Instead of teasing you, he gave you some corny speech about flying the nest and somehow made you feel brave. From that day on, it just stuck. It even inspired your callsign—well, that and the fact that you apparently followed Rooster around like a lost chick... or so they said.
You clear your throat, blinking away the dreamy haze in your eyes. “Trust me,” you say, fighting a smirk, “I know how to handle my meat.”
Bradley rolls his eyes and turns back to the barbecue, but you don’t miss the way his cheeks flush pink.
Once the grill is hot, you help him lay out the meat and stack the empty trays to the side. He spends a few seconds poking holes in the sausages and stabbing a few of the steaks—for God knows what reason—before shutting the lid and turning toward you with a smirk.
“Would you rather let Hangman choose you a new callsign… or your next tattoo?”
You cross your arms and lean a hip against the barbecue’s side shelf, tapping a finger against your bottom lip as you think.
“Can I choose the size and placement of the tattoo?” you ask.
Bradley shakes his head. “Nope.”
“Alright, callsign then,” you decide. “It’s less permanent, and I don’t think he’s creative enough to come up with anything truly awful.”
Bradley tips his head. “Fair.”
He watches you for a moment while you take your time thinking of your own question, his eyes flicking—less than subtly—between your lips and your chest, the latter nicely highlighted by your crossed arms.
Honestly, sometimes he’s the least subtle man alive.
“Okay,” you say, uncrossing your arms to curb the distraction. “Would you rather tell Mav you dented his bike, or accidentally call him ‘Dad’ during a hop?”
Bradley laughs and tips his head back. “Oh, definitely the ‘Dad’ thing. I could live with the embarrassment, but he wouldn’t let me live if I touched his precious bike.”
You nod. “That’s true.”
“Alright,” he says, returning his gaze to you. “Would you rather be stuck in a supply closet with Fanboy all night, or trapped out here on the deck?”
You snort. “The deck, easily. I’m not surviving a night in a closet with anyone on this squad—and this deck has comfy lounges. It’s a no brainer.”
He laughs again as he turns back to the grill, lifting the hood to check the sizzling meat.
“Phoenix, want your steak flipped now?” he calls, without even glancing over his shoulder.
“Yes, please,” she replies.
You grab the tongs before he can and bump your hip against his, nudging him aside to lean forward and flip one of the steaks. Then you casually check the others, rotating the sausages just slightly, before stepping back and lowering the lid.
You turn to face him, tongs pointed at his chest. “Would you rather only ever take cold showers, or have hot showers but you have to pick someone from the squad to join you?”
His brows shoot up, a devilish smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth as he leans in, just a little. “Definitely the second option.”
You narrow your eyes. “Who would you pick?”
He leans in further. “That’s not part of the question.”
You let out a flustered little breath as he winks and snatches the tongs right out of your hand. Then he leans back, watching you thoughtfully—clearly taking his time to come up with a question that will top yours.
“Okay,” he says finally, brown eyes gleaming with mischief. “Would you rather have someone’s hands in your hair... or their teeth on your skin?”
You choke on absolutely nothing.
Your breath catches, warmth flooding your face and crawling down your throat. Your heart stutters, then pounds harder—so loud you’re almost positive he can hear it.
“I—” You clear your throat, hard. “What kind of question is that?”
He watches you too closely, eyes sparkling with amusement, and smirk firmly in place. He knows exactly what he’s doing.
“Hypothetically, of course,” he says, way too innocently.
You narrow your eyes. “Right. No ulterior motives?”
His tongue slides across his bottom lip as he nods.
“Alright.” You take a slow breath, gathering your composure. “Both are good... but if I had to choose?” You meet his eyes. “Teeth.”
His gaze sharpens, hunger sparking behind his eyes. He licks his lips again, and it strikes like lightning behind your ribs, racing heat through you in a single, breathless flash. The space between you hums with tension, dense and electric, thick enough to taste like copper on your tongue.
Then, without a word, he turns back and lifts the barbecue lid, using the tongs to rotate the sausages like nothing happened. Like he didn’t just set you on fire—and then dump a bucket of ice water on your head.
The impromptu game of Would You Rather fizzles out fast—both of you too flustered to meet each other’s eyes after Bradley’s last question. Instead, you keep busy, setting out crockery and side dishes, and grabbing everyone another round of drinks before the meat is done.
Once dinner is served, conversation quiets, replaced by the sound of cutlery and near-feral eating. Everyone is shovelling food into their mouths like they haven’t eaten in days—the fallout from Maverick’s full day of physical torture.
You end up beside Bradley in the two-seater—because of course you do—and the air between you still feels heavy. Charged, almost.
You’re used to tension with him—it’s been there for years—but lately, it feels different. More pressing. More electric. Like one spark could light a fire big enough to burn you both to ash.
“So,” Maverick says, setting his knife and fork down on his empty plate, “I take it everyone’s attending the gala next weekend?”
There’s a general hum of agreement and nods all around the table.
“Do we have to wear dinner dress?” Mickey asks, talking around a mouthful of steak.
Maverick shakes his head. “Command made it mess dress or formalwear—your choice.” He pauses, eyes sweeping pointedly across the group. “But if you don’t have a perfectly tailored tux, I’d recommend your uniform. It’s still black tie. And it’s our first event as an official elite squadron.”
Natasha raises her fork like she’s in class. “If gowns count as formalwear for women, can the guys wear dresses too? Or are we sticking to gender-normative black tie?”
Maverick drops his head into his hands and sighs, elbows braced on the table. “It’s the U.S. Navy, Phoenix. What do you think?”
“Fair point,” she mutters, smirking as she stabs another piece of sausage.
“Damn,” Reuben says. “I had the hottest little red number I’ve been dying to wear.”
Mickey snorts—then chokes, coughing hard as laughter erupts around the table. His face turns beet red as he waves off concern and sputters into his drink.
Bradley nudges your elbow. “You going?”
You nod.
He smirks. “Got a date?”
You nearly drop your fork. “A date?”
“Yeah,” he says with a soft chuckle, tipping his head the way he does when he’s about to tease you. “Do you know what that is? Or has it been so long you’ve forgotten?”
You roll your eyes. “I know what a date is, Bradshaw. I just don’t know why I’d need one.”
“Just thought maybe you’d want one,” he says, voice softer now, cheeks pink and eyes fixed on his plate.
Your brows lift, pulse skipping as heat flickers low in your chest. Electricity crawls beneath your skin, lighting every nerve it touches.
You should be used to this by now—used to him. But somehow, your body still responds to every little thing. Every glance. Every tease. Even when you know better.
“You know,” you say, voice low, “if you want to ask a girl out, you usually have to say the words.”
He glances at you out of the corner of his eye, lips twitching, breath caught. It feels like the whole table has gone still—every pair of ears not-so-subtly tuned in to your conversation.
Bradley clears his throat. “Thanks for the advice. I’ll keep it in mind.”
Another bucket of ice water. You feel it crash over you like a wave, and you swear the whole squad exhales at once—like they’ve been holding their breath for you.
Heat curls low in your belly, stoking that familiar, maddening frustration that only Bradley seems capable of lighting. It swells beneath your ribs, fierce and unwelcome, pushing out any room you had left for food or rational thought.
You can feel it creeping into your cheeks too—heat and humiliation, tangled together. How he keeps building you up only to knock the breath from your lungs again... you don’t know why you keep letting him.
You let your knife and fork clatter onto your plate as you stand abruptly, the scrape of your chair loud against the deck. The force of it jostles Bradley, but you don’t care. He glances up, brows drawn, gaze wide and confused—as if he has any right to be confused.
You don’t meet his eyes. You can’t. Instead, you grab your plate and empty beer bottle with stiff fingers, turn on your heel, and stalk around the table with your jaw set tight. You don’t stop, don’t speak. Your gaze stays locked on the back door until you reach it, yank it open, and step inside—closing it behind you with more force than necessary.
You take a deep breath and try to calm your erratic pulse before starting to clean up the kitchen and wash the dishes. Outside, Natasha and Bob begin clearing the table, bringing in armfuls of plates, bowls, and cutlery, stacking them beside the soapy sink you’re elbows-deep in. Bob offers to help, but you just shake your head and keep scrubbing.
Once everything is washed, Maverick comes inside and grabs a spare dish towel. He doesn’t ask if he can help—nor should he, it’s his house—he just starts quietly drying and putting things away.
After a few minutes of companionable silence—the only sounds the clink and scrape of dishes—Mav sighs and catches your eye. “So-”
“Nope,” you cut in, shooting him a pointed look before turning to stash another plate.
He frowns. “You don’t even know what I was going to say.”
You pick up the—clean—grill fork and point it at him like a weapon. “You were absolutely about to make some wildly inappropriate comment about me and your emotionally constipated godson—who, by the way, you helped raise. So if you really want to crack open that Pandora’s box, we’re going to need a couch, a camera crew, and Dr. Phil front and centre. Because this is not a kitchen conversation, my dude. This is a full-blown televised intervention.”
His lips twitch into an upside-down smirk, like he’s trying—and failing—not to let his amusement show.
After a beat, he lifts a brow. “My dude?”
“Sorry,” you mutter, focusing on drying the grill fork a little too thoroughly. “Got carried away.”
He chuckles and picks up another sudsy bowl. “Look, you’re not wrong about him being a little… emotionally stunted.”
You arch a brow but keep quiet.
“But can you blame him?” he asks, slipping the bowl into the cupboard.
“Would you prefer I blame you?”
“What if we just leave blame out of it, yeah?”
“Sure,” you deadpan, rolling your eyes. “Now, since you’re clearly not going to drop it, let’s hear some of that Maverick wisdom. What’ve you got? Inspirational quotes? Dating advice? Drugs?”
He laughs—really laughs—this time. “Wow. You’re snarky when you’re frustrated.”
You open your mouth to respond, but Jake’s voice cuts in. “And I hear she bites when she’s mad.” He steps through the back door, letting it click shut behind him as he holds up a fistful of empty beer bottles. “What’d I miss?”
You roll your eyes and turn back to the waiting dishes. “Mav was just about to hand out some of his expert dating advice.”
Jake gasps. “For free?”
Maverick sighs. “I don’t know why I even try to be nice to you kids.”
“Because you love us,” you say, flashing him your cheesiest grin.
“Come on, then,” Jake urges. “I wanna hear this advice.”
Mav clears his throat, leaning one hand against the bench and the other on his hip, still holding the towel. “All I was going to say is, there’s nothing wrong with a little forwardness. I, for one, think it’s great when women take the lead-”
“Make me two,” Jake cuts in.
“See?” Maverick says, gesturing vaguely at Jake. “Maybe you should just ask him out. Stop waiting for him to make the first move.”
Jake’s brow furrows, his green eyes snapping toward you. “Who? Bradshaw?”
You roll your eyes. Duh.
“Oh, no,” he says quickly, laughing. “No, no, no. You can’t just ask Rooster out. Not after however many millennia you two have been pining over each other.”
“Thanks, Hangman,” you mutter dryly.
“I hate to break it to you, but asking Rooster out isn’t going to magically fix his ridiculous fear of commitment—” Jake pauses, glancing at Mav. “Shoutout to you for that one, Captain. Excellent work.”
Maverick throws up his hands. “How is this all my fault?”
Jake ignores him, turning back to you with sudden seriousness. “If you really want Bradshaw to do something about whatever it is you two have going on, you’re gonna have to convince him you’re not interested anymore.”
You frown. “What? How would that help?”
“Because,” Jake groans, like you’re the slowest student in his class, “he’s comfortable. He knows he’s got you wrapped around his finger. He’s not worried about losing you, so he’s taking his sweet, motherfucking time. But if he thinks he’s lost you—that he’s blown his shot—he might actually do something reckless like... I don’t know, kiss you.”
Maverick’s curious gaze shifts your way. “Wait, you two have never even kissed?”
You feel your face go hot. “Shut up.”
“Then,” Jake continues, undeterred, “you make him prove he wants you. Really wants you.”
Silence falls over the kitchen, thick with anticipation. Jake just watches you, that familiar glint of mischief dancing in his eyes, while Maverick glances between you both like he’s just tuned in to his favourite soap opera.
You’d be lying if you said you weren’t tempted. Jake... has a point. But emotional warfare? Even for a cause like this? You’re not sure you can stomach that—especially when it’s someone you love.
“No.” You shake your head like you can rattle the thought right out of your ears. “No way. It’s mean and manipulative. I’m not going to pretend I’m dating other people and just… ignore him—make him feel like crap—just to get him to admit he likes me.”
Jake sighs and turns to the fridge. “Shame. ‘Cause it would’ve worked.”
“I don’t care,” you say, picking up the last plate to dry. “I’m not messing with someone’s feelings like that.”
He crouches down and starts tearing the cardboard from a fresh pack of beers. “Even though he messes with yours all the time?”
You frown, stepping toward him. “He does not-”
“Whoa,” Bradley says, walking in through the back door. “You three having your own party in here?”
Jake stands, three beers in each hand. “Don’t be jealous, Rooster. I was just giving our little chick some dating advice.”
Bradley’s eyebrows lift, his gaze sliding toward you. “Really?”
You shoot him a flat look, then turn to Jake, eyes narrowed. “Advice I don’t want—or need.”
He leans in with that signature smirk. “Not from where I’m standing, Chick.” Then he winks, nods at both Maverick and Bradley, and saunters out.
Silence falls like a brick. No one moves. No one speaks. You’re painfully aware of Maverick across the kitchen and Bradley just a few feet away. It feels like you’ve been caught doing something wrong—except none of you were doing anything at all.
Bradley glances at the empty beer bottles on the bench, then picks one up and squints at the label. “You know,” he says, turning it over in his hand, “I think they changed the recipe on these. Tastes different lately.”
Neither you nor Maverick respond.
Bradley shrugs and tosses the bottle into the recycling bin with a loud clatter. “I don’t know. Maybe it’s just me. I just... can’t commit to a brand.”
Maverick turns to him slowly and places a single, solemn pat on his shoulder—then walks out the back door, leaving the dishes behind.
You bite your lip and shut your eyes, turning to the sink before Bradley can see the laugh bubbling up in your throat.
Maybe Jake’s right. Maybe you do need to do something a little more drastic to help this man over his fear of commitment.
The rest of the night unfolds like any other. You hang around drinking and talking for a few more hours. Maverick gets roasted for trying to say something ‘hip’, and Javy quietly sweeps every card game while Natasha accuses him—loudly—of being an undercover hustler.
Eventually, Bob yawns and announces that he’s heading out—which signals the end for most of the squad since he drove them over—and Maverick agrees, muttering something about being too old for this.
You all file out like it’s Thanksgiving at your parents’ house, offering your thanks to Maverick on your way out the door. Natasha is the first to slide into her car and peel off down the street, while Bob waits for Jake, Javy, Mickey, and Reuben to cram themselves into his car.
You and Bradley are the last ones left on the street. Mav has already shut the door and flipped off the porch light, leaving you parked in the Bronco—roof off, as always—sitting in the dark beneath the stars.
“So,” Bradley says, eyes somehow still sparkling even in the dark, “where to?”
You tip your head back against the headrest and gaze up at the sky. “Take me to the stars,” you say, voice dramatically wistful.
He chuckles as he turns the key, the engine rumbling to life. “You sure you’re ready for that kind of altitude?”
You roll your head to the side, narrowing your eyes at him. “Maybe if you stopped circling and actually climbed, we’d find out.”
He glances at you from the corner of his eye, lips quirking into a soft smile, but he doesn’t answer. He just presses down on the gas, pulling away from Maverick’s and heading in the direction of your place.
The silence that settles between you is thick—almost uncomfortably so—charged like a storm building somewhere just out of sight. You want to break it with something sharp or sarcastic, like you usually would, but Jake’s words keep echoing in your head. Reminding you just how painfully right he’d been.
“Okay,” Bradley says suddenly, clearing his throat. “Would you rather fight a hundred duck-sized Mavericks, or one Maverick-sized duck?”
The question short-circuits your brain with how wildly it veers from your thoughts.
“Um…” you blink out at the road ahead. “Probably the Maverick-sized duck. It wouldn’t be much bigger than an average duck anyway.”
He snorts a laugh, tossing his head back just slightly. In the glow of the streetlights and the low-hanging moon, the sight of him steals the breath right from your lungs. You know he knows he’s good-looking—but you’re not sure he realises just how pretty he really is.
With every flash of light overhead, the tips of his curls burn like molten bronze, while moonlight kisses his lips with silver and shadow—softening the edge of his smirk. Even in the dark, he radiates warmth, like his sun-kissed skin refuses to surrender the light.
“Something on my face?” he asks, glancing at you for a beat before returning to the road.
You shake your head. “No, you’re just…”
He raises his brows, looking at you again with those curious, wide eyes. “I’m what?”
“Pretty,” you mutter, voice barely above a whisper as you quickly turn to stare out the windscreen.
You immediately regret letting the word slip from your lips, but it’s too late. The car is blanketed in heavy silence—thick with something unspoken, or rather, something you shouldn’t have spoken—and crackling with nervous energy. Your nervous energy.
Bradley’s smirk is gone. His brows are drawn and his eyes wide as he watches the road, jaw tight like he’s trying to work through an impossible equation in his head. His movements are stiff, deliberate—as if driving isn’t muscle memory anymore, but something he has to consciously remember how to do.
It feels like hours before he pulls up to the curb outside your apartment block. You open the door with what has to be superhuman speed and slip out, mumbling a goodbye with your eyes locked on the lobby. But before you can even make it across the sidewalk, he’s in front of you.
How the fuck did he move that fast?
“What the fuck?” you blurt, a little harsher than you mean to, eyes flicking up to the man now blocking your path—standing way, way too close.
“Sorry, I just—” He hesitates, scratching the back of his neck. “Just wanted to say sorry. For before. At dinner.”
You step back, needing space—because holy shit, the smell of his cologne, of his warm skin and coconut-scented hair wax, is making your whole nervous system short-circuit.
You bump up against the Bronco. “It’s fine. Don’t be silly.”
He takes a step forward, closing the gap again until there’s barely a breath between you.
“No, it’s not. Everyone was listening and—and I shouldn’t have said anything.”
You frown. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
His eyes meet yours, wide and full of every emotion you’ve been begging him to say out loud.
“You know what it means.”
You want to scream. You want to grab his face and shake him until he gets it. Until he understands how goddamn stupid he’s being. Because you know he cares. You know he loves you. But you can’t keep waiting around for him to get over whatever ridiculous fear he refuses to name.
“Bradley,” you sigh, shoulders sagging. “Why are you—”
Your breath catches. Your voice sticking in your throat as he leans in, one hand braced against the car behind you. His warmth, his scent—it all slams into you at once, wrapping around you like a weighted blanket full of static.
“Bradley...” you whisper, your voice unsteady.
Your eyes are locked on his mouth, watching his tongue slip slowly across his bottom lip as he searches your face—looking for something. Maybe he’s searching for a reason to move forward, or maybe he’s trying to find one to stop. You can’t tell.
You just hope, more than anything, that he doesn’t pull away.
His gaze drops to your mouth.
“You drive me insane,” he murmurs, voice low, wrecked.
You don’t answer. You can’t. Your heart is in your throat, beating so hard it almost hurts as he leans in just a fraction more. His nose brushes yours. His breath hits your lips.
Is this it?
But then—he stops.
His forehead dips to yours, his eyes falling shut, and he exhales a shaky breath.
“I can’t,” he whispers. “Not with you.”
The words are barely there, like it hurts him to say them.
And just like that, the moment shatters.
You blink up at him, wide-eyed, the sting of heat rising to your cheeks—not from the near-kiss, but from the humiliation curling hot and sour in your gut.
Before he can say anything else, you push off the car and shoulder past him, the night air slicing cold across your skin as you storm toward the lobby, jaw tight and chest burning.
Your vision blurs with tears that wait until the second you step into the elevator to finally fall, streaking down your cheeks in warm, heavy drops.
You don’t even care if the damn lift breaks down—at least then, you wouldn’t be the only one falling apart.
-
You take a deep breath, clutching a coffee cup in each hand like they’re your lifelines. Then, lifting one foot, you tap the toe of your sneaker against the door you’ve been staring at for the past five minutes—wondering whether you really want it to open.
“Good morning, little chick,” Jake says, grinning from ear to ear as it swings open.
You release the breath you’d been holding and hand over one of the cups. “Peace offering.”
He lifts a brow. “Is this you grovelling?”
“I don’t grovel.”
He takes the cup and steps aside, motioning you in. “What about beg?”
You roll your eyes as you walk past him, pleasantly surprised by the fresh, citrusy scent that greets you the second you step into the kitchen—the first room off the entry.
“Wow, I’m impressed,” you mutter, raising your cup to your lips.
Jake drops onto one of the stools at the breakfast bar. “What were you expecting?”
“Shag carpet. Disco ball. Strobe lights. A shrine to yourself. And at least a dozen mirrors.”
He snorts. “You’re just as bad as he is, you know that?”
You pull out a stool and settle in, resting your elbows on the counter. “Who?”
“The man you’re here to beg me to help you with.”
You narrow your eyes. “I don’t beg.” You take another sip before setting the cup down with a sigh. “But... yes. I want help.”
His smirk lifts higher. “What made you change your mind?”
“Nothing,” you shoot back a little too fast.
He just arches a brow and waits.
“Fine,” you mutter. “When he dropped me home last night, he apologised for the whole ‘date to the gala’ thing over dinner. I told him it was fine. He got closer, leaned in. I thought he was going to kiss me, and then... nothing. He said he couldn’t do it. Not with me.”
Jake frowns—not shocked or empathetic, just curious. “Not with you,” he echoes. “Specifically you.”
You give him a flat stare. “Yes. Me. Thank you for really hammering that in.”
“No,” he says, shaking his head. “I wasn’t trying to rub it in. I mean... there’s something else, then. Something beyond his DEFCON-level commitment issues.”
“So, it is just me?” you ask. “I’m too hideous or something?”
He rolls his eyes. “It’s not like that. It’s probably the friendship.”
“Oh, so I’m buried in the friendzone. Awesome.”
Jake narrows his eyes at you. “Would you stop being such a cynic? I told you I’d help—so let me help.”
You press your lips together and sit up straight, drawing an imaginary halo above your head.
“Thank you,” he nods. “Now, I’m guessing the real problem is that he doesn’t want to ruin the friendship. I mean, sure, back in the academy and flight school, it was probably just bad timing. Then after deployment—separate deployments—you could both write it off as unrealistic. But now? Now it’s deeper. He’s not just scared of commitment. He’s scared of losing the one thing he really gives a damn about.”
You tip your head, brow furrowed.
Jake sighs. “You.”
“Oh.”
He takes a long sip of his coffee, eyes drifting across the kitchen like the cupboards might give him an answer.
“We just have to figure out how to get him to believe you’re actually into me,” he says.
Your eyes go wide. “Sorry, what? Into you?”
His gaze snaps back to yours, amusement flickering. “Yes. Me. That’s the plan.”
“You’re the plan?” you repeat, because your brain is still buffering.
He nods. “Yes, I am the plan. You and me—together. That’s the play.”
“Oh, he’ll never believe that,” you say. “Not in a million years.”
Jake tips his cup, drains it, and drops it on the counter with a hollow thunk. “Would he believe you if you told him you were here right now? Hanging out with me on a Saturday morning?”
You shake your head. “No.”
“But you are,” he points out, brows raised. “So all we have to do is show him. We can’t just say it—we have to do it.”
You pull back slightly, grimacing.
“I don’t literally mean do it,” he sighs. “God, you act like I’m some uncontrollable savage.”
You hide a smirk behind your cup, deciding not to poke the one person who might be your only hope.
“Alright,” you say, setting your coffee down and straightening up again. “So, how do we show him?”
-
Jake isn’t just evil—he’s downright diabolical.
You have no idea how he’s come up with so many ways to get under Bradley’s skin—though you suspect that pissing people off might just be one of his favourite pastimes. And damn, his ideas are good. You’re pretty sure Bradley will be ready to murder someone by the end of the week—if he even makes it that far.
Right after your Saturday morning chat, Jake got to work. He started by taking a series of photos where you were just visible but not the focus. One in the kitchen, with you turned away so it’s hard to tell that it’s you. Another on the couch, your hand just barely in frame, resting on his leg. And one in the mirror—he claimed it was to show off a new beanie, but if you squint, you can spot your figure lounging on his bed in the background.
Then it was your turn. With Jake’s help, you snapped a few subtle photos of your own—each one just blurry or cropped enough that someone would have to look twice to notice him.
That night, he fired the first shot. He dropped the kitchen photo into the group chat with a totally fabricated caption about ‘white people taco night’—because he knew it would immediately set Mickey off. The plan worked. Within minutes, the chat was buzzing. Javy asked who the girl in the background was, but Mickey’s dramatic rant about authentic tacos made it easy to dodge the question.
Still, the seed had been planted.
On Sunday afternoon, Jake showed up at your place with a bag of his old clothes and a small bottle of cologne—the one he always wears. You hung out for a bit, fine-tuning your devious schedule for the week, before it was your turn to post in the chat.
Yours had to be subtler. Jake having a girl over? Not unusual. But you? If it wasn’t Bradley in the photo, people would notice instantly.
So you went simple. A picture of a mug of tea. Barely anything else in frame—just a sliver of the floor, a pair of regulation boots, and a bag that looked suspiciously like it was packed for an overnight stay. Keys resting neatly on top.
You captioned it: ‘Look, Payback! Tea! And it doesn’t taste like jet fuel!’—a direct hit on the squad’s long-running inside joke about the time Natasha asked Reuben to make her tea, and it somehow tasted worse than kerosene.
The chat exploded. Half of the messages were Reuben defending himself, and the other half—sparked by Natasha’s quickfire question about the boots—were trying to figure out who you had sleeping over.
You played it cool—a few coy emojis, a couple of vague replies—and eventually, they moved on. But you knew better. The game had officially begun.
And judging by how quiet Bradley had gone in the chat—especially after someone pointed out those boots were definitely too big to be yours—you were confident.
He’d taken the bait.
“You ready?” Jake asks, eyes sparkling like a kid on Christmas morning.
You nod. Your mini-meltdown already happened this morning—second-guessing everything, wondering if this is too much, if it’ll backfire, if it makes you the bad guy. But then you remembered. You remembered the way Bradley has strung you along for years, the way his scent lingered on your skin that night, how close he got—closer than ever—just to leave you hanging. Again. And that’s when it clicked. This isn’t petty at all. This is justice.
Because Bradley Bradshaw has had you twisted in knots for far too long.
Now? You get to pull the strings.
You walk beside Jake across the pool deck—barefoot, no pants, towel slung over your shoulder, and his shirt hanging loose over your swimsuit.
Maverick booked a couple of pool lanes for swim training this morning. It’s not your favourite—unless the summer heat is brutal—and you don’t do it as often as you probably should, but at least he’s not making you wear your flight suits this time.
Up ahead, the squad is already gathered at the edge of the pool, standing around in their swimmers while Maverick chats with Warlock down the other end. You and Jake are the last to arrive—exactly as planned.
You force a smile as you get closer, eyes fixed on him no matter how badly they want to flick toward Bradley.
“I’m just saying,” Jake grins, “if you’re going to steal my shirt, the least you can do is admit it looks better on me.”
You roll your eyes playfully. “Not everything is about you, Seresin. And for the record, I saw you in it yesterday—and I can confidently say it looks way better on me.”
He chuckles, voice low but not too low. “Okay, fair. It does look pretty damn good.”
When you finally glance away from him, your gaze lands on the squad—all of them wide-eyed, mouths hanging open. Every single one of them is staring, expressions caught somewhere between confusion and horror.
Except Bradley.
He looks... flustered. A little angry. His cheeks are flushed, and his eyes—wide and flickering—are running up and down your body like they can’t decide whether they love or hate what they’re seeing.
Natasha steps forward, brow furrowed and brown eyes wide. “What the hell is-”
“Alright, aviators,” Maverick says, clapping his hands as he approaches the group. “Time to get out of the sky and into the water.”
You let out a small breath of relief, grateful for his perfectly timed interruption that draws the squad’s attention away from you and cuts through the growing tension.
“I’m not going easy on you today,” he continues, a wide smirk spreading across his face as he leads everyone toward the deep end of the pool. “We’ll warm up with a two-hundred metre freestyle, then hit kickboard drills and buoy pulls. After that, combat intervals, hypoxic training, rescue sims, gear swims, and finally—your favourite—the water tread challenge. Make it to the end without a complaint and you get to leave early. If you pass out? Two hundred push-ups to prove you're not too out of shape for my squad. Got it?”
The collective energy dips—weighted down with dread for what’s to come—but everyone mumbles their understanding and heads toward the diving blocks.
Swim training is always brutal, but today’s line-up of torture only reinforces what you’ve long suspected—Maverick really does enjoy watching you all suffer.
Aside from sticking to your drills and doing what you’re supposed to do, there’s hardly a moment to interact with the rest of the squad. Your head is underwater for half the day, and when it’s not, it’s pounding. You catch the occasional glimpse of Jake’s cocky smirk or a cheeky wink, and a few curious—or maybe frustrated—looks from Bradley, but for the most part, no one has time to talk. Between drills, you're too busy catching your breath and stretching out your aching limbs to worry about anything else.
By the time Maverick finally calls for cooldown, you’re seconds away from collapsing. You’ve nearly forgotten all about your little scheme with Jake—until he swims up beside you, just as you’re about to climb out of the pool.
“Need a hand stretching?” he asks, eyes sparkling like he didn’t just endure six hours of hell.
You raise a brow. “Is this you being a pest, or part of the-”
“You think so little of me,” he sighs, stepping onto the bottom rung of the ladder right behind you.
It’s way too intimate, especially considering you're still surrounded by your whole squad and half the base. But Jake doesn’t seem remotely bothered by pressing his wet, half-naked body up against yours.
“Move it, little chick,” he says sarcastically. “You’re holdin’ up the line.”
You roll your eyes and continue up the ladder, quickly padding across the pool’s tiled edge toward your towel and water bottle.
He dries off beside you while you wrap yourself in your towel and squeeze the excess water from your hair, giving him a sceptical—almost dubious—look the whole time.
“Talk to me,” he says, voice low. “You’ve got to at least pretend not to hate me if we want this to work.”
“I don’t hate you,” you mutter into the mouth of your drink bottle before taking a swig.
Jake gasps—full of faux shock, and eyes wide with dramatic flair. “Don’t let Rooster hear you say that. He’ll blow his carotid.”
You roll your eyes and tuck the towel under your arm to keep it wrapped around your body. “I swear, the way you two talk about each other, anyone would think you’re jilted ex-lovers.”
Jake chuckles softly. “And if I told you we were?”
You lift a brow. “I’d ask for proof.”
His grin turns wicked. “Would you join in?”
You tip your head, fighting a smile. “Probably.”
“I knew it,” he says, leaning in just a little. “You are into me. Even if you won’t admit it.”
“Only your body,” you say, stepping closer and placing your palm flat against his bare chest. “I’d just have to make sure your mouth was too busy to piss me off.”
His jaw nearly drops—if not for the devious smirk tugging at his lips. You wink, pat his chest once, then turn and walk toward the locker rooms… right past Bradley, who you know was listening to that entire conversation.
You take a little longer than usual in the showers, letting the hot water soak into your skin and ease the aches in your exhausted muscles. You rinse your hair until it no longer feels rough and tangled from a day spent in over-chlorinated water, and you slide soap over your skin until it feels less itchy and tight.
Then you turn off the water and spend a good few minutes drying yourself before slipping into some blissfully dry clothes. You pack up your things, sling your bag over your shoulder, and pull out your phone to check what all the buzzing had been about while you were busy getting dressed.
Your heart jumps into overdrive when you open the group chat to see the mirror selfie of Jake in his beanie—the one with you just barely visible in the background. The conversation started with Mickey asking if anyone wanted to go to a new Mexican restaurant tomorrow night—you know, to taste authentic Mexican food. Most of the squad had quickly agreed, and then Jake sent the photo asking if the weather was too hot for him to wear his new beanie.
Then the questions started. It isn’t obviously you in the photo, so most of the squad began asking who the girl is—clearly more interested in that than the beanie. Natasha asked if it was the same one from the kitchen photo, and Reuben said he thought so, since the hair looked the same. Then Javy piped up, offended he doesn’t know who his best friend is ‘dating’. All the while, Jake fielded the questions with sarcastic remarks and cocky quips.
You roll your eyes and type a quick message: ‘Hangman… with the same girl twice? Nah. Couldn’t be.’ Then you hit send just as you step out of the locker room, turning the corner toward the pool deck and—
The next thing you know, you’re on your ass. Your head is spinning, your ankle is throbbing, and there’s a slick smear of blood trailing down the side of your foot.
“Shit,” you mutter.
You must’ve slipped on the wet floor—judging by how your previously dry shorts are now soaking through—and sliced your foot on something during the fall. A cracked or uplifted tile, maybe.
You bend your knee and lift your sore ankle off the ground, gently prodding at it with two fingers—only to wince at the sharp sting. The cut doesn’t look too deep, thankfully, but there’s already an unsightly pool of blood dripping off your heel and onto the ground.
“Oh my God, are you okay?” Natasha rushes over, cutting short her conversation with an officer you don’t recognise. “I’m not going to laugh, because I can tell you’re hurt. But damn, that was a good fall.”
You roll your eyes. “You can laugh, it’s fine.”
Her lips twitch into a small smirk. “Can you stand?”
“Not sure.” You try to flex your ankle, but it hurts too much—and it’s already swelling. “I don’t want to, just in case.”
“Good idea. I’ll go get Rooster and we’ll take you to sickbay,” she says, turning on her heel.
“No,” you say quickly, “not Rooster.”
She frowns.
“Get Hangman.”
Her eyes go wide, full of questions as she looks at you in horror. “You want Hangman?”
You nod. “Yes. Please. Just get Jake.”
She stares at you for a moment, like you might be some evil clone of yourself. Then you lift your brows, and she shakes her head, muttering “Jake…” disgustedly as she turns and walks across the pool deck.
A few minutes later, you see her walking back toward you with Jake on her heels. He actually looks concerned, and you’re not sure if it’s just excellent acting or the fact that maybe he’s not completely evil.
“Trying to walk and chew gum at the same time, little chick?” he asks, the ghost of a smirk tugging at his lips.
You look up at him, trying not to wince at the throb in your ankle. “Slipped on these ridiculously unsafe tiles, actually. Might have to go legal on the U.S. Navy’s ass.”
He chuckles softly and crouches beside you. “Don’t say that too loudly—you might get yourself into trouble.” Then he leans in to inspect your ankle. “Looks pretty gnarly. Might put you out of action for a few weeks.”
“Yeah,” you sigh, shoulders sagging. “That was my first thought too.”
He watches you for a moment—genuine worry flickering in his eyes—before sliding an arm around your waist and lifting you like you weigh nothing. “Come on,” he mutters. “Let’s get you to sickbay, see how long the sentence’ll be.”
With Jake’s help, you’re up on one foot fairly easily. The rush of blood to your ankle makes you wince, but otherwise, you feel relatively steady in his arms.
When you glance up, Natasha is watching with a deep-set scowl. Her brown eyes are so sharp, it feels like they’re cutting right through you. But if she’s looking for something ingenuine, she won’t find it—not this time. Because Jake actually seems worried about you right now, and his help is… surprisingly comforting.
Even if, deep down, you’d still rather be in Bradley’s arms.
“Can you tell Mav?” you ask Natasha. “Please.”
She nods once before stepping aside to let you and Jake pass. But she doesn’t look happy about it, and you know you’re going to hear about this later.
You lean into Jake as he guides you through the building—past the locker rooms, the trophy hall, and the little hire shop that always smells like feet. You’re just about to make it through the exit gate when—of all people—Bradley steps out of the guard’s office, a brand new swipe card in hand.
“Holy shit,” he says, rushing toward you. “What happened? Are you okay?”
He reaches out, like he expects you to drop Jake and fall into his arms. And God, you want to. But you don’t. Instead, you flinch a little and lean closer into Jake.
“I’m alright,” you say, voice cool and indifferent. “I slipped. That’s all.”
Bradley’s eyes widen, flicking between your face and Jake’s before settling on the way Jake’s arm is slung protectively around your waist.
“Well… you have to go to sickbay,” Bradley says. “Do you want me to take you?”
You shake your head. “I’m fine, Rooster. Jake’s got this.”
Double whammy—using his callsign, which you rarely do unless you're teasing, and using Jake instead of Hangman. Yeah. That’ll sting.
“Jake?” he echoes.
“That’s what she said,” Jake cuts in, southern drawl thick and smug. “Told you not to sit too long on that perch, Rooster.”
Bradley’s spine goes rigid, his expression shifting into the one you know he wears when he needs to shut people out. It’s stormy and unreadable—brows furrowed, jaw tight, lips pressed into a hard line.
His eyes lock onto yours. “Hope you’re not grounded for too long.”
Then he turns and walks away, shoulders stiff, fists clenched at his sides.
He doesn’t even glance back.
Not like you do—like you always do—eyes flicking over your shoulder while Jake walks you out.
-
One prime-time grade-two ankle sprain, six stitches, and four weeks on the ground. Great. And to top it off, you can’t get your foot wet for the next seventy-two hours.
“Are you sure you don’t want me to stay over?” Natasha asks, her voice crackling through the phone.
“Nat, it’s fine,” you say. “It’s not like I’m totally crippled. I’ll be on crutches for a couple days, then I’ll be walking again.”
“In a boot,” she adds, as sharp as an unimpressed parent. “You’re still injured. Don’t downplay it. How do you even plan on showering without getting it wet? You could slip and hurt yourself… again.”
You roll your eyes and sit up on the couch, gaze glued to the muted TV. “I’m not going to shower on one leg. I’ll have a bath.”
“And what if you accidentally drown?”
You snort. “Seriously, Nat? I’m not a complete idiot. I can take a bath without drowning.”
“I’m just worried about you,” she says. “You’ve been displaying some very self-destructive behaviours lately.”
You lean back into the cushions, tipping your head against them to stare up at the ceiling. “That so? Like what?”
She scoffs. “Oh, I don’t know. Like hanging out with Hangman alone.”
Your eyes widen, panic licking up your spine.
“That’s right,” she says. “I know it’s you in those photos he sent to the group chat. I’m not stupid. What I don’t know is why.”
You take a deep breath, steadying your nerves. “Because we’re friends. Why does it matter if I hang out with him one-on-one? You and I hang out all the time.”
You can practically hear her rolling her eyes. “That’s different. You and me, you and Bradley—hell, I wouldn’t even blink if it were you and Reuben. But Hangman? And in his apartment, no less? I know there’s more to it than you’re telling me.”
“So what if there is?”
The line goes quiet, and for a second, you wonder if it’s cut out. But then she sighs, heavy and frustrated.
“It just doesn’t make sense,” she says. “You and Rooster-”
“There is no me and Rooster,” you snap, sitting up straight. “This has nothing to do with him.”
There's another beat of silence before she mutters, “Okay, fine. I’ll drop it.”
“Good.”
“Do you still want me to drop off the waterproof bandages?”
“Yes, please. And—” you glance at the empty packet of sour worms on the coffee table, “can you bring me some snacks?”
She lets out a soft laugh, the warmth in it helping to cut through the awkwardness. “Sure. What time should I come by?”
“Whenever,” you say. “I’m going to take a bath and wash off the hospital smell, but you just tell me what works for you.”
There’s a pause, but you can practically hear her thinking while you shuffle toward your crutches.
“Have a bath first. I’ll swing by a bit later,” she decides.
“Okay.” You grab a crutch and hoist yourself upright. “But give me at least an hour and a half. I don’t know how this bath is going to go.”
“You sure you don’t want help? I’ve seen you naked plenty in the locker room.”
You roll your eyes. “I’ll be fine, Nat. Promise. Just give me until eight—then you can come yell at me for being clumsy, as long as you bring snacks.”
“Alright, Chick,” she says with a soft laugh. “Don’t drown.”
“I’ll do my best,” you reply with a small smirk.
She sighs again, full of exasperated affection, and then you both mutter a quick ‘love you’ before hanging up.
You use your crutches to get to your bedroom and then into the ensuite. You start the bath before hopping around the small space to gather what you’ll need, setting everything on the vanity beside the tub—within reach. Then you head back to the bedroom and strip out of your clothes that reek of chlorine and antiseptic.
Once the tub is full of steaming water and fluffy bubbles, you brace yourself on the vanity and the edge of the tub, using them to take your weight as you—not so gracefully—swing your good leg into the bath. Then you lower yourself slowly and awkwardly until you’re sitting, propping your injured foot up on the ledge—safe and dry—before sinking deeper into the bubbles. And God, it feels good.
You sigh, letting the scalding water envelop you as your thoughts wander back to when you last saw Bradley. The look on his face when you’d all but told him to fuck off makes your heart squeeze and your breath catch. In all the years of your friendship, you’ve never been so flippant with him. You’ve never shut him out when you were hurt, never denied him the chance to be there for you. Because honestly? That man is your biggest comfort. He’s your favourite person—and your favourite feeling. And the guilt of making him feel like anything less wrecks you.
The ding of your phone startles you out of your thoughts. You dry your hands quickly on a towel and reach for where you left it on the vanity. It’s just the group chat—Natasha and Jake updating the rest of the squad on what happened and how long you’ll be grounded.
You smile at the sweet and goofy messages pouring in, then type a quick reply to reassure them that you’re fine. As you go to set your phone back on the vanity, you accidentally knock over your shampoo bottle... and it sets off a domino effect.
The shampoo hits the conditioner, which hits your body wash, then your face wash, your face scrub—until every last product is clattering and rolling across the bathroom floor.
“Fuck,” you mutter, gripping the edge of the tub as you watch them inch farther and farther out of reach.
You start looking around for something—an idea, maybe—to help retrieve your scattered products, but then—
“Hello?”
Your heart leaps into your throat, heat rushing to your cheeks—and not just from the scalding bathwater.
“Bradley?” you call, your voice cracking halfway through.
You hear the front door shut, followed by the rustle of plastic bags.
“Yeah,” he calls back. “It’s just me. Phoenix said you needed some stuff but she couldn’t make it so—” He pauses. “Wait, where are you?”
“Um, I’m in the bath,” you reply, eyes snapping to the very open bathroom door.
“Oh.” There’s a beat of silence. “D-Do you want me to just leave this stuff here... or?”
You know Natasha did this on purpose, and you fully plan on killing her for it later. But right now, you could actually use the help.
“Hang on,” you say, settling deeper into the water and gathering bubbles over your chest. “Can you—um—could you give me a hand?”
You hear something clatter in the kitchen, like your words startled him into dropping whatever he was holding.
“You want me... to come in there?”
You sigh. “Yes, Bradley. Please. You won’t see anything—I just... I dropped my stuff and I can’t reach it.”
“Okay,” he mutters, uncertain.
Each footstep grows louder, heavier, your heartbeat matching the rhythm until it’s pounding behind your ribs, threatening to burst free.
And then he appears in the doorway, and the breath leaves your lungs in one sharp exhale.
It’s unfair how beautiful he is. How easily and effortlessly sexy he is, without even trying.
He’s wearing a pair of old Naval Academy sweatpants and an oversized black shirt. His hair is mussed, cheeks flushed, and those big brown eyes are practically glowing. His lips part as he breathes, chest rising and falling just a little too fast. He looks flustered, confused, maybe even a little angry—but mostly... sad.
“Hey,” you murmur, dragging your gaze from his face to the bottles scattered across the floor. “I knocked everything over.”
He shakes his head and blinks hard before quickly crouching down. “I can see that.”
He gathers all the bottles and lines them up on the vanity, keeping his eyes firmly on the task at hand—anywhere but on you, naked in the tub.
“How are you feeling?” he asks, voice rough and a little strained.
You shrug one shoulder, and it’s almost impossible for him not to notice the way the bubbles slide off your skin as it lifts above the waterline.
“I’m okay,” you say. “The painkillers are still doing their thing, so I’ll probably feel worse in a few hours, but for now... I’m alright.”
He nods, fixing his eyes back on the neat row of bottles like they’re the most important thing in the room.
“I feel a bit awkward though,” you add with a small laugh.
His gaze flicks to you, then back to the vanity, brows drawn like he’s fighting with himself. He looks torn—caught between reason and ruin—with no right answer.
“Do you—I mean, I could—” He sighs, rubbing the back of his neck. “Did you want some help? It doesn’t have to be weird. I could just... help wash your hair and make sure you don’t slip getting out.”
Your breath catches, heart thundering in your throat and robbing your brain of oxygen.
He looks so vulnerable. So... nervous. You’ve never seen Bradley like this. He’s usually cool, confident—borderline cocky, though not like Jake. Sure, he gets awkward sometimes, and you’ve definitely seen him be uncool. But never like this. Never so visibly unsure of himself.
“Okay,” you say, before the rational part of your brain can stop you.
“Okay,” he echoes, cheeks turning an even deeper shade of red.
He shifts quietly, moving to the end of the tub behind you. You hear the soft thud of his knees hitting the tile and you can feel the air shift with his closeness. The room is quiet—except for the gentle lapping of water, the drip of the leaky basin tap, and the thunder of your heartbeat in your ears.
You don’t dare turn around.
Not when you know he’s kneeling back there, barely a foot away, and you’re naked in a tub full of bubbles that feel more and more useless by the second.
You hear him flip the shampoo cap open and squirt a generous amount of liquid into his palm. Then the soft friction of his hands rubbing together.
And then he touches you.
His fingers slide into your hair, spreading warmth across your scalp as he works the lather in. The first stroke is gentle. So careful. Like he’s scared to hurt you. Or scared of something else entirely.
Then he finds his rhythm—stronger, more sure, fingertips dragging slow and deep through your hair, massaging the base of your skull with maddening focus.
Your eyes flutter shut.
His thumbs sweep behind your ears, along your nape, and it sends a pulse of heat right between your legs. You shift slightly, breath catching, and the water sloshes softly around you. You know he can hear it. You know he can see the way your spine arches and your shoulders bare themselves as you lean into his touch.
You feel exposed.
And you know he’s trying not to look. You know he's trying to be a gentleman—but he’s still a man, and you’re naked, and the steam in this bathroom is thick with tension. You can practically feel his eyes skimming over the curve of your neck, your slick shoulders, what little the bubbles don’t hide.
He breathes heavier now. Not quite panting, but close. His fingers falter for just a second when your head tips back a little farther, throat stretching bare, water sliding lower on your chest.
“Bradley…” you whisper.
You don’t even know what you’re about to say.
But he cuts in first—voice hoarse, like he’s choking on the words. “So… you and Hangman, huh?”
Your whole body tenses.
You blink, stunned. Your first instinct is to laugh. The second is to scream. The third is to climb out of the tub and straddle him until you make him eat his words—but you do none of those things.
Instead, you turn your head just slightly, enough to murmur, “Are you really asking me about that right now?”
He hesitates.
“I just thought—” His voice breaks off. “I don’t know. I’m just curious... I guess.”
You let out a short laugh—sharp and disbelieving—as you tilt your head just slightly, just enough for your voice to carry over your shoulder.
“Yeah. I’ve been spending a little more time with him.” Your tone is sweet and deliberately casual—but it’s laced with something else. Something darker. Something dangerous.
And then, as if you’re thinking out loud, you add under your breath, “He definitely wouldn’t be sitting behind me right now acting like he doesn’t want to get his hands on a lot more than just my hair.”
Bradley goes still.
You can hear the breath catch in his throat—feel the tension rise like a tide behind you. His hands freeze where they’re tangled in your wet strands, knuckles brushing the bare skin of your shoulder. The air between you is thick, heavy, charged.
He doesn’t speak.
You draw your bottom lip between your teeth, eyes fixed ahead as heat blooms under your skin and something inside you dares him to move.
Come on, Bradshaw.
“Yeah,” he mutters as his fingers begin to move again. “He probably wouldn’t.”
The moment shatters—falling around you like glass, sharp and splintering, embedding in your skin. Your spine stiffens as you close your eyes, forcing a slow breath past the frustration clawing up your throat. You can’t yell at him. Not now. Not while he’s on his knees, helping you. Not just because he refuses to give in to his own damn needs.
Needs you know are there—because five seconds ago, you would’ve sworn he was about to climb into the tub with you.
But no.
Bradley Bradshaw is still locked in his cage of commitment issues and unnamed excuses. Still holding the line no one asked him to.
The silence stretches, thick as steam, humming with everything you both refuse to say.
You feel the shift in his hands as he cups water and begins to rinse the shampoo from your hair, the heat running down your back in slow rivulets. His fingers trail through the strands, patient and careful, untangling and smoothing. Each pass makes your skin buzz.
He doesn’t speak.
And neither do you.
But you can hear his breathing—shallow, uneven, just a little too fast. You know he’s trying not to look. You know because he hasn’t touched you anywhere he doesn’t absolutely have to. When his knuckles brush your shoulder again, it feels almost obscene.
Once your hair is clean, he reaches for the conditioner. You close your eyes as he works it through—slick and warm—massaging your scalp, smoothing it through to your ends. His fingers graze your temple, your ear, the nape of your neck.
It’s methodical. Careful.
But it still feels like worship.
And he still hasn’t said a word.
When he’s done, he gives your hair one final rinse, quiet and efficient, then stands and wipes his hands on a towel. You expect him to bolt—mutter something and flee—but instead, he grabs a fresh towel and holds it out, eyes fixed on the far wall like it’s the only thing keeping him grounded.
“Here,” he says, voice rough. “Let me help.”
You stand—slowly, cautiously—and his hand darts out to steady your elbow, instinctive and warm. He still doesn’t look. Not properly. His gaze stays down, jaw tight, throat bobbing.
He wraps the towel around you, still avoiding your eyes, and lingers only long enough to make sure you won’t slip.
And then he steps back, fists clenched at his sides like he’s holding himself together by a thread.
“You good?” he asks, voice tight.
You nod, arms locking the towel around your chest. “Yeah. Thanks for the... help.”
He nods back, quick and stiff, eyes still looking everywhere but at you. “The first aid stuff is on the kitchen bench. Snacks too—your favourites. If you need anything... uh—”
He backs out of the bathroom like he’s escaping, eyes finally flicking up to yours. “See you at work.”
And then he’s gone. So fast you barely register it.
When you turn to the mirror, you're surprised to find yourself crying—cheeks flushed, eyes rimmed red. You swipe at the tears, blurry and stupid, and grab your phone with trembling fingers.
You pull up your text thread with Jake and type: ‘I don’t know if we should do this anymore.’
-
“You let him what?” Jake’s eyes go wide, blueberry muffin frozen halfway to his mouth. “And he didn’t even-”
You shake your head.
“Not so much as a-”
“Nothing,” you say, staring into your coffee as you stir lazily. “Barely even looked, let alone touched.”
“My God...” Jake mutters around a mouthful of muffin. “The man has the restraint of a priest.” His eyes narrow, flashing toward you. “Are you sure he’s not a-”
“He’s not a priest, Hangman.”
He nods slowly. “Okay, so he’s an alien.”
You just shrug and take a long sip of coffee.
“Well, we can’t stop now,” Jake says, voice firm. “No way. He must be close—like, so close. If we play this right, we’ll have him eating out of your hand in no time.”
“I don’t know,” you mutter. “It feels wrong. Like I’m forcing him into something.”
Jake raises an eyebrow. “Kind of how he’s forcing you to stay ‘just friends’ even though you’re clearly in love with him?”
You frown. “How are you so good at twisting things?”
“Years of practice, little chick,” he grins wickedly, leaning his forearms on the table. “Now, let’s focus on finding you a drop-dead gorgeous dress for the gala.”
You spend the rest of your Tuesday at the mall with Jake—thanks to an RDO from Maverick—shopping for a dress and a matching tie for him for the gala next weekend. It takes a bit longer than it should, thanks to your foot and crutches, but Jake is patient. He even lets you vent about Bradley, spilling some of the more intimate details you’d usually keep to yourself.
When he drops you home, he promises to give you lifts to and from work all week, and even offers to take you to your doctor’s appointment later in the week.
That night, Maverick calls to check in and fills you in on the light duties you’ll be able to do while staying off your foot. You wouldn’t admit it out loud, but you’re grateful—you’d probably go insane being stuck at home.
The rest of the week is relatively uneventful. You don’t spend much time around the squad, stuck doing menial admin tasks instead of flying, and Bradley is completely avoiding you. Not that you blame him.
Natasha drops by your place once or twice, and on the nights she’s not there, Jake is—not just to scheme about Bradley but to help you out. He takes you to your doctor’s appointment where, thankfully, you get to hand back your crutches, then helps you get used to walking wonkily in the moonboot.
Saturday night arrives before you’re ready, and suddenly the floor-length red gown you picked out a few days ago feels like way too much as it clings to your body.
“I don’t know,” you mutter, even though it’s too late—you're in the car. “I feel a bit stupid.”
Jake’s smirk hasn’t wavered since the moment he picked you up. “You don’t look stupid at all. You look incredible. I’m actually debating whether or not to let Rooster have you.”
You roll your eyes. “Like you have a choice, Seresin.”
“Oh, little chick,” he chuckles, eyes flicking toward you then back to the road. “If I decided I wanted you, you wouldn’t have a choice.”
You scoff. “Whatever helps you sleep at night, Bagman.”
The drive isn’t nearly as long as you need it to be, and before you know it Jake is pulling up in front of the valet service. Your heart hammers in your chest—part nerves, part something else you can’t quite name. You smooth your dress again, feeling every inch the bold red against your skin, while Jake adjusts his tie with a cocky grin.
Stepping out of the car, you instantly feel the weight of dozens of eyes—curious, impressed, maybe even a little jealous—tracking your every move as you walk toward the grand entrance. The gala’s ornate doors loom ahead, polished glass and shimmering chandeliers spilling warm light onto the stone steps.
Inside, the room dazzles with opulence—sweeping staircases, crystal glasses clinking, a string quartet humming somewhere off to the side. You catch whispers as you move through the crowd, a low hum of “Is that…?” and “Holy shit…”
Then you spot them—the squad, clustered near the bar. Maverick’s unmistakable frame stands out even in this sea of tuxedos and gowns, arms crossed, leaning casually but alert. His eyes flick to you with a brief nod—respect, approval, or maybe warning, you can’t tell.
And then there’s Bradley.
He’s leaning against the wall, jaw tight, eyes sharp as daggers. The tux fits him like a second skin, dark and sleek, every line tailored to perfection. The way the collar of his shirt presses just right against his neck makes your breath hitch.
His gaze locks on you—cold, charged, and… undeniably magnetic.
You swallow, your pulse roaring loud enough to drown out the music. Whatever else is going on, Bradley Bradshaw looks absolutely fucking delicious in a tuxedo.
Jake practically has to drag you across the ballroom, and you lean into him a little more than you should—using his arm to steady yourself under Bradley’s unwavering stare.
“Damn, Bagman,” Natasha says first, eyes trailing up and down Jake’s suit. “You clean up alright.”
Jake brushes an imaginary speck of dust off his lapel. “Flattery will get you nowhere, Phoenix.”
She just rolls her eyes and tips her champagne flute to her lips.
“You look good, Chick,” Javy says with a smirk, beer bottle halfway to his mouth.
You give him a soft smile. “Thanks.”
“And for the record,” he adds, nodding toward the rest of the squad, “they’re all thinking it too, but they’re too nervous to say anything with the way Bradshaw’s watching you.”
Bradley doesn’t even flinch. He’s still leaning against the wall, just a step away from the others but close enough to hear every word. His arms are crossed over his chest, biceps threatening to split the seams of his suit jacket, and his jaw is set tight. His eyes are glued to you—not your face, but your body—raking over every curve of the silky red fabric like no one else is in the room.
“You know, Bradshaw,” Jake says, turning toward him, “you probably shouldn’t be lookin’ at another man’s date quite like that.”
You roll your eyes. “Jake, don’t.”
He glances down at you. “What? It’s true. He's being rude.”
Before either of you can say anything else, Bradley is gone—disappearing into the crowd without a word, leaving the rest of the squad exchanging wide eyes and raised brows.
Yeah. This isn’t awkward at all.
You’re sitting on a stool at the edge of the room—a chair Jake found for you when you started complaining about your foot—watching people dance and mingle as you realise... you’re not quite sure what you’re doing anymore.
This whole thing started because Bradley almost kissed you. Jake offered to help, to make him jealous, and you agreed to play along. But you’ve barely followed through, not with your injured foot getting in the way of every plan you had to tease him at work.
So instead... all you’ve managed to do is nearly break your ankle, piss off your best friend, confuse your entire squad, and go on what is very clearly a date with Jake. Like, an actual date. Because tonight he’s been nothing but kind and attentive, making sure you’re okay and comfortable—even though Bradley is nowhere to be seen.
How does any of this make sense?
“Thirsty?” Jake asks, holding out another flute of champagne.
You take it with a smile and tip half of it into your mouth.
“Have you seen Bradley?” you ask.
He shakes his head. “Not in the last ten minutes, but Javy said he spotted him at the bar with Reuben and Bob. I think he’s avoiding us.”
“I don’t blame him,” you mutter.
“I just don’t get it,” Jake sighs, leaning a shoulder against the wall. “He’s obviously irritated, and he obviously wants you. So how are we supposed to—” He cuts himself off, eyes going wide. “Oh my God. That’s it.”
You frown. “What’s it?”
His gaze snaps to you. “Don’t worry. This one’s on me. I’ll handle it.”
“Jake—” you start, but he’s already gone.
You slide off the stool and start weaving through the crowd. Your foot is aching, but not nearly as badly as your head—and neither is enough to stop you from finding Jake. The look in his eye had been downright devious. You have no idea what he’s planning.
After a lap of the ballroom, you're drawn toward the back terrace. Fairy lights glitter in the trees, gauzy drapes billow across the tall windows, and pots of manicured flowers line the stone railing. It’s all so beautiful, so dreamy, you almost forget why you came out here.
Almost.
Until—
“Alright, Rooster,” Jake’s voice cuts through the cold night air. “What’s your problem?”
You quicken your pace along the side of the terrace, catching sight of Jake, casually leaning against a pillar.
“Don’t start, Hangman,” Bradley replies.
You can’t see him yet, but you can guess he’s slouched in the dark, probably with a drink in hand and a sour look on his face.
“Too late,” Jake says. “You’ve been in a foul mood all week. Shooting daggers across the room all night. You got something to say, or are you just going to keep sulking like a coward?”
Bradley exhales hard, frustrated. “Can we not do this here?”
“Too late.”
“I’m not avoiding you,” Bradley snaps. “But if you were smart, you’d walk away right now.”
Jake chuckles—low and dry. “I’m not going anywhere, I’m-”
“Jake,” you say, stepping beside him, wrapping your hand around his wrist. “Just leave it.”
Bradley is exactly as you pictured him—leaning against the wall with a scowl—but his eyes don’t look angry.
No. They look hurt.
“I know this isn’t real,” he says, voice low but steady.
Jake tilts his head. “Excuse me?”
“This—whatever this thing is between you two. It’s not real. I know she’s not that stupid. I just don’t know why the two of you insist on playing games.”
Jake’s lips curl into a devilish smirk. “It’s not a game, Bradshaw. And it sure as hell felt real the other night when she called me over.”
Bradley blinks. His expression faltering as he pushes off the wall.
Jake steps forward, voice quieter now—cutting and smug. “She called me right after that bath, you know. Must’ve still been feeling the heat. You’re a hell of a warm-up act.”
Bradley goes still, face empty. His lips part as he stares at Jake, unblinking. But then something sharp flickers in his eyes—something dark and visceral—and his jaw tightens so hard you swear it might crack.
“You’re lying,” he says, voice flat but lethal.
Jake rolls his eyes, smirk unmoving. “Believe what you want. I’m just saying—maybe next time don’t leave the door half open unless you want someone else walking through it.”
Bradley tenses like he’s about to pounce—face flushed, jaw tight, eyes wild—but something holds him back. You step in quickly, before that something disappears.
“Hangman, seriously,” you say, palm against his chest. “You’re being an idiot.”
“I’m not the idiot here,” Jake mutters. “Bradshaw’s the idiot for fumbling a girl like-”
“Oh my God,” you snap, throwing your hands up. “Both of you, shut up.” You turn to Jake. “You need to stop before you cause a real problem. I appreciate what you’re trying to do, but you’re going to blow the whole squad to pieces if you keep going.”
Bradley scoffs. “Exactly-”
“And you,” you whirl on him, eyes flashing, “you want to be mad? Then be mad. But don’t pretend I’m the only one who’s been playing games. For years you’ve begged me not to love you while doing nothing but showing me that you’re in love with me, too. And I waited. I gave you everything. For what? So you could push me away every damn time?”
Your voice cracks—just a little.
“And now that it looks like I might actually move on, you get all fucking huffy? You don’t get to do that. You don’t have the right. And you know what? If I wasn’t already so broken because of you, I might actually be into Jake. Because he’s nice. He’s considerate. Sure, he’s a cocky asshole—but he goes after what he wants. And it felt really fucking good to be wanted. Even if it was just a game.”
You turn on your good foot and try to storm away. Your foot screams in protest, pain slicing with every step, but you don’t stop. Your eyes burn with unshed tears, barely held back—and you’re not sure how long they’ll stay put.
You make it through the ballroom and out the front door, sliding into one of the taxis waiting at the curb. You pull out your phone and type a quick text to Natasha: ‘Tell Mav I had to leave. My foot.’
Then you cry. Quietly. Not messy or loud—just a few stray tears slipping down your cheeks. Frustration. Embarrassment. And a little heartbreak.
Once the taxi pulls up at the curb outside your building, you pay, thank the driver, and slide out. Then you limp into the building, across the lobby, and press the button for the elevator. You’ve since mended your relationship with the lift—because stairs are a non-starter these days.
By the time you reach your bedroom, your foot is absolutely throbbing. You quickly slip out of your dress, not even bothering to change the lacy matching underwear you—for some reason—decided to wear tonight, before pulling an old, oversized shirt over your head. Then you hobble into the kitchen and take a double dose of painkillers.
The thought of having to go to work in less than two days makes your stomach twist. You’ve just royally embarrassed yourself—not just in front of your best friend, but your whole squad. And they’re not idiots. They’ll know exactly why you left. Now you get to walk back into work on Monday and deal with all the pitying looks.
At least desk duty means you won’t have to see them as much.
You drag yourself from the kitchen to the couch, collapsing into the cushions with a groan as you reach for the remote. After a few minutes of mindless scrolling through streaming apps, you settle on Pride & Prejudice—the Keira Knightley version, obviously.
You lie back with your foot propped up on a stack of pillows, head turned toward the screen. But you barely make it to the part where Elizabeth visits a sick Jane at Netherfield when there’s a knock at your door.
You’re not even sure you heard it at first. You sit up slightly, ears straining, eyes fixed on the front door. Another knock comes—louder this time, sharp and almost startling.
You sigh, swinging your foot off the pillows, wincing as you push yourself upright and limp toward the door.
You open it—and there he is.
Bradley.
His curls are a mess, like he’s been dragging his hands through them the whole way over. His tie is gone, his shirt is wrinkled, and there’s a wild, desperate look in his eyes—like if he blinks, you might disappear.
“I know I should’ve called,” he says, voice hoarse. “I just... I didn’t think you’d answer.”
You stare at him, heart hammering. He shifts, like he might bolt, and exhales hard—as if the words are fighting to escape faster than he can form them.
“I’ve spent so long convincing myself I couldn’t have this. That I couldn’t have you. That it wouldn’t work, or it’d blow up, or I’d ruin you like I ruin everything that matters to me.” His jaw flexes. “But tonight, seeing you like that—watching you walk away like you were already gone—I couldn’t breathe.”
Your throat tightens.
“I’m scared,” he admits. “I’ve been scared this whole time. Of loving you, of losing you. I pushed you away because I thought it would hurt less than this. But I was wrong.”
He takes a shaky breath and steps closer.
“I love you. I’ve been in love with you for years. And if there’s even the smallest chance I haven’t screwed this up completely… I’m here. I’m yours. And I’m not going anywhere this time.”
A beat of silence stretches between you—thick and electric. You’re toe to toe, just staring at each other, almost close enough to touch, tension crackling in the charged space between your bodies.
“Well,” you say, arms crossing over your wildly beating heart. “That was dramatic.”
He lets out a breathy laugh, completely wrecked. “Really? I just poured my heart out and that’s all you’ve got?”
You shrug. “It was either that or I was going to tell you that you beat Mr. Darcy to the big speech. Although… as someone who’s seen Darcy’s speech more times than I should admit—I’m not sure you beat him in terms of drama. You needed to stutter more.”
His brow furrows. “You’re watching Pride & Prejudice?”
You nod, a small smile tugging at your lips. “Want to join? I know you love it.”
His lips part, his chest still rising and falling a little too fast. Then his eyes drop to your chest—recognition flashing across his face. “Is that my shirt?”
You glance down, heat flooding your cheeks. “Um, yeah. I think I stole it.”
“Clearly,” he says, eyes sparkling.
You roll your eyes. “Come in. Before my nosy neighbours call in a noise complaint.”
You turn on your (good) heel and limp back toward the lounge, willing your face to cool and your heart to stop hammering. God, it’s taking everything in you not to jump his bones right now—especially with him looking like that in his deliciously dishevelled tux.
“Just so we’re clear,” you say over your shoulder, voice laced with sincerity, “I didn’t call Jake after the bath. He didn’t come over. I’ve never even kissed him.”
You don’t hear him move—just feel the sudden grip of his fingers wrapping around your wrist, warm and unshakable. He spins you around in one smooth motion, and you barely register the soft, wicked smirk curling on his lips before he pulls you into him, your body crashing against his like a wave.
His mouth is on yours in a second—hungry, demanding, desperate. There’s no hesitation. No sweetness. Just years of pent-up tension snapping loose as he devours your lips like he’s been starving for them. He lets go of your wrist, both hands coming up to cup your face, holding you like he’s terrified you’ll vanish if he doesn’t.
You gasp into him, fingers knotting in his shirt, and he groans like the sound is driving him insane. Then he moves—walking you backward until your lower back hits the kitchen counter, his hips pressing hard against yours. You feel the sharp edge of his need, the strength in his grip, the undeniable heat radiating between your bodies.
And then—his hands slide down to the crease of your thighs, and you know what’s coming a heartbeat before it happens.
“Bradley—” you breathe, but it’s too late.
He lifts you clean off the ground and your legs wrap around his waist on instinct, your injured foot forgotten in the blur of heat and want and the feel of his body flush against yours. His hands grip your thighs, holding your weight like it’s nothing, before he sets you down on the bench. Then he grips your waist and deepens the kiss—hotter, deeper, more possessive than ever.
You’re gasping when he finally pulls back, foreheads pressed together, his lips brushing yours as he murmurs, voice wrecked and reverent, “I know.” He kisses you again. “I know nothing happened with him.”
You plant a hand on his chest, pushing him back even though every nerve in your body is begging to let him devour you. “Then why did you almost lose it?”
His lips—puffy and thoroughly ravaged—curve into a sheepish smile. He drops his gaze to where his hands are gripping your waist like he’s terrified you’ll vanish. “Just the—the thought…” he mutters, voice rough and trembling with something darker. “The thought of you with anyone else… fuck, it drives me out of my goddamn mind.”
You fight a smirk as your hand trails up his chest, slow and deliberate, until your fingers slip beneath his jaw and tilt his face back up. “Much better,” you murmur. “With the stuttering, I mean. Mr. Darcy would be proud.”
He groans, more amused than annoyed, then crashes his mouth back onto yours. “You’re gonna be the death of me, baby bird.”
A shiver rips through you as he grinds into you, the hard line of him thick and straining beneath his dress pants. It drags across the damp lace between your legs, lighting a fire low in your belly.
His breath catches like a spark in dry grass when he looks down and realizes—at the same moment you remember—you’re not wearing pants. Just his shirt… and a very pretty, very intentional matching set beneath.
“Holy shit,” he breathes, his fingers skimming the lace at your hips like he’s trying not to combust. His gaze snaps back to yours, pupils blown, voice suddenly hoarse. “Any restrictions on sexual activity with your injury?” he asks—clinical, but barely hanging on.
You smile, toying with the soft hair at the back of his neck. “Pretty sure the doctor said I’m cleared. But I’m on light duties. So…” You lean in, lips brushing his ear as you whisper, “Strictly pillow princess stuff.”
He groans low in his throat, burying his face in your neck like he needs to ground himself. “Christ. After making you wait this long, you’re owed a lifetime of pillow princess treatment.”
“You’re not wrong,” you hum.
With a soft laugh, he lifts you effortlessly and carries you to the bedroom—your giggles trailing behind like glitter. He sets you on the bed and drops to his knees, carefully undoing the straps and fixings of the boot like he’s unwrapping a priceless gift. It’s absurdly tender. The kind of intimacy that makes your chest ache. His fingers are gentle, reverent, and the only sound is your shared breathing and the faint scratch of shifting fabric.
Then his hands glide up your thighs—slow and searing—raising goosebumps in their wake. He hooks his fingers beneath the hem of his shirt and draws it over your head, revealing skin and lace and everything he’s been aching for.
His breath hitches. “Fuck,” he whispers, voice raw with awe. “I’m so in love with you.”
You bite back the grin that threatens to split your face. “Then hurry up and show me,” you urge, cupping his face in your hands.
He doesn’t hesitate.
His mouth crashes into yours and he lays you back, moving you with practiced ease to the centre of the bed. He pauses for one breathless second—just enough to drink you in, to let his eyes drag over every inch of you. Then he’s on you. Everywhere. Lips, tongue, teeth, hands. Worshipping. Possessing. Making up for every second he waited, every moment he hesitated.
And let’s just say… he starts making it up to you very well.
summary: the squad are all pretty sure that bob has a thing for you, but you're not convinced, so you hatch a plan to tease him within an inch of his life until he snaps
notes: i fear i may never again experience as much joy as i did while writing this... guys, it was so much fun! i know it's long, but it's full of tension and pining and heat, please give it a read! i actually love this so much, and i hope you do too, so please let me know what you think!!! i literally fell in love with bob while writing this, the lewis pullman spiral is spiralling
warnings: swearing, big dick energy, movie references (the princess bride, the ugly truth, star wars), bob's big dick, tension, lots of horniness (18+ ONLY MDNI), italics, huge dick energy, jealousy, bob is secretly cut, emotional warfare but it's fun, and did i mention bob's massive dick? (let me know if i missed anything)
word count: 21143
your callsign is sunny
It wasn’t long after the uranium mission that Dagger Squad was asked to stay on North Island and train as an elite, mission-focused unit under Maverick’s command. Not that anyone had to be asked—most of the squad was more than happy to be reassigned and stick together.
Once everything was finalised and the official special operations squadron was born, the first thing most of you did was move out of the barracks. You needed more space—both physically, and from each other—and, frankly, something that didn’t reek of stale socks and floor polish.
You and Natasha thought you’d hit the jackpot when you found a two-bedroom apartment right by the beach, with a spacious open-plan living area and not one, but two balconies. It was perfect. You could hardly believe it. Full of natural light, and just far enough from the boys you already spent too much time with—training, flying, doing push-ups every time someone pissed off Maverick.
It was meant to be.
Until the apartment across the hall went up for lease.
And that’s how you failed to escape the boys entirely. Reuben and Mickey spotted the sign while helping you move in, and before you knew it, they were neighbours—closer than ever and almost impossible to get off your couch.
A knock at the door draws your attention from the TV, and Natasha pauses mid-step on her way from the kitchen—bowl of popcorn in hand.
“Ten bucks says it’s Fanboy,” she says, a smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth.
You know that Mickey is stuck on overtime tonight—punishment from Maverick for mouthing off during a fly drill this morning. Natasha, however, hadn’t been in the air with you and clearly wasn’t listening on comms.
Your eyes flick to the door and back to her. “Deal.”
She drops the bowl on the coffee table and doubles back, swinging the door open.
“Ugh,” she sighs. “It’s you.”
Reuben blinks, his smile faltering as his brow creases. “Nice to see you too, Phoenix.”
She heads back to the couch, Reuben trailing behind.
“Why’d you knock?” she asks. “It’s always open.”
“Wasn’t the other day.”
You sit up straighter, rolling your eyes. “That’s because it was two a.m. and I was home alone—sleeping.”
Natasha drops onto the couch, a little closer to you than before to make room for Reuben. “Do we seriously not have boundaries anymore?” she asks him. “What could you possibly need at two in the morning?”
He plucks the popcorn bowl off the table and settles it in his lap. “Fanboy really wanted to watch The Princess Bride, but Netflix logged us out and we couldn’t remember the password.”
You lean across Natasha for a handful of popcorn. “Then get your own Netflix account, you fucking freeloaders.”
Reuben gives you a wounded look. “Okay, rude.”
You roll your eyes again and flop back against the couch, shoving a handful of popcorn into your mouth.
“What’s got your panties in a twist?” he asks, peering at you from Natasha’s other side.
Natasha snorts but keeps her eyes on the TV.
“Nothing,” you mutter. “My panties are perfectly untwisted.”
Reuben chuckles and shifts his gaze to the screen. “Then maybe someone should twist them up—get some of that tension out.”
You flip him off without even glancing his way, your scowl still locked on the TV. He just laughs again, and Natasha shoots you a sidelong, knowing smirk.
Twenty minutes later—and after Reuben has all but annihilated the popcorn—the front door swings open and Mickey breezes in, making a beeline for the fridge.
“Have you guys eaten?” he calls out. “Because I’m starving. I skipped lunch and Mav still kept me back.” He grabs a beer and spins to face the living room. “Isn’t that, like, illegal? Something about duty of care? I’m about to pass out, and it wasn’t even my fault I got held back. Hangman was the one mouthing off—I just told him where to stick it. But no, now Mav’s all professional, like he’s a real CO with a stick up his ass. Honestly? I liked him better before.”
He yanks open a drawer, fishes out the bottle opener, and cracks the beer. “Anyway,” he says, glancing up at the three of you, “pizza?”
A long beat of silence stretches through the apartment as you all stare at him.
“Jesus Christ, Mick,” Reuben mutters. “Take a fucking breath.”
Mickey just shrugs, heading into the living room. “What?”
He drops onto the floor—figuring the couch is already squishy enough—and sets his beer on the coffee table before reaching for the remote.
“No one’s watching this, right?” he asks—not that it matters.
He doesn’t wait for a response—just clicks a few buttons and starts scrolling through Netflix. Frustration simmers under your skin, because yes, you were watching that, but you bite your tongue. You know you’re in a bad mood, and it’s not worth taking it out on your friends. No matter how irritating they can be.
He finally lands on The Princess Bride and makes a satisfied little hum as he hits play. Then he tosses the remote back onto the table, picks up his beer, and leans back against the couch—his elbow jabbing your knee in the process. Your glass, balanced loosely on your leg, sloshes and spills cold liquid onto your lap.
“Whoops,” Mickey says, glancing back at you. “My bad.”
“Uh oh,” Natasha mutters, scooting slightly away from you.
“Seriously, Mickey?” you snap, eyes narrowing. “Could you not act like a clumsy lapdog for five fucking seconds?”
His eyes go wide at your tone.
“How the hell did you even get into the navy?” you bite, rising from the couch. “You’ve got the spatial awareness of a drunk oaf and the grace of a newborn deer on ice.”
You storm into the kitchen, slam your half-empty glass on the counter, and tear off a wad of paper towels.
“Very descriptive insults,” Reuben mutters.
Natasha lets out a dry laugh. “Yeah, that’s how you know she’s in a mood.”
You shoot him a glare over the kitchen island, dabbing paper towel at the top of your thigh.
“Bob didn’t talk to her today,” Natasha says. “Like, at all.”
“Ohhh,” Reuben and Mickey sigh in unison, the sound laced with realisation.
You toss the damp towel into the sink before turning toward the fridge and yanking it open, bottles rattling.
“To be fair,” Reuben offers, “you two were on different drills today. He probably just didn’t get the chance.”
You whirl around, beer in hand, glare sharp. “He asked Phoenix if she wanted to go for a run tomorrow morning—while I was standing right there.”
You shut the fridge with more force than necessary, then yank open the cutlery drawer and grab the bottle opener.
“Oh yeah,” Mickey adds. “He asked me too. Wants to do the Coronado Island Loop.”
You pop the cap off your beer and let it clatter to the floor. “Great. That’s great. Thanks, Mick. Love knowing I was the only one not invited.”
Natasha sighs, her eyes following you as you trudge back toward the lounge. “I told you—he probably just didn’t think you were interested. When have you ever wanted to go running?”
Reuben nods. “Yeah, you hate when Mav makes us run laps. You’re always the first to complain.”
You flop down into your spot and take a long pull from your beer, eyes on the screen. “Yeah, well,” you mutter, “he could’ve asked.”
“You could’ve spoken up,” Natasha points out.
You roll your eyes. “Yeah, and invite myself to something I deliberately wasn’t invited to? No thanks.”
Mickey shakes his head. “Bob wouldn’t leave you out on purpose. He’s too nice.”
“Exactly,” Reuben says. “It’s Bob. He probably just got awkward about it.”
You scowl and gesture to Natasha. “He asked Phoenix.”
“Yeah, but that’s Phoenix,” Mickey says. “They’re crammed together in the cockpit almost all day, every day. She doesn’t make him nervous.”
You scoff and sink further into the couch. “I do not make him nervous.”
Natasha sighs again. “Yes. You do. I’ve told you before.”
“And I don’t believe you,” you say, despite the warmth creeping into your cheeks. “You’re always saying Bob has a thing for me, but I don’t see it. Wouldn’t he actually talk to me if he liked me?”
“It’s Bob,” Reuben repeats. “He’s not like the rest of us.”
“Exactly,” Natasha says. “He’s polite and respectful. Way better than the rest.”
Mickey turns from the TV, shooting her a wounded look. “Ouch.”
Reuben shrugs. “She’s right. That’s why we can’t tease him about it. We can’t even ask him if he likes you—though we’re pretty sure.”
You roll your eyes. “How can you be sure when he’s never admitted it?”
“Oh, it’s so obvious,” Mickey says with a giggle. “He gets all googly-eyed whenever you’re around.”
You shoot him a sceptical look, brows furrowed. “I don’t see it.”
“Well, of course he’s not going to let you catch him staring,” Reuben says, a smirk tugging at his lips. “He’s a gentleman.”
“Yeah, and he’s not stupid,” Natasha adds.
“But whenever you’re not paying attention,” Mickey continues, “his eyes are glued to you, like a magnet.”
You roll your eyes, determined to seem unconvinced, even though you can feel the warmth rising in your cheeks.
“Oh, and every time you’re brought up in conversation,” Reuben says, “he’s locked in.”
“Unless we’re talking about you and another guy,” Natasha adds with a knowing look “Then he gets all huffy and weird.”
You snort a laugh before taking another sip of your beer.
“Why don’t you just ask him out?” Mickey suggests. “Put us all out of our misery. Bob will stop being so awkward, and you’ll stop being so—” He stops when you shoot him a glare.
“So what, Mick?”
He turns his gaze back to the TV, muttering, “Moody.”
You scoff. “Yeah, okay. So, I’m just supposed to believe you guys when I haven’t actually seen any of these so-called signs myself?”
Reuben and Mickey nod, but Natasha just watches.
“I’m not doing that,” you say flatly. “I’m not asking him out just to be humiliated.”
The conversation dies as you turn your attention back to the movie, taking another generous sip of beer. Mickey pulls out his phone to order pizza, and Reuben heads to the fridge for another round of beers.
You keep your eyes locked on the TV, even though you’re barely watching. Instead, your mind is replaying the day, wondering if you missed the part where it was ‘so obvious’ that Bob has a crush on you.
It’s hard not to agree with Reuben when he says, ‘It’s Bob,’ because it just is. He’s nice, considerate, raised to respect women and the navy. He’s the perfect officer and the perfect gentleman, and that’s half the reason you’re so damn attracted to him. A gorgeous guy with manners and respect to spare? Yes, please.
But, God, sometimes you wish he was just a little more basic. A little more in touch with his primal side, instead of always using the higher-functioning part of his brain that most guys don’t even know exists. You’ve never even heard Bob say a woman is attractive, let alone spew some of the caveman shit that comes out of Jake’s mouth.
And yeah, sure, you could ask him out. He might even say yes, just to be polite. But you don’t want to put that kind of pressure on him or the squad. Him dating you out of pity would be worse than flat-out rejection.
An hour later, full of pizza and halfway through your fourth beer, you’re curled up with your head on Natasha's shoulder while The Ugly Truth plays on the TV—Mickey’s latest pick.
“Man, what’s with you and romantic comedies?” Reuben asks, nose wrinkling as he watches Katherine Heigl flail on-screen.
Mickey shrugs. “Don’t judge. Maybe I’m feeling a little lonely lately.”
“Aww, Mick,” you coo, voice dripping mock-sympathy. “Better get used to it. You’re going to be alone forever.”
His head snaps toward you, a scowl forming. “Okay, Miss-I-Refuse-To-Ask-Out-A-Guy-Who’s-Clearly-Into-Me-Because-I’m-Terrified-of-Rejection.”
A smirk tugs at your mouth. “That was way too long to sting.”
“Whatever.” He rolls his eyes. “You’re mean when you’re not getting laid.”
“Hey!” you gasp. “How do you know I’m not?”
There’s a beat—a static moment where you realise you’ve just fucked up—before they all burst out laughing. And even you can’t help joining in, despite the embarrassed flush crawling across your chest.
Then suddenly, Natasha jerks upright, knocking your head off her shoulder. Her laughter halts as she stares wide-eyed at the screen, lips parted in a gasp. “Holy shit. I have an idea.”
“An idea?” Reuben echoes, brows lifting.
“Yes!” She turns to you, eyes sparkling with mischief. “I know how we’re going to get Bob to admit it.”
Mickey swivels on the floor to face her. “Admit what?”
Reuben rolls his eyes. “That he likes Sunny. Duh.”
“Oh.” Mickey glances your way, then back at Natasha. “How?”
“He’s only human, right?” she says, and both boys nod. “It’s obvious he likes her—he’s just too damn respectful. He probably thinks she’s out of her league. Or he’s worried about dating someone in the squad. But deep down? He’s still a guy. He has the same thoughts, the same... tendencies. He’s just better at hiding them.”
Mickey snorts. “Oh yeah. If the way he looks at Sunny in a bikini is anything to go by, he’s definitely got those thoughts.”
You shoot him a glare. “Don’t be gross.”
“No, he’s right,” Natasha says quickly. “I hate it, but he’s right. Every time we’re at the beach and you’re half-naked, he looks like he’s barely holding it together.”
You try to keep your face neutral, but your heart is thudding too fast against your ribs.
“Wait,” Reuben says, leaning forward. “I think you’re onto something. Like when she squeezes into the booth at the bar and hovers over his lap for a second—he looks like he’s about to combust.”
“Exactly!” Natasha exclaims. “That’s it. That’s what we need to do—we need to make him snap.”
You narrow your eyes, ignoring the spark of adrenaline beginning to curl in your gut. “Okay... but how?”
Natasha turns toward you, her eyes wide and full of focus. The same look she wears just before take-off. “You need to... tease him. Really make him suffer.”
Mickey’s grin turns wicked. “Oh, this could work.”
Your brow lifts. “Tease him how?”
“Tempt him,” Reuben says, matching Mickey’s grin. “Push every button. Get close. Make him want you so badly he can’t hide it anymore.”
You snort. “So, seduce him?”
“Worse,” Natasha says. “You’re going to give this man the worst case of blue balls in naval history.”
Both Mickey and Reuben flinch.
“He’s going to end up in the hospital with a permanent boner,” Natasha adds, mischief blazing in her eyes. “Crying. On. His. Knees.”
“Bob’s a good man,” Reuben says solemnly. “He’s respectful. Polite. Sensible. And we’re gonna have to break him.”
“We?” you repeat, pulse racing.
“Exactly,” Natasha nods. “If this were any other guy, you could get it done in a day. But Bob? Bob’s built different. If we want to unleash his inner caveman? It’s going to take a team.”
Your stomach flips, anticipation stirring beneath your skin.
“It won’t be easy,” Mickey says, his smirk returning. “But it will be fun.”
“Sunny,” Reuben says, locking eyes with you. “Are you in or are you out?”
That spark of adrenaline snaps through you like a live wire.
You nod. “Okay. I’m in.”
-
The plan is simple. Straightforward. One objective. Everyone's clear on it. It’s been mapped out and set into motion—now all you have to do is play your part. Which is probably why your heart is hammering against your sternum like a damn war drum.
“I don’t know, Nat,” you mutter as the two of you walk across the crunchy morning grass. “This feels wrong.”
“What does?” she asks. “The thong or the plan?”
You roll your eyes. “Both.”
“Well, suck it up. There’s no backing down now.”
You squeeze your eyes shut and take a deep breath. Then you release it and reel yourself in. She’s right. You can’t be a chicken forever—and it’s not like you’re doing anything overtly humiliating. Besides, you’ve got a team at your back, and they’re not going to let you crash and burn.
Last night, Natasha had texted Bob to let him know she was inviting you on the morning run. He’d replied with a simple thumbs up—something you found a little rude, but the boys insisted he only sends that when he doesn’t know what else to say. Which, apparently, is a good sign.
This morning, you’d dug deep into your underwear drawer for a lacy black thong you bought a few years ago—back when you were more optimistic about your sex life. You pulled it on, despite the discomfort, and borrowed a pair of light blue workout tights from Natasha. Yep, that’s a black thong under pale blue, skin-tight leggings.
“Without being creepy,” Mickey says from a few paces behind, “the plan is looking really good from back here.”
You shoot him a scowl over your shoulder as Reuben smacks his arm, even though he’s wearing the same mischievous grin.
The four of you wait at a picnic table in the park where you’d agreed to meet, and it doesn’t take long before you spot Bob walking across the grass—dark grey sweats and an oversized U.S. Navy hoodie, his hands tucked firmly into the front pocket. Quite possibly the most innocent, basic outfit he could’ve worn—a ridiculous contrast to yours—and yet you still find yourself thinking wildly inappropriate thoughts.
About what’s under those sweats. About how good they’d look on your bedroom floor.
Even the soft smile on his lips as he approaches makes you want to scream. How is one man such pure, soft boyfriend material... yet still manages to awaken your most primal instincts? It doesn’t make any sense.
“Hey,” he says, eyes skimming over each of you before settling on Natasha. “We ready?”
Natasha nods, and the five of you start walking off the grass toward the footpath before breaking into a jog. She and Bob take the lead while you hang back, with Reuben and Mickey flanking you like a private escort. Exactly as planned. You might be trying to fluster Bob, but you don’t need half of Coronado getting a look at your underwear—hence the two-man protection detail.
Two kilometres later, you all stop for a quick stretch. Bob wanders off toward a water fountain, and you seize the opportunity to move up beside Natasha, placing yourself at the front of the group. Again—exactly according to plan.
When Bob returns and joins in on Reuben and Mickey’s conversation, you and Natasha shuffle a little closer. She props one foot up on the bench, leaning into the stretch as she gives a subtle nod—the signal to begin.
You let out a shaky breath, then slip on your best cool-and-confident facade.
“I’m never doing this again,” you say to Nat—loud enough for the boys to hear.
“I’m just gonna get a quick drink,” Reuben announces, conveniently cutting off their conversation. Right on cue.
Mickey busies himself with stretching, leaving Bob to ‘accidentally’ overhear what comes next.
“What?” Natasha asks. “Running? I told you you’d hate it.”
“No,” you reply, pretending to lower your voice—even though you don’t. “Wearing a fucking thong.”
She snorts, the laugh surprisingly genuine. Either she’s a fantastic actress, or she’s thoroughly enjoying herself.
“Why are you wearing a thong?”
You roll your eyes, falling deeper into the role. “Because I forgot to do my laundry and it was all I had left.”
She snickers. “Well, have fun on the next eight kilometres.”
“Oh yeah,” you sigh, “can’t wait.”
You glance casually over your shoulder—and bingo. Bob’s face is bright red. His lips are slightly parted. And he’s blatantly staring at your ass like it’s the final clue to finding the national treasure—and Nicholas Cage is depending on him.
Beside him, Mickey looks like he’s about to lose it.
“Ready to keep going?” Reuben asks, walking back up—perfect timing.
Everyone nods, and Bob clears his throat, licking his lips quickly. “Yep. Let’s go.”
You and Natasha take off first, keeping yourselves in the lead.
Every few minutes, you glance back—and without fail, Bob is staring. Each time, it sends your heart skittering, your cheeks heating, and your thoughts wandering into very unholy territory.
Maybe your friends have been right all along. Maybe he does like you. Maybe this will actually work.
By the seventh kilometre—with only three more to go—Bob looks like he’s hanging by a thread. He ditched his hoodie about two k’s ago, tying it around his waist. His hair his clinging to his forehead, damp with sweat, and his glasses are fogging up slightly near the bridge of his nose.
You glance over your shoulder and give him a small smile. His lips pop open and he immediately averts his eyes, focusing instead on the pavement beneath his feet. You turn back, grinning to yourself, and that’s when he picks up his pace and jogs past both you and Natasha.
Natasha nearly bursts out laughing, but she smacks a hand to her face, pretending to wipe the sweat from her upper lip. She shoots you a sideways look and a smirk—and the two of you push forward to flank Bob, jogging on either side of him.
“Hey,” Natasha says, more than a little breathless. “You trying to make this a competition?”
Bob shakes his head, eyes locked on the path ahead. “Nope. Just staying focused.”
“What’s so distracting back there?” she asks, fighting a smirk.
“Is Fanboy being a pest?” you add, giving yourself a layer of plausible deniability—just in case he starts to suspect anything.
Bob’s gaze flicks to you, then drops briefly to your chest before snapping forward again. “Yeah,” he says, voice uneven. “He’s breathing like Darth Vader.”
“Hey!” Mickey calls from behind. “I’m not deaf!”
The five of you share a short, breathless laugh before settling into a comfortable silence. You’re thoroughly exhausted now and decide to give Bob a break for the last few kilometres—merciful, maybe, but also strategic.
Soon enough, the group slows to a walk as the café marking the end of your run comes into view.
“Thank God,” Mickey gasps. “I’m starving.”
“You’re always hungry,” you mutter, shooting him a flat look.
The café is busier than expected, and you’re about to start crafting a subtle excuse to avoid going in when Reuben steps up behind you and unzips his jacket.
“Cover your ass up, Sunny,” he says, smirking. “For fuck’s sake.”
You try—and fail—to suppress your grin as he hands you the jacket. You roll your eyes and tie it around your waist, grateful for the cover.
Once you’re feeling a little more decent, the group heads inside to order breakfast and find a table out back on the patio. The food and coffee arrive quickly, and soon everyone is digging in, quiet with post-run hunger. Though judging by how often Bob’s eyes keep darting toward you, his appetite might not be entirely food-related.
“So,” Mickey says through a mouthful of bacon, “are we finishing the Star Wars marathon this weekend, or what?”
Bob perks up instantly, eyes going bright, the usual stormy blue softening into something more sky-coloured. “Yes. Tomorrow night?”
Reuben frowns. “But that’s Sunday.”
“Mav gave us Monday off,” Natasha chimes in. “Weekend rotation, remember?”
“Oh, right.” Reuben nods. “Yeah, I’m in.”
“How many are left?” Natasha asks.
“Six,” Mickey replies. “Not including spin-offs.”
“We’re not getting through six in one night,” you point out. “We’ll be lucky to finish the prequels.”
“Unless…” he says, his eyes gleaming with mischief as they flick between everyone at the table, “we had a sleepover.”
You snort into your coffee before taking a sip, expecting someone—probably Natasha or Reuben—to shut the idea down. But instead, their faces light up with the same devious smirk that Mickey is wearing.
“We could,” Natasha says casually. “I think it’d be fun.”
Bob blinks at her. “You do?”
She nods. “Yeah. Why not? We could play some drinking games and not worry about getting home.”
“Drinking games!” Reuben echoes with excitement. “You’re a genius, Phoenix.”
With the way their eyes keep bouncing between you and Bob, it’s clear now: they’re scheming again. Plotting the next phase of Operation Bob's Blue Balls—and your pulse is already quickening with anticipation.
“We could do it at my place,” Bob offers, earnest as ever. “I’ve got a spare room. Plenty of space.”
Reuben grins. “What a great idea, Bob.”
Bob glances around at his grinning friends, the smile on his face tinged with uncertainty. He has no clue what he’s just agreed to.
-
“Did you pack sexy PJs?” Natasha asks, her fingers drumming against the steering wheel.
You roll your eyes. “I don’t own any sexy PJs.”
She shoots you a sly smirk before her gaze flicks back to the road, her silence thick with something unspoken—as if she already has a plan to remedy your lack of Victoria’s Secret-worthy sleepwear.
Bob’s apartment isn’t far from yours. In fact, none of you live all that far from each other, but tonight, the distance doesn’t seem to matter. No—the real reason for tonight’s sleepover is something far more sinister.
You know you’re the last to arrive, not just from the cars parked along the street, but from the group chat where Mickey has been demanding you hurry up so he can order dinner. Your heart beats in your throat as you ride the elevator up, and the ding when it reaches Bob’s level startles you more than it should.
Natasha’s smirk stays plastered on her face until she knocks on the door, and the second it swings open, with Bob standing there, she’s all business.
“Hey,” she says casually, walking past him like she’s been here a thousand times.
A stab of jealousy twists in your stomach—completely unwarranted but sharp nonetheless. Has Natasha been here a lot?
“Hi,” you mutter, offering Bob a small smile as you follow Nat inside.
There’s a chorus of hellos from the squad scattered around the living room. Bradley lounges across the two-seater couch furthest from the door, and Mickey is sprawled in a bean bag beside him, grinning like a kid in a candy store. Jake and Javy are tangled together on one end of the three-seater couch, probably having just finished fighting over the remote. And then there’s Reuben, sitting in the middle, with Natasha plopping down beside him.
“Guess I’ll take the floor,” you mutter, dropping your bag beside the pile of everyone else’s stuff.
“That’s alright,” Jake says with his usual cocky grin, “You can sit on Bobby’s lap for a bit of comfort.”
Heat floods your cheeks, but you refuse to let him see the effect of his words. Instead, you roll your eyes and flip him off, then plop down onto the makeshift nest of cushions and blankets on the floor.
Bob reappears from the kitchen with another round of beers, while Mickey takes orders for dinner. Then Bob settles down beside you, his arm brushing yours just enough to send a sparks crackling across your skin. A moment later, Jake hits play on The Phantom Menace, and the room settles into a comfortable, albeit charged, quiet.
It doesn’t take long before Jake groans that he’s bored, and Reuben’s eyes immediately flick toward Natasha—like they’d both seen this coming from a mile away.
“We could play a game,” Mickey offers, all too innocently.
“Yes,” Jake grins, already invested. “Let’s play a game.”
“What game?” Javy asks.
Reuben opens his mouth, but Jake beats him to it. “Truth or Dare, obviously.”
Natasha snorts and slaps a hand over her mouth, but not before you catch it. That was exactly what Reuben had been about to suggest—and Jake is walking right into whatever scheme they’ve cooked up.
“How old are you?” Bradley asks Jake, brows furrowing.
“Not as old as you, Grandpa,” Jake fires back. “But you could at least pretend to enjoy fun.”
Bradley rolls his eyes but shrugs. “Fine.”
Everyone else falls in line, shifting around until you’ve all formed a lopsided circle on the floor, your back half-angled toward the movie. Jake claps his hands together like the ringmaster of a circus—which might not be far off from what this night is about to become.
“Alright. If you’re a chicken and won’t answer the truth or do the dare, you drink. Simple. I’ll go first.” He zeroes in on Bob—poor, unsuspecting Bob, who clearly just wanted to enjoy some Star Wars in peace. “Bob. Truth or Dare?”
“Truth,” Bob says, almost too quickly.
Jake leans forward with a shit-eating grin. “Who would you rather go on a date with—Phoenix or Sunny?”
You choke on nothing, smothering the sound behind your hand and pretending it’s just a casual cough.
Heat blooms across Bob’s cheeks and starts creeping up to the tips of his ears. He glances your way—just for a beat—then over at Natasha, and your stomach knots. Is he seriously having to think about this? Have your friends been totally misreading Bob this whole time?
Then, after a moment of hesitation, Bob simply lifts his beer and takes a long sip.
Jake groans. “Ugh, lame.”
“Don’t worry, Bob,” Javy says with a laugh. “That was a trap. There was no right answer.”
Bob chuckles—a low, rough sound right next to you that sends goosebumps up your arms. “I know,” he says, voice deceptively casual. Then he shifts his gaze toward Mickey. “Fanboy. Truth or Dare?”
Mickey’s face lights up. “Dare.”
Bob smiles—and for the first time tonight, it’s almost a smirk. There’s something sharp beneath the usual softness, and it makes your stomach flip.
“Text the last person you hooked up with ‘thinking about you’—no context. And you can't reply until tomorrow.”
Mickey’s grin drops. “What the fuck, man?”
Bob just shrugs, raising his beer like it’s a toast. “You picked dare.” Then he brings the bottle to his lips and takes a generous swig.
And holy shit—you might actually combust from the sight alone. Bob being just a little cocky. Bob utterly destroying Mickey with zero remorse. You know there’s a darker edge beneath that quiet, boy-next-door act. You know he’s got a mean streak. And God, you want to find it. Pull it out of him and ask—beg—for him to do things you can’t even say out loud.
The group erupts into cackles as Mickey reluctantly pulls out his phone, Reuben peering over his shoulder to make sure he follows through.
“There,” Mickey mutters, tossing the phone face-down on the floor. “You better watch your back.”
But Bob doesn’t flinch. He just sits there, calm and collected, with that damn smirk still tugging at the corner of his mouth.
When you finally tear your gaze away from him, you find Mickey’s eyes locked on you—an evil grin stretched across his face. “Sunny,” he says, voice smooth as silk. “Truth or Dare?”
You steel your nerves, unsure of what’s coming but already sensing the trap. “Dare,” you reply, trying to keep your voice steady.
Mickey’s grin widens, tipping his head forward like some sinister villain—and you just walked straight into his web. “Google a dirty line from Fifty Shades of Grey... and whisper it slowly in Bob’s ear.”
Jake snorts, his face twisted with amusement, and the rest of the group follows—dissolving into fits of laughter. All but Bob, who’s already choking on his beer, turning an even deeper shade of red before you’ve even touched your phone.
You blink, eyes going wide. “Are you serious?”
“Oh, I’m very serious,” Mickey replies, practically vibrating with excitement. “And no laughing. You have to sell it.”
You lock eyes with Mickey, your death-glare sharp as your hands shake slightly while you pick up your phone. Then, you reluctantly tap the search bar and type in ‘dirty line from Fifty Shades of Grey.’ Before you realize what’s happening, Natasha leans over your shoulder.
“Ooh,” she giggles, pointing at the screen. “That one.”
You glance up at Bob, your expression a mix of apology and warning. He looks much less confident than before, his lips parted, cheeks flushed, blue eyes wide behind his glasses. His throat bobs as he swallows, and a small part of you—one that feels dangerous—stirs with excitement.
The room falls into eerie silence, and you realize that Jake has paused the movie. All eyes are on you as you shuffle closer to Bob, getting onto your knees beside him. You plant one hand on his thigh to steady yourself, and you feel the muscles in his leg twitch at your touch.
His breath hitches, his whole body going rigid.
You lean in close, your lips barely brushing the shell of his ear as you murmur, “I want your hands on me. Your mouth. I want to feel you everywhere until I forget my own name.”
A beat of silence stretches, and then Bob exhales sharply, his hand tightening around his beer bottle as if it’s the only thing keeping him tethered to Earth.
“Jesus Christ,” Jake mutters under his breath.
“Holy shit,” Reuben says, breaking into laughter.
Mickey is howling, pounding his fist against the beanbag. “Worth it! So worth it!”
You slowly pull back, biting back a grin as you settle back into your spot like nothing happened. Bob, however, is still stuck in the mental tailspin you just launched him into, blinking hard and adjusting his glasses like he needs a whole system reset.
You meet his eyes, and for the briefest second, you see it—buried beneath the shock and heat—that glint of hunger.
God help you, you're not making it out of tonight alive.
The game moves on, but you can’t quiet your mind. You’re stuck on the way Bob’s thigh had felt beneath your palm, the way the muscles shifted under your touch. You can’t stop replaying the brush of your lips near his ear, the hitch in his breath, or the way he’d smelled—clean, warm, intoxicating. You don’t just want to fuck this man—you want to ruin him. You want him panting and wrecked, bruised and breathless, oversensitive and spent. There are things you want to ask of him that would guarantee you a one-way ticket to hell. But if he said yes—if he gave you those things—it’d be worth it.
You’ve never wanted a man the way you want him, and it’s starting to feel like a genuine threat to your well-being.
“Bob,” Natasha says, her voice snapping you back to reality, “Truth or Dare?”
You’re not sure how many turns you’ve missed, but Bradley and Reuben seem to have swapped shirts, and there’s a bottle of tequila on the table that definitely wasn’t there earlier.
“Dare,” Bob replies, seemingly recovered from your whispered indecency.
Natasha grins. “I dare you to pick someone in this room to do a body shot off of—excluding me.”
Your heart stutters at the last part. Did she say that because she thought he’d pick her? Would he have? Out of comfort, knowing it wouldn’t mean anything—or for some other reason?
You shake the thought off quickly and join the group’s laughter, mentally scolding yourself for the jealous spiral.
“Seriously, Phoenix?” Bob sighs, his brows knit.
She just shrugs, laughing. “You picked dare.”
He tips his head back and groans, giving you a perfect view of the long line of his throat, the sharp bob of his Adam’s apple as he swallows.
“Come on, man,” Jake chuckles, “There’s only one clear choice.”
Your cheeks flush as Jake nods toward you, green eyes sparkling like he’s the one about to do the dare.
“As if you’re not going to pick Sunny,” Javy adds, watching as Bob’s eyes slowly scan the room.
Then his gaze lands on you—soft, but laced with something heavier. Something simmering.
He licks his lips, and you can’t stop yourself from imagining them on your skin. Imagining his tongue dragging over your body, slow and deliberate. The salt from your collarbone, your abdomen… or maybe lower—right above the waistband of your pants. Would he use the glass? Or would he press his mouth to your stomach, lips sealing around your navel, tongue lapping up the tequila while you tremble beneath him?
Then the lime—between your lips, waiting for him. His mouth brushing yours as he leans in, breath mingling, tasting more than just the fruit. You imagine the sharp burst of citrus, the tease of contact, tequila heat still slick on his tongue. He’d bite down, lips grazing yours, and it would wreck you more than any kiss ever could.
“Hangman,” Bob says suddenly, his gaze locked on the man across the circle—who now looks a lot less smug and a lot more stunned.
Jake’s brows shoot up. “Me?”
The room erupts into laughter. Bradley throws his head back, already fumbling for his phone to record whatever chaos is about to unfold. Mickey nearly falls over, gripping the bean bag for dear life, and Javy is doubled over, laughing so hard he can’t catch a breath.
“Why would you do this to me?” Jake gasps, eyes wide.
“You said there was only one clear option,” Bob replies evenly, the ghost of a smirk tugging at his mouth. “I agree.”
“You bitch,” Jake mutters.
“Oh, this is so much better than what I thought was going to happen,” Natasha says. “Shirt off, Bagman. Let’s go.”
“This could be considered assault,” Jake mutters as he sits forward on the couch.
“Then press charges,” Bradley says, half-choking on a laugh. “But let him finish first.”
Natasha bolts to the kitchen for lime and salt, and the rest of the group scrambles to clear space on the lounge like they’re prepping for surgery. Jake peels off his shirt with the theatrics of a martyr, glaring at each of his cackling friends.
Bob, meanwhile, looks cool as ever—far more composed than Jake. And maybe that’s the point. Picking you would’ve set the room on fire. Picking someone else would’ve gotten laughs. But picking Hangman? That’s just cruel and perfect—and from the slow curl of a smirk on Bob’s lips, he knows it.
“Let’s go, Seresin,” Natasha says, reappearing with lime in one hand, salt in the other.
Jake lies back with exaggerated misery, like a man about to be sacrificed at the altar. “I swear to God, Floyd, if you do anything weird with your mouth-”
“I won’t,” Bob says, calm and unbothered. “Unless you want me to.”
Your stomach somersaults. He didn’t even look at you—but somehow, it still feels like the line was meant for you. Like he knows exactly what he does to you, without even trying.
Bob Floyd is fucking smooth when he wants to be.
The room falls eerily quiet as Bob kneels beside the couch, one hand braced on the cushion beneath Jake’s body, the other holding the tequila bottle. He looks serene—like he’s preparing for a sacred ritual rather than licking salt off another man’s chest.
“This is happening,” Mickey whispers, wide-eyed. “This is actually happening.”
“Focus, Bob,” Natasha says solemnly, holding the shot glass as he pours the tequila. “We believe in you.”
Bob sets the bottle down and leans toward Jake slowly, both hands now braced on the couch as he lowers his head to the other man’s chest. The room is absolutely silent, save for the soft rustle of fabric and the charged hush of everyone holding their breath.
Jake stares straight up, completely stiff. “Don’t look at me while you do it.”
“I’m not,” Bob says, deadpan.
He dips his head and licks the salt clean off Jake’s skin. Jake jerks like he’s been hit with a defibrillator.
“Oh my God,” Javy whispers, clutching his chest. “This is the best thing I’ve ever witnessed.”
Natasha hands Bob the shot, and he tosses it back like he’s sampling a fine whiskey. Then he turns to the lime Natasha has jammed between Jake’s clenched teeth.
“Don’t you dare,” Jake warns.
“I’m just following instructions,” Bob replies calmly, and leans in.
There’s a ridiculous half-second where it looks like they’re about to kiss—and everyone knows it. You bite your fist to keep from bursting out laughing… or something else entirely. Because Bob? Cool as ice. Smooth as ever. He doesn’t even flinch as his mouth brushes Jake’s, teeth clamping down on the lime and tugging it free.
Jake makes a choked sound halfway between outrage and existential crisis.
Then the room explodes.
Bradley nearly falls off the lounge, still recording, laughter shaking his whole body. Natasha collapses into Javy’s lap, practically wheezing. Mickey is making noises like he’s being exorcised, and you’re on the brink of tears, shoulders shaking with laughter as Bob calmly returns to his seat, lime in hand, mouth twisted slightly at the tartness.
Jake bolts upright, wiping his mouth. “I need therapy.”
Bob frowns. “You needed therapy before that.”
“Yeah,” Jake spits, yanking his shirt back on. “Well, now I need more.”
You’re not sure you’ve ever felt it before—and you definitely don’t plan on voicing it—but right now, you are incredibly fucking jealous of Jake Seresin.
It takes a while, but eventually the group settles down and the game fizzles out—mostly thanks to Jake’s relentless sulking. Not long after, Mickey gets a notification that the food is nearly delivered, and everyone jumps into action to clear the table and grab what’s needed for dinner.
Less than ten minutes later, you’re all crowded around the coffee table, shovelling Chinese food into your mouths and stealing bites off each other’s plates. Jake’s sour mood has mostly vanished, and everyone is focused on the final battle of the movie playing out on-screen.
By the time the credits start rolling, most of the food is gone. You and Natasha start carting plates, bowls, and empty containers into the kitchen while the guys finish polishing off their meals, scraping the last of the food off their plates and into their mouths.
“Did I mention I brought dessert?” Reuben pipes up, eyeing you as you stack a few plates in one hand.
You raise a brow. “Are you about to make a gross joke?”
“No,” he laughs, shaking his head. “You know Barb, down the hall?”
“Neighbour Barb with the yappy chihuahua?”
He nods. “Yeah. She bakes, like… the most amazing stuff.”
You narrow your eyes, plates now balanced in both hands. “Do I even want to know how you know this?”
Mickey answers for him, talking around a mouthful of Mongolian beef. “Because we’re nice to our neighbours.”
You give him a disgusted look before turning back to Reuben. “Okay. Get to the point.”
He grins, a smug twist playing at the corner of his mouth. “She made a huge batch of cream pies—I mean, puffs. So she brought some over, and I brought them here. They’re to die for.”
Your eyes widen almost imperceptibly—but Reuben catches it, and you can see the spark of amusement flash across his face.
“Have you ever had a cream pie, Sunny?” Mickey asks, beaming up at you with sauce smeared on his face.
Jake and Javy snort, and behind you—you swear you hear Bob snicker.
“Yes, Mick,” you bite out. “I’ve had a cream puff.”
You turn sharply back toward the kitchen, but not before catching the small smirk on Bob’s lips, his cheeks pink as he spoons another mouthful of kung pao chicken into his mouth.
“That’s not what I asked!” Mickey calls after you, giggling like a grade-schooler.
You roll your eyes and drop the plates by the sink, where Natasha and Bradley are already washing up.
“Lookin’ a little red there, Floyd,” Reuben teases, his voice carrying from the living room to the kitchen.
It’s the chicken,” Bob replies quickly—but there’s something in his voice that makes a stupid, lovesick grin spread across your face.
Once everything is washed up and everyone has returned to the living room, Jake hits play on the next film. You’re back on the floor, this time with your back pressed to the couch beneath Natasha, who’s curled up with her legs tucked beneath her, leaving you space to lean. Bob is further away now, sprawled on his back across a fluffy blanket, a cluster of pillows beneath his head, hands folded neatly over his stomach.
You try to keep your eyes on the screen—it really shouldn’t be that hard with both Hayden Christensen and Ewan McGregor to enjoy—but your gaze keeps drifting to Bob. He looks so content, so cute, his lips tipped into a soft half-smile and his blue eyes sparkling behind his glasses. There’s something about him that turns your brain to absolute mush, and you still can’t figure out what.
Maybe it’s the dichotomy of him. How sweet and quiet he is—some might even say shy, but you know better. He’s just overwhelmingly nice, with a pretty face to match. And yet, you have to remind yourself that this man is in the navy. He’s not spineless—in fact, he’s the total opposite. He’s sharp and quick-witted, strong both mentally and physically. There’s not a single thing about him that’s weak, yet he lets people assume otherwise.
Maybe it’s confidence. The kind that doesn’t need to be loud. He doesn’t care what people think or say. Not that he isn’t awkward sometimes—he definitely can be—but that’s more about being introverted. He doesn’t need to show off or run his mouth like Jake. He doesn’t need to fly like an idiot to prove himself. He’s just Bob. He knows who he is, and he’s not apologetic about it.
What is it they call that?
Oh yeah… big dick energy.
Your eyes drift down his torso, lingering briefly on his hands—the way his long fingers are laced together—before continuing down to the waistband of his dark blue joggers. There’s a bulge in his lap. A notable one. And a slight outline continuing down the left leg of his pants…
Wait. That’s like… kind of huge.
A hard nudge to your shoulder startles you, and you whip around to see Natasha staring at you. Her eyes are wide, her lips pulled into a smirk—half disbelieving, half smug.
Stop staring, she mouths.
You press your lips together to hold back a laugh, a little giddy from your fourth—or maybe fifth—beer. Your face feels warm, and you know if you keep looking at Nat, you’ll start laughing, so you quickly turn back to the movie.
“Okay,” Mickey pipes up, scrambling out of the beanbag and to his feet, “who wants cream puffs?”
“Only if you serve them warm and full,” Jake shoots back.
The room erupts—half groans, half childish laughter. Mickey just snorts and disappears into the kitchen, Reuben trailing behind him. A few minutes later, they return, each holding a heaping plate stacked with warm, golden cream puffs.
“Fair warning,” Reuben says, setting one down on the table, “these things are insane. Like... dangerously good.”
You grab one without hesitation—soft, golden, still warm to the touch. It’s dusted in powdered sugar and practically bursting with cream. You bite into it and—holy hell—the taste explodes in your mouth. Sweet. Rich. Ridiculously creamy. You moan without meaning to, eyes fluttering shut.
“Oh, wow,” you say around a mouthful. “That’s... actually insane.”
The group hums and laughs in agreement, but you barely notice. You take another bite—bigger this time—and it squishes a little too easily in your hand. Cream oozes out the side, trailing down your chin and, with an audible plop, lands squarely between your breasts.
“Oh, shit,” you mutter, trying to swipe the cream away—but all you manage to do is smear it further.
There’s a beat of silence, and even the movie playing in the background seems to go quiet.
“Jesus Christ,” Reuben says, somewhere between impressed and scandalised. “You sure you don’t need a minute alone with that thing?”
Laughter rumbles around you, and only when you look up do you realise how provocative that just was—the heat in your cheeks deepening. But then your eyes catch on Bob.
He’s not laughing. He’s not even blinking.
The lazy smile he wore earlier? Gone. He’s sitting upright now, shoulders tense, jaw clenched. His gaze is locked on you like he forgot what movie is playing, what day it is—hell, maybe even his own name.
“Floyd?” Mickey nudges his leg with a foot. “You good?”
Bob jolts slightly, as if waking from a trance. He coughs, shifts, and yanks the blanket from the floor to cover his lap—too quickly to be casual.
“They, uh...” he clears his throat, voice rough. “They look really good.”
Your stomach swoops as he leans forward, still holding the blanket tight in place, and reaches for a cream puff from the plate right in front of you—still avoiding your eyes entirely.
Natasha leans in from behind, her voice low. “You are killing him.”
You press your lips together to hide your grin, eyes flicking back to Bob—who’s now doing everything in his power not to look in your direction.
The cream puffs disappear in what has to be a record amount of time. You’re pretty sure you watched Javy inhale at least four, and there was an unnecessarily loud argument between Mickey and Bradley over the last one, which ended in a begrudging decision to split it.
The rest of the movie plays out without incident, and afterward, everyone decides to change into their PJs for the final film of the night. You’re honestly surprised everyone has made it to movie number three, but you’re not complaining.
The boys start rummaging through their bags, swapping out jeans for boxers or stretchy pajama pants while Natasha grabs her bag and disappears into the bathroom. You keep your eyes glued to your phone screen to avoid catching a glimpse of something you definitely don’t want to see—because these boys? They have no shame.
“You can change in my room if you want,” Bob offers.
You glance up, making sure to keep your eyes fixed on him, because just a little to the left is where Jake is still mid-change.
“Yeah?”
Bob nods, a small smile tugging at his lips as he gestures down the short hallway past the kitchen. “It’s the door just after the bathroom.”
“Thanks,” you mutter, pushing to your feet and grabbing your bag as you slip past the others—now teasing Mickey about his choice of boxers.
The door is open just a crack, and your heart thuds a little harder than it should as you ease it the rest of the way. The smell hits first—clean and warm, with a twist of vanilla that makes you want to wrap yourself in it and never leave.
You flick on the light and shut the door behind you, dropping your bag to the floor. You know you should just get changed, but… you can’t help it. You’ve only been to Bob’s apartment a couple times before—once to help him move in (because of course the whole squad helped), and once with Natasha to pick him up before a night out. But never in here. Never in his room.
It’s almost unusually tidy, but that’s navy life for you. His bed is made neatly, topped with a soft baby blue duvet, coordinated beige and cream pillows, and a throw blanket folded at the foot. It’s a little faded and looks handmade, like something passed down through generations.
On one side of the room, a bookshelf houses a quiet little collection of well-loved paperbacks, a few aviation manuals, and a line of model planes—some pristine and precise, others clearly glued together by a much younger version of him. A framed photo of a beaming, pint-sized Bob in oversized glasses sits on the dresser, nestled between a small baseball trophy and a display of navy challenge coins.
A pair of worn sneakers sits neatly by the door, and his uniform jacket hangs off the closet handle, the door slightly ajar. The name tag catches just enough light to pull your eyes toward it. Everything about the room feels like him—modest, thoughtful, quietly proud. It’s the kind of unintentional intimacy that makes you feel like you’ve slipped behind the curtain and gotten a glimpse of the real Bob.
And somehow… that makes your chest ache. It’s just a room. But it feels so much like him—like you could curl up in here with him for hours, doing nothing but talking and dreaming. Getting lost in each other. Letting the rest of the world wait. And then, later, getting tangled together. Soft kisses, whispered pleas, gentle moans—slow and unhurried, learning one another’s bodies until you know each other better than you know yourselves.
You shake your head hard and take a breath. You’ve already been in here too long. Pull it together.
You crouch beside your bag and pull out your pajamas—soft lounge shorts and a matching long-sleeved shirt. It’s nothing special, but a step up from your usual: an old, food-stained navy tee and nothing but underwear.
You change quickly and shove your clothes into your bag before leaving the room. The lounge room has quieted down, everyone now back in their seats—except for Mickey and Bob, who are in the kitchen grabbing another round of drinks.
Jake hits play as soon as they return, and everyone settles in again. There’s less chatter now, probably because of how late it’s gotten. Bradley is almost definitely asleep, eyes half-shut on the two-seater, while Mickey is having the time of his life seeing how many of Bradley’s fingers he can get stuck in the top of his beer bottle.
Natasha is curled up behind you, her head resting on Reuben’s shoulder, and his blinks are getting longer and slower by the second. Jake is surprisingly alert and invested in the film, but Javy looks like his head might lull back at any moment. And Bob—Bob is still wide awake, his eyes sparkling with interest as he watches the screen.
Halfway through the film, Mickey pushes to his feet and offers another round of drinks, prompting a few sleepy murmurs of ‘yes’ from the others.
“I’ll help,” you offer, stretching as you rise from the floor and follow him into the kitchen.
You open the fridge and start pulling out beers while Mickey pops the tops off. But when you close the fridge and turn back around, you spot Reuben—now suddenly very awake—watching Mickey with intent. He’s wearing that little smirk that always means trouble, clearly trying to telepathically communicate something to his WSO.
Your brow furrows as you glance between them, trying to decode the silent exchange. Mickey looks equally confused for a second... but then realisation dawns and a wicked grin curls onto his face.
He turns to you and mutters, “Sorry about this.” But he doesn’t sound even remotely apologetic.
Your frown deepens. “What are you-”
But you don’t get to finish the question before he starts shaking the beer bottle in his hand.
“Mick—!” you cry, just as he pops the top off and sprays you with beer.
You shriek, throwing your hands in front of your face like that’ll somehow stop the onslaught. But it doesn’t. You’re soaked.
“What the hell, Fanboy?” Reuben calls from the living room, as if this wasn’t entirely his doing.
“Mickey!” you shout, dropping your arms and glaring at him.
“Whoops,” he says with a grin. “My bad.”
Natasha snorts and smacks a hand over her mouth. “Sorry. It’s not funny.”
“Wow, Fanboy,” Jake pipes up, the smirk in his voice unmistakable. “Is that the first time you’ve made a girl wet?”
Mickey glares—or tries to. He’s way too pleased with himself for it to land properly.
“Hey, Floyd,” Reuben calls, “you got any spare clothes for Sunny?”
Bob is already looking at you, lips parted and cheeks flushed. He swallows hard before turning to Reuben and nodding. “Yeah, of course.” Then he stands, eyes flicking back to you. “Do you want to shower?”
Mickey gasps, scandalised. “Robert Floyd, are you propositioning her?”
Bob’s blush deepens, colouring his neck and the tips of his ears, but he doesn’t look particularly ashamed. He looks… flushed. Hot. Close to unravelling. His glare cuts back to Mickey, sharper than usual, a little too dark to be playful. And then his gaze shifts back to you—specifically, your chest.
You follow his line of sight and immediately wrap an arm around yourself. Your nipples are pebbled beneath your shirt, the damp fabric clinging in all the worst ways. Or the best—if you ask Bob Floyd.
“Yes,” you say tightly. “A shower would be good.”
The room dissolves into quiet laughter as you follow Bob down the hall. He slips into his room for a moment, then returns with a folded towel and some clothes stacked neatly on top.
“Here,” he says, offering them to you. “Take as long as you want. You can use whatever’s in there. Not that there’s much.”
He dips his head—blush still firmly in place—and heads back to the living room.
You stare after him for a second, dumbfounded. He got embarrassed about his lack of shower products? That’s what embarrassed him? Not the full-body, post-beer-shower eye-fucking he just gave you?
You close the bathroom door behind you and lean against it, exhaling hard. You’re buzzing. Overstimulated. Untouched and on fire. You feel like you’re being edged and then abandoned, left to squirm. You’re so sensitive it hurts. Bob is teasing you just as much as you’re teasing him—those glances, the heat behind his eyes, the way his mouth hangs open like he wants to say something but never does.
You might’ve thought you were playing a game, but Bob Floyd is about to kill you without even realising it.
You strip quickly, trying not to dwell on the fact that you’re naked in Bob’s apartment. You keep the water on the cooler side—a half-hearted attempt to wash away the heat still simmering under your skin. But it doesn’t help. You shower fast and step out even faster, wrapping yourself in the towel Bob gave you. It’s fluffy, soft, and smells just like him—which makes that spot deep behind your hipbones ache.
You dry off in record time, then turn to the small pile of clothes on the vanity—Bob’s clothes. Your hands tremble slightly as you lift the satin boxers, dark blue with little white stars, and slide them up your legs. Then the shirt: a worn white tee with a faded Star Wars logo across the chest.
His scent wraps around you the second you slide it over your head—oversized and impossibly soft against your warm skin. You try not to focus on the rasp of cotton against your nipples. God, if he ever actually touches you, you might just combust.
You take a deep breath, trying to calm the fire burning low in your belly, then scoop up your beer-soaked clothes and open the bathroom door—steam spilling into the hallway as you step out.
"Finally," Mickey says, popping up in front of you like he’s been waiting, holding out a plastic bag.
You blink. “What?”
“For your clothes,” he says simply.
“Oh.” You take it and shove the damp material inside.
His gaze dips—just for a beat—before sliding back up. Then he grins, gives you a cheeky wink, and turns back toward the lounge room. You follow, every eye lifting to you the second you reappear. Warmth floods your cheeks. You’re in Bob’s clothes. Bob's boxers. Bob's shirt.
“Can we play the movie now?” Jake whines, oblivious to the tension humming through the room. “It was just getting good.”
You nod, unable to speak, your gaze already locked with Bob’s.
His eyes rake down your body, slow and deliberate. He takes in the curve of your neck, the slope of your shoulder, the hang of his shirt against your chest. His gaze catches there, as if he can see straight through the fabric, then continues its journey down to the hem. The shorts are barely visible beneath the shirt, and judging by the heat in his eyes, he might be wondering why you're wearing pants at all.
You shift under the weight of his stare, hyper-aware of every inch of fabric against your skin—of how suddenly hot the room feels. Jake presses play, but no one is watching the screen. Every pair of eyes bounces between you and Bob, waiting—expecting—something to happen.
Bob looks wrecked. His hands are clenched at his sides, knuckles white, jaw tight. Like he has to physically hold himself back.
Natasha clears her throat, startling you more than it should. You tear your gaze away and flash her a sheepish smile before finally forcing yourself to move, padding back to your spot on the floor.
Even then, you can feel Bob’s eyes tracking every step.
The rest of the movie plays out in near silence, broken only by the soft snoring that eventually starts up from Bradley and Javy. It takes a while for you to settle, but you finally curl up on the floor with a pillow hugged to your chest, watching Anakin fall apart on-screen and become Darth Vader.
Jake is the only one still fully invested in the film. Even Bob seems distracted now, his eyes flicking toward you more often than the TV. He shifts in place, uncomfortable, dragging the blanket higher across his lap and holding it like a lifeline. You try not to smirk.
You think you know what might be going on under there… but you’re not about to assume. It couldn't possibly be just because you’re wearing his clothes.
…Right?
Eventually, the credits start rolling and everyone begins to stir.
“Where am I sleeping?” Mickey asks, already eyeing Bob like he’s got plans.
Bob shrugs. “Wherever. There’s the couches and a couple beds in the spare room, but someone’ll have to sleep with me.”
“I think Rooster’s good here,” Jake says, glancing at the man awkwardly passed out on the two-seater couch. “I’ll take this one.”
“I’ll sleep with you, Bobby,” Javy says through a yawn, stretching so wide his joints pop.
“Damn it,” Mickey mutters as he walks past, bumping your shoulder with his. “Missed opportunity.”
You roll your eyes but can’t help feeling a twinge of disappointment. You know damn well you wouldn’t get any sleep next to Bob—not when he smells like that, looks like that, and keeps looking at you the way he does. So it’s probably for the best, but still, the thought lingers.
Everyone takes turns brushing their teeth and shuffling off to bed. You end up in the fold-out bed with Natasha in the spare room, while Reuben and Mickey claim the air mattress on the floor. Apparently, there’s no escaping these boys—not even for one night.
Mumbled goodnights fade into rustling fabric and shifting limbs, then finally, silence.
Too much silence.
You lie on your back, eyes on the ceiling, thoughts screaming through your head like they’re in a race. You should be tired—your body aches—but your brain refuses to shut up. You toss the blanket off, overheated, but even with the cooler air, your skin feels flushed. You roll to your side, careful not to jostle Natasha on the creaky mattress, but nothing helps.
You glance down at the boys, both snoring with their mouths open, and finally sigh. Swinging your legs off the bed, you wriggle out of Bob’s shorts, thinking maybe it’ll help. You don’t usually sleep in pants anyway.
It doesn’t.
Ten minutes later, you quietly slip off the bed and tiptoe toward the door, easing it open with practiced care to avoid the squeaky hinges. Then you turn down the hallway, barefoot and warm-skinned, and pad into the kitchen.
The hem of Bob’s shirt brushes against your bare thighs, stoking the fire already simmering between them as you stop in front of the fridge and pull the door open. A cool flood of light spills across the kitchen tiles. You grab a bottle of water and twist off the cap, stepping back and tipping it to your lips. But the cold rush does nothing to cool the heat thrumming beneath your skin.
“You always walk around other people’s places half naked?”
You choke, almost spilling water down your chin as you turn toward the voice—that low, raspy sound that makes your skin prickle and your spine snap straight.
Bob stands at the edge of the kitchen, leaning casually against the far counter—but there’s nothing relaxed about the way he holds himself. In the dim glow of the fridge light, he looks almost ethereal. His eyes are sharp, lit with something that borders on pain—hunger, maybe, or full-blown starvation—and his arms are crossed over his bare chest.
Yeah. Bob Floyd is shirtless.
You register a flicker of jealousy for Javy—the man who gets to sleep next to this—but you don’t let yourself linger on it. Not when Bob is standing right there in nothing but a pair of loose boxers, the fabric doing nothing to hide the impressive shape beneath.
You don’t know if it’s because he’s a little turned on or just blessed, but damn.
“You okay?” he asks, though it doesn’t sound like a real question—because he already knows the answer.
No. No, you’re not.
You clear your throat, dragging your eyes back up to his. “Yeah, I—uh-”
Your words falter when his gaze drops to your legs. There’s something almost reverent in the way he looks at you—like he’s trying to memorise every inch. His eyes drag slowly up your bare thighs, pausing at the hem of his shirt before gliding over your waist and stopping at your chest, where your nipples are clearly outlined beneath the thin cotton.
The heat of his stare burns hotter than any touch.
“Couldn’t sleep?” he asks, voice quiet, like he’s just making conversation. Like he has no idea what he’s doing to you.
He pushes off the counter and walks straight toward you—slow, but sure. He stops right in front of the fridge, close enough that if you moved even a breath closer, you’d feel your nipples graze his skin.
You take a step back—barely. Just enough to let him slip past you.
He nods slightly—a silent thanks—and ducks into the fridge for his own water. When he shuts the door, the kitchen is plunged into darkness, save for dim moonlight filtering in from the far windows—but you can still see him. His outline, the dips and curves of his lean torso, the tilt of his head as he tips the bottle back and drinks.
You watch his throat move with every swallow, your lips parting slightly, craving his skin on your tongue. You don’t move. You don’t breathe. You just stand there, watching.
When he finishes, he turns to the sink and drops the empty bottle in before bracing both hands against the bench. His chin dips toward his chest, and you see the rise and fall of his shoulders as he exhales—hard.
Before you can stop yourself, your feet carry you forward until you’re beside him, your bare arm brushing against his. You place your own bottle in the sink, then turn toward him and lean your hip against the counter.
“Bob,” you whisper.
Every sound in the apartment feels louder now—the faint snores, the creak of the floorboards, your own heartbeat thrumming in your ears.
He looks at you, only turning his head, not his body. “Don’t—” he says softly. “Don’t say my name like that.”
You frown, sliding your hand over his. His grip tightens on the bench like he’s anchoring himself.
“Like what?” you ask softly.
“Like you want me,” he murmurs. His voice is thick—rough around the edges like it’s been scraped raw. Like he's holding something back with every laboured breath.
You press closer, your chest against his arm. The contact is electric. Your skin separated only by a whisper of cotton—his cotton.
“Bob,” you breathe, a little desperate now.
He exhales sharply and drops his gaze to the sink again, like something there might help him. “This isn’t…” His jaw flexes. “We can’t do this.”
“Do what?” you ask, playing innocent, even as your fingers trail lightly up his arm.
You can feel your chest rising and falling faster than it should, your breasts pressing against his arm like some wanton, starry-eyed girl. But you can’t bring yourself to step away. Every inch of you is on fire, every nerve ending singed and tingling. You want him to turn around and take you—bend you over the counter and make you scream his name. Who gives a fuck who’s listening... or watching. You just want Bob. You want him to know how much you want him, how deeply you need him. How desperate he makes you without even trying.
“Do you have any idea,” he whispers, finally turning to face you fully, “what you do to me?”
You feel it—hard and thick—pressing against your lower belly. There’s no mistaking it now.
“Bob…” Your voice is a sigh, wrecked and begging.
He catches your wrist, his grip firm, nearly bruising. His eyes are wild as they search your face—from your eyes to your lips, down to your chest, and back again—like he’s torn between reason and ruin.
You hold still. Waiting. Daring. Wanting him to snap.
But then... he’s gone—his warmth, his scent, the burning look in his eyes. All of it, gone in a breath.
“Goodnight,” he mutters, so low you barely hear it before the soft click of his bedroom door… and then the snap of the lock.
You’re left standing there, chest heaving, skin burning. Your eyes sting with unshed tears, and your mind is a mess. What the fuck just happened? Your panties are damp, and your chest aches like you've been torn in two. You want to cry, but you also want to break down his door. How dare he build you up like that? Look at you like that, talk to you like that—and then just walk away.
It takes several minutes before you can move, your legs shaky, your mind racing. You stumble back to the spare room, collapse into bed, and stare at the ceiling, flat on your back—Bob’s shirt clinging to your skin.
You don’t sleep. Not at all.
-
“He what?” Natasha’s eyes go impossibly wide. “And then he just—he left?”
You nod slowly, keeping your eyes fixed on your lunch. The mess hall is loud enough to muffle your conversation—one you should’ve had yesterday but couldn’t summon the strength for. So here you are, in the middle of the hall, with the boys a couple tables over, surrounded by lieutenants you don’t know—blissfully unaware of your current crisis.
“Yeah,” you sigh, stabbing at another piece of pasta you don’t plan to eat.
You haven’t eaten much in the last twenty-four hours—not since the run-in with Bob. Everything feels bland now, drained of colour and taste, too dull to bother with. Anything that isn’t Bob just feels lacking, and you're starting to worry that one moment—one heated, breathless moment—has completely ruined you.
“That’s insane,” Natasha mutters. “That’s so... not Bob. How could he be so—I don’t know... rude? I just—I have no words.”
You shrug one shoulder. “It wasn’t rude. He just seemed... confused, I guess. And I don’t blame him. If I’m not what he wants, then-”
“Stop right there,” Mickey interrupts, sliding into the chair beside you.
Reuben drops into the seat next to Natasha, eyeing your tray of food.
“Sorry,” he says, reaching across the table to steal your apple. “We couldn’t get away any faster.”
You glance past Mickey, down the row of tables, and catch Bob’s eyes on you—just for a second—before he quickly looks away. Bradley, Jake, and Javy are still deep in conversation with the other guys, oblivious. Bob seems to be the only one noticing Reuben and Mickey’s absence.
“Start again,” Mickey says. “From the beginning. We knew something happened.”
Natasha snorts around a mouthful of pasta, and you sigh, knowing there’s no point arguing. They’d get it out of you one way or another.
Twenty minutes later, when you finally finish recapping the story for the second time, Natasha taps her watch and nods toward the exit. “We better get back before Mav, or he’ll keep us late tonight.”
Mickey’s brows are nearly touching as he processes everything you’ve said. “What does he mean, ‘you can’t do this’? He clearly wanted to—so why didn’t he?”
You pick up your tray and follow Natasha toward the return station. “Your guess is as good as mine.”
“I mean,” Reuben says, brows furrowed, “you said he was... at attention, right?”
You blow a half-hearted laugh through your nose. “Yeah.”
“So he definitely wanted to,” he says as the four of you exit the mess hall. “I just can’t think of why he wouldn’t go for it.”
“I think it’s because you’re in the same squad,” Natasha offers. “He’s probably worried it’ll get weird—or worse, if it doesn’t work out.”
You roll your eyes as you cross the hot concrete, heading back to the hangar. “But we’re both adults. Why can’t he just sack up and fuck me, and we’ll worry about the consequences later?”
Your voice comes out louder than you meant, and you don’t miss the odd looks a few passing officers send your way.
Reuben chuckles. “Maybe you should just say that to him.”
“No,” Natasha says, turning toward you with a mischievous glint in her eye. “I’ve got a better idea. Call it Plan B or whatever, but now... we’re bringing out the big guns.”
“So Sunny pressing her tits against him wasn’t the big guns?” Mickey quips with a grin.
You smack him lightly across the chest before looking back to Natasha. “I doubt anything will work at this point, but... I’m curious. What’s the idea?”
“How’s your gag reflex?” she asks, tilting her head thoughtfully.
You rear back, eyebrows raised—and both Reuben and Mickey choke on laughter.
Natasha sighs, rolling her eyes. “Not like that. I mean you’re going to need a strong stomach and a Juilliard degree to pull this off.”
You frown, slowing just slightly as the hangar looms into view. “Okay...”
She straightens up and faces forward, a proud smirk tugging at her mouth and her chin tilted high. “We’re going to make Bob jealous.”
-
Out of Mickey and Reuben, you all collectively decided that Reuben was the more convincing option. Not that you don’t think Mickey’s gorgeous—you do, and so does he—but his acting skills are questionable at best. You at least have a little more faith in Reuben’s ability to fake flirt without making it weird.
The plan is simple. Convince Bob that he’s lost his shot—or that he’s just about to. Make it clear you’re happy to move on. If he wants you... well, now he’s going to have to fight for it. Because tempting him wasn’t enough—apparently—you need to dig deeper. Tap into something primal and pull it to the surface. Exploit what lingers under the skin of every man: jealousy and competition.
You’re going to make this a game he can’t afford to lose.
“You ready for Phase Two?” Natasha asks as you cross the base, the sun still barely above the horizon.
You take a deep breath of fresh morning air. “Let’s do it.”
She and Mickey take off ahead of you and Reuben to arrive in the training room first. It’s a known fact that Bob is always ridiculously early—so you know he’ll already be there. You hang back with Reuben, rehashing the plan and trying to get used to flirting with him without cracking up.
At exactly ten past six, Natasha texts you to give the green light—no doubt having casually pointed out to Bob that you’re not with her, which you always are.
“What if he doesn’t care?” you ask Reuben softly as you climb the stairs.
He rolls his eyes like you’ve said something utterly insane. “He’ll care, trust me. He might be Bob, but he’s still a guy. And he’s obviously down bad for you—just needs a little push.”
You snort. “Little?”
Reuben chuckles. “Okay, more than a little. It’s Bob.”
You laugh too, quietly, and then steel yourself as you reach the door—slipping on your game face. You glance at Reuben, catching the smirk tugging at his mouth.
Then you both nod. It’s show time.
“So, you’re saying eye contact makes it better?” he asks as you step through the door, voice pitched perfectly.
You nod, casual but with a hint of something else. “Yep. A thousand times better. And bonus points if you know where to put your hands.”
He raises a brow, lips twitching. “Where do I put my hands?”
You giggle, soft and flirty, pausing a few steps into the room. “How about I show you later?”
His grin breaks loose. “Promise?”
“Promise.”
You head toward the rows of seats, sliding into your usual behind Natasha—not missing the way Bob’s gaze locks onto you like he’s been caught mid-thought. His head swivels as Reuben sits beside you instead of next to Mickey.
“See,” Reuben says, leaning in a little, “all these years I thought speed was the key. But you’re saying it’s finesse?”
“Oh, definitely finesse,” you say, holding his eyes. “Go too hard and too fast, and it’s just... messy. Sloppy. Unimpressive.”
Reuben licks his lips, his eyes flicking sideways to Bob—just for a second. “So, you’re offering me private lessons?”
You lower your voice slightly, knowing it’s still perfectly audible to the rest of the room. “Depends. Can you follow instruction without getting too flustered?”
Reuben’s grin sharpens. “I don’t fluster, sweetheart. I excel under pressure.”
You pause, your pulse a little too quick—partly from Bob’s stare, which he’s not even trying to hide now, and partly from the fact that yeah, it’s been a while. And if this whole plan does blow up in your face... well, Reuben doesn’t seem like the worst option for a little stress relief.
You fight down a laugh at the idea and finally drag your gaze toward the front of the room. Bob—just one row ahead—snaps his eyes forward like he’s been caught eavesdropping, but the bright red of his cheeks, the tight set of his shoulders, and the way his jaw flexes say it all. He’s tense. He’s listening. And he’s absolutely not okay.
A moment later, Maverick strolls in, completely oblivious to the emotional warfare brewing right beneath his nose.
The rest of the week passes in much the same way. Each evening, you regroup with your friends to scheme and strategize, brainstorming new antics to pull off the next day. Nothing over-the-top—just enough to catch Bob’s eye.
On Wednesday, you get Reuben to help you into your flight suit. You both time it perfectly: he exits the locker room just ahead of Bob, and you appear a second later, flashing a flirty grin before asking sweetly for his help. You giggle and call him a sweetheart while Bob nearly trips over his own feet, glancing back with a clenched jaw and a look that could burn a hole through steel.
Thursday morning, Reuben brings you a coffee—exactly how you like it—straight to the briefing room. You proclaim, not so quietly, that he’s giving total boyfriend material before he drops into the seat beside you and you both giggle over a (completely fabricated) inside joke.
That afternoon, during a short break between drills and the next briefing, he offers you a bite of his protein bar. You take it right from his hand, licking your lips and throwing him an innocent little wink before sauntering off like it’s nothing.
By Friday, Natasha warns you that the others are starting to notice. But you’re in too deep to pull back now—not when Bob looks like he’s about to unravel. He’s been tighter than ever, watching you like a hawk, eyes dark and stormy instead of their usual calm denim blue. You’re close. So close. And honestly? You’re kind of having a little too much fun.
That afternoon, during post-flight checks, Reuben sidles up behind you under the guise of pointing out something ‘mechanical’ on your jet. You’re not actually doing anything with it, but that doesn’t stop him from standing unnecessarily close, guiding your hand with his as he gestures toward something supposedly critical. The two of you are seconds from cracking up, but Bob doesn’t know that. Bob, from all the way across the hangar, looks frozen—eyes locked, breath held, jaw tight—as Reuben presses flush against your back.
Natasha really shouldn’t be enjoying this as much as she is, but honestly? She can’t help it. It’s too damn entertaining.
“Hey,” she says, nodding at Bob as she approaches. “You good?”
He blinks, then turns his sharp gaze on her, jaw tight. “Yeah.”
She snorts. “That was very convincing.”
He rolls his eyes and turns robotically back to the maintenance logs he’d been filling out.
Natasha glances at the paperwork, noting the hard press of his pen and the uneven ticks and crosses—some scribbled over multiple times—down the checkbox column.
“Wow,” she mutters, raising a brow. “You sure you earned your pen licence? Or should you still be on pencils?”
Bob’s blue eyes flick up, darker than usual beneath his furrowed brow. “Ha. Ha.”
“Okay,” she says, biting back the laugh rising in her throat. “So, bad day?”
“Bad week,” Bob grumbles.
Natasha nods slowly. “Well, hey, why don’t we fix that by hitting up The Hard Deck tonight?”
He snaps the logbook shut and tucks the pen into his pocket. “Pass.”
“Oh, come on,” she sighs. “It might make you feel better.”
His eyes flick toward you again, watching as you and Reuben dissolve into giggles beside your jet.
“I doubt it.”
“Sunny’ll be there,” Natasha says, her voice light and teasing.
Bob doesn’t respond. Just keeps packing up his things—every motion a little too sharp, a little too fast.
Natasha exhales. “Come on, dude. Just come for one drink—it doesn’t have to be beer. Blow off some steam. If you hate it, you can bail early. But it won’t be the same without you.”
He takes a breath and closes his eyes for a beat before letting it out slow. “Fine. One drink.”
Natasha grins, her eyes sparkling even in the dimming light of the hangar. “Perfect.”
Later that night, Natasha drives the four of you—Reuben and Mickey included—to the bar. Everyone else agreed to meet there, and she insisted on driving so you could have a few drinks. Not just to loosen up for another round of torturing poor Bob, but to actually let loose a little. She can tell this whole thing is winding you up, and she figures a few beers and a night with friends might help ease the tension—and the guilt—and maybe even the gnawing fear that this whole plan could blow up in your face.
“Nat, are you sure this dress isn’t too short?” you ask, holding the hem down against the curve of your ass as you follow her toward the main entry door. “I haven’t worn it in years.”
“There’s no such thing as too short,” Mickey says, deadpan.
You roll your eyes and step inside, into the warm glow of golden lighting and the low hum of half-drunk conversation. You let go of your dress now that there’s no breeze threatening to lift it, and try to relax, even with the strange sensation of bare legs in public. You’re used to flight suits, not feeling this on display.
“Ready to put on your best performance yet?” Reuben murmurs, slinging an arm over your shoulder.
You take a deep breath, feeling it rattle faintly in your chest. “Let’s do this thing.”
Natasha shoots you a wink over her shoulder, already striding confidently across the bar, her gaze locked on the usual booth where the rest of your friends are waiting.
There’s a chorus of greetings as the four of you approach, and you all grin and wave, waiting as Bradley, Jake, Javy, and Bob shuffle around to make room. Natasha pointedly takes the spot beside Bob, with Mickey sliding in next to her. You claim the seat beside Jake—which puts Reuben on your other side. Just as planned.
It’s a little squishy, but after so many nights like this, none of you really notice. Except Bob. He’s noticed tonight. His eyes are locked on the way your side is pressed to Reuben’s, his arm is slung casually over the back of the booth, fingers just barely grazing your shoulder.
“He looks like he wants to kill me,” Reuben whispers in your ear, low enough that you can barely hear him over the chatter of the bar. “Pretend I said something funny. Laugh like you’ve got a secret.”
You blink slowly, resisting the urge to roll your eyes, and let out a soft giggle as you lean toward him just a little.
“You’re a pretty good actress,” he mutters before pulling back slightly.
You glance up at him through your lashes, feeling more at ease with the close proximity after the past week. Then you straighten your spine and lean in, your lips grazing his jaw as you whisper in his ear.
“You’re annoying.”
He chuckles quietly, though you know he really wants to snort and smack you on the shoulder. You’re both enjoying this just a little too much, getting a kick out of your undercover roles.
When you turn back to the rest of the group, Natasha is very deliberately not looking at you—and you know it’s because she’ll laugh if she does. Mickey, on the other hand, is watching with wide eyes, as is Javy. Jake and Bradley are still arguing about something on your other side, and Bob… Bob still looks like he’s ready to commit first-degree murder.
“Drink?” Reuben asks after a beat, his smile smooth.
You nod. “Absolutely. I’ll help you.”
You both stand and offer a round to the rest of the table, most of whom accept—which makes it less suspicious that you’re going together. At the bar, you make sure to stand just a little closer than necessary as he orders a round of the usual from Penny.
“Are you sure we’re not pushing it?” you ask, your voice laced with quiet worry.
Reuben shakes his head. “Nah, not yet.”
You frown. “Yet?”
“He’ll snap one way or another,” he says, leaning casually against the bar. “He’ll either lose it and blow up over something totally unrelated—and that’s when we’ll know we’ve gone too far. Or he’ll wake the fuck up and fight for what he wants.”
You open your mouth to voice another concern, but Penny is already sliding the tray of drinks across the bar. Reuben thanks her with an easy smile as you grab the two beers that didn’t fit, flashing her your own grateful grin before following him back to the table.
When you set the beers down, you feel the neckline of your dress slip just a little lower. Your eyes flick up to see if anyone’s noticed—and of course… Bob. His gaze is dark and locked on your chest, clearly able to see right down your dress. He doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t even try to look away. He just stares.
But then he blinks and glances aside, not flustered or ashamed—just determined not to meet your eyes.
You straighten up and clear your throat. “I’m just going to duck to the bathroom.”
Then you turn and begin weaving your way through the bar, desperate for a moment to yourself—even though you haven’t been here that long—and to check that you don’t look completely ridiculous in the dress Natasha convinced you to wear.
You take your time in the stall, then rinse your hands under the cool water for a little longer than necessary. When you glance at your reflection in the full-length mirror, you’re surprised—and a little impressed. Because damn… you do look good. Maybe this dress deserves to see the light of day more often. And if Bob’s stare is anything to go by, it’s definitely not a bad idea.
You take a deep breath before pushing open the bathroom door, ready to continue your little charade—but you barely make it a few steps before someone blocks your path. You blink and stumble, stopping short before you run right into him.
You sigh when you realise who it is, that cocky smirk etched across his face. “What do you want, Hangman?”
“I want to know what’s going on.”
Your pulse spikes, but you do your best to keep your expression calm. “What do you mean?”
“Between you and Payback,” he says, narrowing his green eyes. “Because I know that’s not real.”
Your breath catches—too quickly—giving you away as your gaze flicks to the side. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
He rolls his eyes and leans in slightly, keeping the conversation low and private in the hum of the bar. “Don’t try to gaslight me, Sunny. I’m not an idiot. I know Phoenix is in on it—because of course she is—and Fanboy too, judging by the way he giggles every time you and Payback so much as look at each other.” He quirks a brow, daring you to challenge him. “The only reason Coyote hasn’t said anything is because he’s too polite, and Rooster hasn’t noticed because he’s too wrapped up in his own shit.”
You cross your arms and narrow your eyes, matching his bravado. “You missed one.”
He frowns. “What?”
“You listed all the members of the squad… except one.”
“Right,” he chuckles dryly. “Bob. That’s the funny thing, because ever since we got to this island, you’ve been starry-eyed over Floyd, and he’s either too clueless to notice or too stupid to ask you out.” He pauses, letting it sink in, then leans just a bit closer. “Which is exactly why I’m not buying whatever you and Payback have been trying to sell this past week.”
You stare at each other for a beat, both stubborn and scowling, waiting for the other to fold first.
Then you sigh. “Okay, fine. But you have to swear yourself to secrecy.”
His smirk stretches into a full grin. “I knew it.”
“Swear it.”
“Okay, okay,” he says, holding up a hand. “I swear. I won’t even tell Coyote, and my pillow won’t hear a thing about it.”
You nod. “Good. Now come over and pretend to pick a song so this doesn’t look suspicious.”
You grab his wrist and tug him toward the jukebox, leaning over it and pretending to scroll through options while you give him a quick summary of Operation Bob’s Blue Balls—leaving out a few of the more... intimate details.
“So there,” you finish. “It’s underhanded and immature, but that’s what’s going on.”
His expression barely shifts the entire time, just the usual entertained glint in his eye and that ever-present smirk.
“Underhanded and immature?” he says. “I’m surprised I wasn’t in on this sooner.”
You roll your eyes.
“I want in.”
You blink, brow furrowed. “What?”
“I want to help,” he says, plainly.
You narrow your eyes, sceptical. “Why?”
He sighs and braces one hand on the jukebox, leaning in like he’s about to reveal some classified information. “Believe it or not, I’m not the worst guy in the world. I have a few ideas, and I think you two would be cute together.” He pauses, then adds in a quieter voice, “Besides, I’ve been going through a bit of a dry spell, and I figure helping other people get laid might buy me some good karma.”
You snort softly as he pulls back, his cheeks faintly pink.
“Alright,” you say. “You can help. But nothing obvious and nothing stupid. The last thing I need is Bob figuring this out and hating me for it.”
He rolls his eyes, that signature smirk firmly back in place. “Bob could never hate you. But I’ll be subtle.”
“Good.” You glance past his shoulder toward the booth across the bar. “We better get back before they get suspicious.”
“Wait,” he stops you with a hand on your shoulder. “One more question.”
You raise your brows, prompting him to go on.
“When you fantasise about Bob, is he the top or the bottom? Because I just think you should manage your expectations—ow!”
He winces, rubbing the spot on his chest where you smacked him, watching you with a wounded look as you shove past with an exasperated sigh.
Great. Now Hangman is involved...
You spend the rest of the night practically glued to Reuben’s side, as planned. But now you’re a little on edge. You keep half an ear tuned to Jake’s voice, waiting to see when he might strike—and what he might say when he does. You trust him not to blow the whole thing, but you’re more than a little nervous about what his version of ‘helping’ might actually look like.
“Another drink?” Reuben asks, just as you finish the last of your third beer.
You nod, a bit too eagerly. “Yes, please. Maybe something stronger this time.”
He chuckles and slides out of the booth, offering his hand. You take it, letting him guide you up toward the bar. You’re so wrapped up in your thoughts that you barely register the feel of his hand slipping from yours and settling at the small of your back, his thumb rubbing slow, comforting circles there.
But Bob notices.
And Jake notices Bob noticing—taking special joy in the way Bob’s hand tightens around his bottle of Coke, knuckles going white.
Jake clears his throat and casts a glance toward the bar, leaning forward slightly. “They’re cute, don’t you think?”
There’s a beat of silence as Bob swallows—hard—and Natasha just blinks, clearly trying to catch up. Then the lightbulb goes off, and a wicked grin stretches across her lips.
“Yeah,” she says, her eyes following Jake’s. “I think they’d make a good couple.”
Bob snorts. Actually snorts. But he keeps his gaze fixed on the label he’s been picking at on his bottle.
Natasha arches a brow. “Something funny?”
Bob shakes his head. “No.”
“Really?” Jake presses, grinning. “Could’ve sworn you just laughed, Floyd.”
“It wasn’t a laugh,” Bob mutters. “More of a… breath.”
“Oh, a breath,” Natasha echoes, clearly amused. “Because it sounded suspiciously like judgment.”
“Or jealousy,” Jake adds, leaning back with a smug grin.
Bob’s gaze flicks to the bar—and to you—then just as quickly snaps away. “I don’t care who she dates.”
Natasha hums, fighting a smirk as she lifts her beer to her lips, “Didn’t say you did.”
Shortly after you and Reuben return to the table, giggling like idiots, Bob leaves. He mutters something about not feeling well and ducks out before even saying a proper goodbye. Part of you feels wrecked with guilt—but another part… is quietly hopeful. Because Bob isn’t like this. He’s good at regulating his emotions, even better at staying calm under pressure—he’s a fighter pilot, for God’s sake. But this? This is different. He’s never stormed out on the brink of losing control. Sure, he can get a little frustrated sometimes, maybe throw a snarky comment—usually at Jake when he pushes too far—but that’s as far as it goes.
If you didn’t know any better, you’d say he’s starting to unravel…
You spend most of the next day on the couch with the aircon blasting, while Natasha works through some paperwork at the kitchen table. It’s too hot to go outside, and you’re too distracted to do anything that requires even an ounce of brainpower. So instead, you let your mind rot with cartoons, obsessively checking your phone for signs of life in the group chat.
“I can’t believe Hangman is in on this now,” Natasha mutters, not even glancing up from her papers.
You sigh and roll from your side onto your back, staring up at the ceiling. “I can’t believe he hasn’t cracked yet. If the roles were reversed, I’d be like a feral cat in heat by now.”
She snorts and lifts her head, flashing you an amused smirk. “You were already like a feral cat in heat for that man. Hence this whole situation.”
You laugh softly. “Yeah, not wrong.”
Your head drops to the side as you half-watch the TV screen, until the apartment door swings open with a dramatic gust of air.
“I hate to say it,” Mickey says as he breezes in, eyes wide, “but the man is a genius.”
Reuben follows close behind, and then Jake—grinning like he just solved world peace.
“I don’t know why you didn’t come to me sooner,” Jake says, strolling toward the couch. “I’m the king of seduction.”
You sit up, curling into the corner to make room for Reuben and Jake as Mickey heads straight for the fridge.
“I wouldn’t go that far,” you mutter, narrowing your eyes at him.
“Just wait until you hear the plan,” Reuben says, practically buzzing. “It’s perfect.”
Intrigued now, Natasha gathers her papers into one neat pile and joins you on the lounge. “Alright, Bagman. Let’s hear it.”
Jake’s eyes sparkle with mischief as he settles in beside Reuben. “Tomorrow, we’re going to the beach.”
“You’re already way off,” you cut in. “Bob won’t agree to hang out again. Not after last night.”
Natasha nods. “She’s right. He needs to cool off before we wind him up again.”
“Absolutely not,” Jake snaps, brow furrowed. “You need to strike while the iron’s hot. You need to push his fucking limits.”
Mickey appears from the kitchen, a bag of pretzels already open in his hand.
Natasha frowns. “Okay, but how? He won’t agree to go if he thinks Sunny and Payback will be there.”
Jake grins. “Which is exactly why he’s going to think they won’t be there.”
“You want us to lie?” you ask.
He gives you a flat look. “After all this emotional warfare, now you’re drawing the line at lying?”
You shrink back slightly. “I guess not.”
“Exactly.” He leans forward, elbows braced on his knees, hands clasped. “So—I’ll pitch the idea in the group chat. Sunny, you reply immediately that you’re busy—before Bob gets a chance to decline. Then Payback says something vague, like he might come or might not. That way, it looks like low numbers. And if Bob says no, the rest of us can guilt-trip him into coming. Which he will, as long as he thinks you’re not going to be there.”
Natasha tilts her head. “So... she will be there though?”
“Yes,” Jake says. “Just not right away. Give him time to relax, have some fun. We’ll play games—I’ll rile everyone up and get that competitive energy going.”
Everyone nods along, faces weirdly serious, like this is some highly classified mission briefing.
“Then, you two show up together,” Jake continues, gesturing to you and Reuben. “It’ll throw Bob off, but we won’t give him a chance to leave. We’ll keep the games going. Something with contact. You need to get right up in his space. Go all in. Because then... you’re going to knock him off his feet.”
“Literally,” Mickey mumbles, chewing a mouthful of pretzels.
You frown. “What?”
“Bump into him,” Jake says. “Literally knock him over. Skin-to-skin contact. I’ve seen the way he looks at you in a swimsuit—it’s borderline pornographic. Touching him? It’ll fry what’s left of his self-control. And then, when there’s a moment—just a second where you could apologise for being too competitive or whatever... you’re going to say something that makes him snap.”
You lean in, heart pounding now. “What am I going to say?”
-
The sun is high and brutal in the sky, and you’re already sweating—even though you’re still sitting in Reuben’s car with the aircon blasting.
“Do you really think this is going to work?” you ask, nervously bouncing your knee.
Reuben snorts. “If it doesn’t, the man isn’t human.”
“I feel bad,” you mutter, eyes scanning the stretch of gold sand through the windshield.
“You won’t feel bad when you finally see what’s in his pants,” Reuben says, barely paying attention as he scrolls through his phone.
Your eyes go wide and your head whips toward him. “So it is huge? I wasn’t just imagining that?”
He chuckles and looks up. “Oh yeah, he’s big. Like... big big. I remember the first time in the locker room—no one’s trying to look, obviously, that’s just not the vibe—but... damn. We couldn’t not look. Then everyone lost it. I think Hangman nearly cried.”
You press your lips together, trying to hold back a grin, but it’s no use—your cheeks are on fire, and your whole face feels like it's bright red.
“Damn,” you murmur, turning your gaze back to the front as your heart slams against your ribs.
Reuben laughs again, then cuts the engine, killing the aircon. “Alright. Pull yourself together. It’s go time.”
You climb out of the car and immediately wince at the lick of heat curling across your skin. It’s blistering—almost hostile—but at least you’re at the beach. Worst-case scenario? You’ll drown yourself in the ocean. Just walk into the surf and keep going. No one would blame you.
“Relax,” Reuben says, sliding a hand into yours like this is nothing. “This is going to work. Hangman might be insane, but I’m pretty sure it’s because he’s an evil genius.”
You roll your eyes, exhale hard, then square your shoulders and lift your chin.
You let Reuben lead you onto the sand, legs already working overtime to stay steady in the heat-softened grains. You can hear the chaos before you see it. Shouts and thuds echo over the sand as your friends tumble and crash around in a messy game of what looks like overgrown keepy-uppies.
“No hands!” Javy yells, just as Mickey swats the ball to avoid a direct hit to the face.
Mickey drops his hands to his knees, panting. “Can we play literally any other game? I hate this.”
“You only hate it ‘cause you suck at it,” Natasha says, catching the ball like it’s second nature and bringing the game to a halt.
You swear you can see Mickey roll his eyes from here. You and Reuben are still on approach, trudging through the soft sand, unnoticed—so far.
“What about football?” Jake offers, tossing the round ball aside and already pulling a proper football from their pile of gear. “Dog-fight football?”
“Three versus three?” Javy asks, sceptical.
“What about four v. four?” Reuben calls, hand cupped to amplify his voice.
Everyone turns, and there’s a beat of stillness as they clock you. Then Natasha flashes a wide grin beneath her sunglasses, and Jake’s face lights up like a very satisfied evil villain—his plan falling perfectly into place.
“Well, if it ain’t Sunny and Payback!” he calls, spinning the football lazily in one hand. “You two done playing your own games already?”
You ignore the jab and focus on not rolling your ankle in the damn sand. At the pile of bags, you stop to drop your stuff and hesitate at the button of your shorts.
Jake’s eyes are practically gleaming. “How about a swim to cool off first?”
Reuben strips his shirt with a single tug. “You read my mind, Seresin.”
The guys—already in their swim trunks—bolt for the water, crashing into the surf in a chaotic stampede. Natasha peels off her shirt and shorts, shoots you a wink, and strolls in after them like she owns the ocean.
Reuben doesn’t say anything before he leaves you, but he gives a barely-there nod—directed past your shoulder.
You don’t need to turn around to know who it’s aimed at.
Bob’s still standing where he was when the game fizzled out, statuesque. His hair is tousled and his lips parted just enough to make your stomach flip. You’re at least ten feet away, but you can see the rise and fall of his chest—too fast, too hard. But he’s not out of breath. He’s not flustered.
He’s furious.
And those blue eyes? Laser-locked on you. His entire focus narrowed like a sniper sight. Not a blink. Not a breath wasted on anyone but you.
You swallow and force your body into motion, unbuttoning your shorts and shimmying out of them before pulling your loose shirt over your head. You drop your clothes on Natasha’s pile and turn toward the water, steady on the lumpy sand.
And then you hit the firm part—wet, packed, perfect footing—and you dig in. Hips swaying, deliberate and lethal.
You don’t need to look back. You can feel the heat of his stare on every inch of exposed skin. It’s scorching. Possessive. Almost punishing. Like if he could touch you right now, he’d brand you.
Hangman might be a genius after all.
You hit the water with a sigh, not even hesitating before diving beneath a wave before it can knock you off your feet. It’s the perfect temperature—delicious against your too-hot skin.
You dive under the next wave, cool saltwater rushing over your body, and come up laughing as you slick your hair back. Natasha is standing beside you, arms outstretched as the water laps at her waist, her eyes fixed on the shore.
You wade closer, smirking. “Did you see his face?” you ask breathlessly, heart still pounding from the walk down the beach—or maybe from the way Bob had looked at you like he was plotting your murder. “I thought he was going to spontaneously combust.”
She doesn’t answer. Just keeps staring past you.
You frown as her jaw goes slack and her brows creep up, sunglasses slipping down her nose as she stares at something on the shore—expression caught somewhere between shock and awe.
You freeze. “What?”
She still doesn’t speak—just tips her chin the slightest bit, silently gesturing toward whatever has her stunned.
You twist around.
And promptly forget how to breathe.
Bob Floyd is pulling his shirt over his head.
Bob Floyd, the man who never takes his shirt off. The man who wears it in the ocean and somehow isn’t bothered by the soaking wet material clinging to his body like a second skin.
And holy shit.
It’s glorious.
Sure, you’ve seen him shirtless before. Once. That night. But that was in the dark—his body tense, your mind scrambled, neither of you thinking clearly enough to appreciate what was right in front of you.
But in the light of day?
Alabaster skin. Broad shoulders. Deep-cut abs like he walked straight off the set of a Marvel movie. Lean muscle rippling across his chest and arms in a way that feels criminal on someone so quiet and careful. Droplets of sweat cling to his torso like even the heat doesn’t want to let him go.
The sudden silence behind you confirms it—everyone else is staring too.
You blink, dumbfounded, mouth dry. “That’s illegal.”
Natasha huffs out a laugh like she’s short-circuiting. “I mean, I knew he was strong but—wow.”
You swallow. Hard. “I think I’m going to pass out.”
Your eyes follow him as he drops his shirt and turns toward the water, cutting through the waves like they’re nothing. He doesn’t glance at any of you. Just keeps his gaze locked on the horizon, jaw set tight, his body moving with single-minded purpose.
Before you can say something—or even blink—a surge of water smacks you in the face.
But it’s not a wave.
You cough and splutter, wiping the salt from your eyes and checking to make sure your sunglasses are still intact. When your vision clears, Jake is standing right in front of you.
“Wipe the drool off your chin,” he says, deadpan. “You’re supposed to be teasing him.”
You narrow your eyes, resisting the urge to shove him aside and keep watching Bob. “How did all of you know how cut that man is and not tell me?”
Jake blinks, thrown for a beat, then grins like the devil. “Wait—you’re mad because we didn’t tell you how ripped Bob is?”
You nod, arms crossing tight over your chest. “Correct.”
He lets out a disbelieving chuckle, shaking his head. “Well if that’s got you steamed, you’re gonna be beside yourself when you find out he’s got a massive-”
“I know,” you cut in smoothly, a wicked smirk curling at your lips. “Payback told me.”
Jake gapes at you, brows knitting—but before he can get another word out, you shove his shoulder and send him sprawling into the water.
When he resurfaces, sputtering and grinning, he points at you like a man on a mission—then lunges.
You squeal, laughing as he barrels toward you, sending up waves in every direction. The two of you splash around like kids, Jake playing it up—grabbing you, poking at your sides, both of you pretending to wrestle. All for show. Because you both know Bob is watching.
Eventually, the others join in, playful chaos erupting around you. And before long, you’re panting and breathless, dragging yourself back to shore, your cheeks and chest aching from laughter.
Everyone settles for a few minutes, drinking from their water bottles and trying to knock water from their ears. But then Jake stands up, football in hand and a wicked smirk on his lips, ready to commence Operation Bob’s Blue Balls – Phase Three: Straddle and Conquer.
“All right, I’ll pick teams,” he announces.
Normally, this would cause an uproar. But since most of you are in on the plan, everyone just nods in agreement.
“Phoenix, Payback, Bob,” he says. “You’re with me. The rest of you are on Rooster’s team.”
You narrow your eyes and cock your hip—it would seem strange if you didn’t challenge Jake just a little. “Why are you two always team captains?”
He winks. “Because we’re the best.”
You roll your eyes and turn away, joining the huddle with your teammates as Bradley and Javy argue over what your game plan should be.
After a few minutes of strategizing, the game kicks off. You’ve never loved dog-fight football—not like some of the others—mostly because it can get a little rough. But today… it’s more than just a game. It’s a full-blown performance.
You hang back for a bit, letting Jake and Bradley rile each other up and fire up their teams. Bob is still shirtless, which is a tactical advantage he isn’t even aware of—because every time he has the ball, every time he runs or blocks or is just generally in your line of sight, your knees wobble.
You’ve nearly forgotten what you’re supposed to be doing when Reuben jumps in front of you and snags the ball before you can—thrown by a very disappointed-looking Javy.
“Getting tired, Sunny?” Reuben teases, his grin smug. “I’m just getting started.”
Right. The plan. Flirting. Banter. Teasing Bob.
You step closer, slowing the game down a touch as you stretch onto your toes and drop your voice—but not too low. “Tired? Please. I’m still waiting for you to make me sweat.”
There’s a beat where you worry Reuben might break, might laugh—high on adrenaline and endorphins.
But then Jake hollers, “Cut it out, you two! Save the dirty talk for the bedroom!”
And the game is back on.
The sun beats down mercilessly, making every flexed muscle shine, every drop of sweat slide in slow, glistening trails. The sand is hot beneath your feet, but it’s nothing compared to the heat building as you and Reuben turn the game into one of Bob’s personal nightmares.
You dart to the left, brushing past Reuben with a smug grin, your fingertips dragging across his chest like you’re checking his heart rate.
“C’mon, hotshot,” you tease. “You could try a little harder.”
He laughs—low and amused—but gives chase, throwing a hand around your waist as you pivot. It’s all too easy to make it look a little too intimate, a little too tight. He lifts you off the ground to ‘block’ your goal and your head falls back in a laugh that’s just shy of indecent.
And Bob sees everything.
You feel it—his stare like hot coals dragged across your skin. When you glance up between plays, he’s standing at the edge of the group, jaw tight, shoulders tense, hands flexing like they’re ready to throw a punch. His eyes follow your every move like he’s marking a target, and if looks could kill, Reuben would already be six feet under.
You catch a toss, and Reuben crashes into you to intercept, spinning you both until you fall together into the sand. You land side by side, giggling like idiots—some might even say lovesick idiots.
He pushes up first and grins down at you, tipping his head suggestively. “Need a hand?”
“Oh, I don’t mind being on my back,” you say sweetly, just loud enough for everyone to hear.
You take Reuben’s hand and let him haul you off the ground, pulling you into his body just a little more than necessary.
“Damn, Sunny,” Jake calls from the other side of the makeshift field. “Takin’ a few hits today. Hope it doesn’t affect your game.”
You scoff, rolling your eyes dramatically as you dust sand off your body like everyone else paid to watch. “You know I like it rough, Hangman.”
There’s a chorus of oohs and a whistle from Mickey, laughter rippling through the group.
Except Bob, of course. He’s suddenly very interested in the sand, eyes locked on the ground—even though his rigid posture is telling you everything you need to know.
The game revs up again, and after a few scuffles, you snag the ball off a fumbled toss and break into a sprint, cutting across the sand with laser focus. Reuben’s behind you, winded, and the others are tangled up with the second ball—leaving only one person standing in your way.
Bob.
“Stop her!” Jake shouts, too far behind to intercept.
Bob plants his feet like he’s ready to block—muscles tensing, arms coiled. It’s almost enough to distract you. But you’re feeling competitive. A little reckless. And you’re seconds from a goal.
He hesitates when your eyes lock, just long enough for your wicked grin to register as you blow past him and skid to a halt—well over the line.
Your team erupts into cheers behind you, and you throw your hands up, chest heaving as you catch your breath. When you turn back around, he’s still watching you—eyes wide.
You flash him a slow smile as you walk past, brushing close enough to feel the heat rolling off his skin.
“Don’t worry, Lieutenant,” you murmur. “I’ll go easy on you next time.”
After a breather and a drink of water, everyone lines up for another play. Jake and Bradley drop the footballs into the sand, crouched and ready. Jake turns his head your way and gives you a subtle nod.
This is it.
Your heart thunders behind your ribs as you sprint and block and laugh along with the others. The competition hasn’t cooled—everyone is still hungry. Even Bob has snapped into focus, finally playing like it matters instead of just standing there watching.
And for a moment, it is just fun. No schemes, no strategy. Just friends, shouting and stumbling and laughing too hard to score.
But then the ball is in your hands again—and it’s time.
Bob is on defence—Jake made sure of that. You just have to get past him again. Or at least… make it look like you’re trying.
You tear forward. Jake is already behind you, Natasha lunges and misses by a breath, and Reuben very dramatically wipes out in the sand.
It’s just Bob now.
He sets his stance, head tipped down in focus. He’s going to stop you this time. Poor thing. He has no idea that’s exactly the plan.
You charge, feet kicking up sand, heart in your throat. His eyes widen just a second before you collide—your body slamming into his with just enough force to topple you both.
The ball flies from your hand as you hit the sand hard, clutching at whatever you can—his shoulders, his arms, solid and warm beneath your grip. You spit sand from your mouth and sit up fast—only to freeze, breath caught in your throat.
You’re straddling him. Hips locked against his. Chest heaving. His hands on your waist.
You don’t move.
You’re both panting. The air between you buzzes like static, and everywhere your skin touches his feels sunburnt and alive. His blue eyes are locked on yours—wild and stunned. Bright enough to drown in.
Your chest rises and falls with ragged breath, but you stay put.
“Does this count?” you ask, voice low and rough with adrenaline.
His lips are parted, soft and pink, breath coming in short bursts. His curls are wild, tangled with sand, and his glasses—crooked from the fall—are still somehow on. He looks wrecked. Shattered. Like you’ve stolen every coherent thought out of his head. His gaze flickers—searching your face, desperate not to meet your eyes.
You lean in just a little.
“If anyone else looked at me like that, I’d probably kiss them,” you murmur, squeezing your thighs around his waist. Then you bring your mouth dangerously close to his ear. “But we can’t do that... right?”
His breath catches—and his eyes finally snap to yours.
They’re wide and stormy now, brows drawn tight. He doesn’t breathe. He just looks. His mouth parts a little further, and you can see it all happening behind his eyes—every thought, every realisation.
Everything falls into place—the flirting, the giggling, the deliberate touches, the stolen glances. All of it. You’ve been baiting him. This whole time.
Before you can say anything else—before you can blink or breathe—
He snaps.
He flips you, smooth and fast, moving your body like you weigh nothing. Suddenly, you’re on your back, pressed into the sand, and he’s the one on top—straddling you, his weight holding you down.
And the look in his eyes could burn the sky.
He leans in, gaze sweeping over your face—your lips, your eyes, the pulse at your throat. He watches it thrum, just for a second.
You’re frozen beneath him. Every nerve on fire. Every inch of your body sparking. Your lungs are screaming for air, but you don’t know how to breathe. You can’t think. You can barely feel anything except him.
His breath ghosts your lips as he whispers, “Oh, you’re in trouble now.”
And then he kisses you.
Hard.
It’s not careful. It’s not sweet. It’s months of tension and stolen glances and aching want—every second of restraint finally unravelling in a dizzy, reckless crash. His mouth claims yours like he’s starving, like he’s waited too long and can’t wait another second.
His chest presses into yours, slick with sweat and dusted with sand, and you arch into it with a gasp. He groans against your mouth, a low, broken sound that feels like fire in your veins. You can feel every inch of him—solid and hot and so hard against your hip, unmistakable and unignorable.
You shift beneath him, dragging your leg up around his waist, just enough to tease. His breath hitches, and then he’s kissing you deeper, hungrier, like the noise you just pulled from him unspooled something he can’t reel back in.
You claw at his back—muscles tense and trembling under your fingers—trying to pull him closer when there’s no space left between you. The kiss turns feverish, tongues sliding, lips parting in desperate sync. You’re panting into each other’s mouths, completely lost.
There’s sand in your hair, in your mouth, sticking to your sweat-slick skin, but none of it matters. All that matters is the way he moves against you, the way he feels—like every bit of control he’d been clinging to has shattered.
When he finally tears his mouth from yours, he doesn’t go far. His forehead drops to yours, both of you gasping. He’s pink-cheeked and wide-eyed, lips swollen, pupils blown.
“Jesus Christ,” he mutters, voice wrecked, “you’re gonna kill me.”
And the way he says it—like a confession, like a prayer—makes you want to do it all over again.
“YES!" Mickey shouts, loud enough for all of North Island to hear.
Your friends erupt into cheers and screams, laughter lacing their gleeful proclamations as they jump and dance just a few feet away.
“Well, fuck me,” Jake drawls. “That was the hottest thing I’ve ever seen.”
You both slowly—reluctantly—turn your heads toward the noise.
“I can’t believe it worked,” Reuben mutters, grinning wide, eyes sparkling. “Phase Three actually worked.”
You’re still pinned beneath Bob as they all close in, every face lit up with smug satisfaction.
“You named it?” Bob asks, closing his eyes as his cheeks somehow grow even hotter.
“Oh yeah,” Mickey says, beaming with pride. “Operation Bob’s Blue Balls. Phase One was the run and the sleepover. Phase Two, Reuben. And this—” he gestures wildly at the two of you tangled in the sand, “this is Phase Three: Straddle and Conquer.”
Bob makes a noise. Somewhere between a strangled groan and a whispered prayer for death.
“You planned this?” he rasps, forehead dropping against yours again like he might just burrow into the sand and disappear.
Reuben shrugs, all innocence. “Worked like a charm.”
“Honestly,” Natasha adds, “we were starting to think you’d never get there. So… you’re welcome.”
You bury your face in Bob’s shoulder, mortified. He’s burning up beneath your hands—still—and breathing like he just ran a mile with you on his back.
Jake snickers. “Glad we could help you two get laid.”
“We haven’t—!” Bob blurts, redder than a stop sign.
You slap a hand over his mouth, grinning wickedly now despite the embarrassment. “Yet.”
There’s a beat—a millisecond of silence—before they all burst out laughing again.
Mickey curls over, clutching his stomach. Reuben walks away, cackling with his head tipped back. Natasha mutters, “Jesus Christ,” but she’s definitely smirking, and Jake claps his hands once as he says, “God bless the U.S. Navy.”
Bob drops his face into the crook of your neck and groans again, muffled, “I hate all of you.”
“Even me?” you ask, voice soft and teasing.
He lifts his head, chuckling softly. “No. But for all that? You’re definitely still in trouble.”
You lick your lips. “There’s no place I’d rather be.”
He sighs like you’re actively trying to kill him, then sits up and pushes to his feet—only to glance down at the massive bulge in his shorts, which looks borderline painful.
“Shit.”
You scramble up after him, stepping in close and pressing your body to his, barely able to contain your giggles as you shield him from the rest of the beach.
“Need a minute?” you tease, laughter lacing every word.
His eyes flash—dark, hungry. “You and I are gonna need more than a minute to deal with this.”
Heat floods your face and pools between your legs, thick and insistent.
“But,” he says, glancing toward the water, “I’m just gonna go for a quick swim.”
You nod, eyes wide and dreamy, watching him from beneath your lashes like an absolute idiot in love.
And he looks at you like you hung the sun. Like you’re everything. It’s enough to make your heart stutter and your pulse race. He has no business being this beautiful—this sinful—a perfect contradiction of sweetness and respect, with just enough hunger in him, just enough darkness, that you know you’ll be walking funny tomorrow.
And probably for the next few weeks while you learn how to handle his massive dick.
“Don’t look at me like that,” he mutters, a shy smile curling his lips. “You’re making it worse.”
Your jaw drops. “It gets bigger?”
He laughs, then leans in to press a kiss to your open mouth—chaste, but lingering. Like it physically pains him to pull away. But he does. And when he flashes you that boyish smile—equal parts sexy and shy—it knocks the breath out of you.
Then he turns and jogs toward the water.
It takes you more than a minute to remember how to move—how to function—but eventually, you manage to drag yourself back to the others, who are still laughing and chatting like the beach hasn’t just tilted sideways.
Natasha passes you your water bottle. “What’s Bob doing?”
You glance over your shoulder, catching sight of him ducking under a wave. A smile tugs at your lips.
i don’t know if you take requests but some yearning or very obvious bob having a crush on reader… like full on fluff and everyone makes fun of him cause he’s just that obvious
Plainclothes Man
Pairing: Bob/Robert Reynolds/Sentry x Avengers!Fem!Reader
Summary: Everyone at the compound knows Bob has a massive crush on you–except you.
Warnings: Semi-Spoiler for Thunderbolts because of Bob’s involvement but other than that…None :)
Author's Note: Hey y’all! I do take requests! Just to make that clear! Nothing is really off limits! :) I love this idea! So I thought I would start with it. I kind of rushed it a bit because I have so many ideas going at once for Bob right now, but I wanted to please y’all so hopefully it’s good :)
Word Count: 1,775
Bob was a neon sign of romantic agony.
Everyone could see it.
He was about as subtle as a firework in a library when it came to you, and everyone–everyone but you–knew that he had very obvious feelings for you.
At first, it was just the little things. He would hold the door open for you, make your coffee in the morning, and sometimes he would walk you to your training sessions carrying all your weapons and gear. God forbid you mentioned needing help with something too, because it was like he teleported into the room instantly just to be your knight in shining armor.
It would’ve been sweet–it was sweet–except for the fact that he looked like he was going to pass out every time you smiled at him, or the fact that the first time you touched him he felt like he was having a heart attack.
Not only that, but at the Thunderbolts compound, privacy was a myth. Everyone noticed the way he put you first, and nobody had the emotional maturity to leave it alone, especially during down times when everyone was home with no missions or jobs to run off to.
Idle hands made for cruel commentary.
They started small. Little side-eyes, snorts, giggles, the occasional cough-covered ‘lover boy’ muttered under someone’s breath when Bob stood the moment you entered a room, like he was always on guard.
Then it escalated.
Yelena turned it into a sport, narrating his reactions like a nature documentary when you weren’t present.
”And here we see Bob Reynolds in his natural habitat–blushing violently, hands wringing in his lap, trying not to pass out because Y/N said his name. Observe how he avoids eye contact while trying to remember how to function.” This would make him even more flustered, and only add to his embarrassment of wearing his feelings on his sleeve.
“Please stop,” He would say, with his face on fire.
Ava took to mimicking Bob’s dreamy stares behind your back when the both of you would talk to one another, making sure there was grotesque exaggeration to every detail. How his eyes would widen, and his lips would part, oftentimes she would clutch her chest dramatically and sway from side to side, which only made his cheeks go a bright red as he was talking to you.
Even Alexei, who should’ve had better things to do, began to offer unsolicited advice.
”You must confess, Bob. Women like confidence. You must say, ‘I am man of strength and softness, let us be passionate together!’” Bob nearly choked on the air he breathed, blinking up at Alexei, who was nodding like he had just offered the secret to eternal happiness, and not a line from a Soviet soap opera.
”I…I’m not saying that,” Bob stammered, voice thin with embarrassment.
“Why not?” Alexei boomed, looking over at Walker and Yelena as if they were going to back him up, “You are soft man! Strong man! Women love this contradiction!” Walker sipped his protein shake without looking up from his phone.
”Honestly Bob…It’s not the worst idea he’s had.” Bob looked like someone had just pulled the emergency brake on his nervous system. He was stunned by the agreement the idea was receiving, then he rubbed his hands over his face, like he could scrub away the humiliation clinging to his skin.
”I can’t say that…I’ll die in the middle of it.” Bob muttered, his hands muffling his voice, before hearing a little chuckle coming from Yelena.
”You’re like watching a candle melt under a heat lamp…Take it easy on yourself Bob.” She said, leaning back in her chair.
”Seriously,” Ava added, leaning against the counter with a yogurt in her hand, “ Just say something. Anything at this point will be better than nothing. And please hurry up, because you’re starting to give us secondhand embarrassment with this mating dance you’re doing.” Bob was about to say something then the door creaked open, causing him to pause mid conversation.
Bucky walked in with a towel draped around his neck, drenched in sweat from the endurance run he had done on the treadmill just moments ago, with a look of vague concern on his face.
”What’s with all the noise? I heard Alexei yelling about passion through the vents.” He said, glancing over at everyone who was crowded in the kitchen.
”We’re trying to get Bob to confess his undying love for Y/N.” Yelena replied, watching as Bucky looked over at Bob who was hunched over the kitchen island and flushing a scarlet red.
”Oh,” He said, like it suddenly made perfect sense, “…Wait, he still hasn’t said anything?” He added, confused.
“Nope,” Walker responded, still scrolling through his phone, not bothering to look up, “Somehow he’s been able to keep the verbal diarrhea to a minimum with her.”
“Barely. Last week she complimented him on how strong he was for carrying six bags of groceries for her in one go and he stammered over a thank you for two whole minutes.” Bucky let out a little laugh.
”Pretty sure you’re describing a stroke, not a crush/“ He started, wiping his face off with his towel, “What exactly are you waiting for, Bob? A written invitation from the president or something?” Before Bob even had a chance to answer, the door creaked open again, and you appeared.
You were still damp from the shower you had taken a few minutes ago, with your hair pinned back, and your skin still flushed from the heat of the water. You had on a soft, oversized t-shirt and…Bob’s sweatpants. He had given them to you last week without prompt, saying that you would be warmer in them, and since then, you managed to forget to give them back–whether it was on purpose or by accident, nobody really knew for sure.
Yelena had caught it immediately though.
”Wow…Y/N, those are some nice sweatpants, where’d you get them from?” She drawled, grinning like a cat that had just spotted a mouse. You glanced down at them and pointed.
”These? They’re Bob’s actually, so I have no clue where they’re from, but they’re super comfy.” Bob made a noise that could only be described as a choked squeak, as everyone glanced over at him in their own small ways. Yelena grinned.
”Oh, Bob’s, huh?” You nodded cheerfully, completely missing the way Bob’s soul was visibly leaving his body.
“Yeah, I was freezing after that mission last week and he just gave them to me. I forgot to return them, but they’re just too good to give up.” You replied, looking down at them fondly, like they were a luxury item of sorts, before adjusting the waistband a little bit, “Hope you’re okay if I keep them a little longer before giving them back to you.” You added, with a little smirk.
Bob–already pink from neck to ears–opened his mouth but only managed a soft, and cracked, “Yeah…Yeah totally fine.”
You smiled at him–kind, and warm, and totally unaware of how he was going to spontaneously combust in a few moments if you didn’t stop looking at him the way you always did, with this admiration and care.
Yelena nudged Ava as you turned to the pantry to grab your tote bag.
”I was about to actually go on a grocery run, I figured it’s a good time to stock up for movie night tomorrow…Bob, do you wanna come?”
He lifted his head almost immediately, like he wasn’t sure if he’d heard you correctly–or like he was still rebooting from the sight of you wearing his sweatpants again and saying you might want to keep them longer.
You looked at him with your eyebrows raised, and everyone else looked at him like a firing squad waiting to shoot.
”I-uh…Grocery run?” Yelena pressed her lips together to hold back a grin, before glancing over at Bucky who was shaking his head, then Walker glanced up from his phone, staring at him with a look that basically screamed ‘don’t you dare blow this.’
“Yeah, “ You said with a casual smile, “I was actually going to go because they finally restocked those kettle chips you like, and that weird sparkling iced tea…The lemon honey one. But I thought I’d just kill two birds with one stone and just take the whole movie night snack order now and get it over with…Y’know what I mean?” Bob felt like his entire chest was going to cave in under your words. The fact you remembered such little details about him killed him, because it gave him those butterflies in his stomach–the ones that gave him hope. Dangerous, reckless hope.
”He’ll go.” Yelena replied, “He’s not doing anything anyways, he’s super available right now, aren’t you Bob?” All eyes turned to him.
“I–uh…”
“He lives for those late night grocery runs,” Ava chimed in, “You’ve made his week.” Bucky crossed his arms, clearly entertained.
”Oh yeah, didn’t you say twenty minutes ago that your dream night would be picking out snacks with a girl you–respect deeply as a teammate?” He piled on, causing Bob to swallow loudly.
“Well that’s perfect then! I’ll meet you in the garage in five minutes!” You said brightly, giving him one last smile that probably shaved three years off his life expectancy before you turned and strolled out of the kitchen, with your tote bag bouncing against your hip. Everyone waited until the front door clicked to interrupt the silence.
”Oh Jesus.” Bob said, sinking his face into his hands, hearing Yelena clap like a coach at halftime.
”Alright, let’s lock in–because if you mess this up, Bob, you’re probably never getting another invite like that again.” Ava pointed her spoon at him like a judge handing down a sentence, before saying.
”And it’s the first time she’s asked you to come with her somewhere instead of you tripping over your shoelaces to offer a hand, so that’s a good sign.”
“Yeah,” Bucky added dryly, “So don’t think yourself into a grave for the love of god, because you’ve done it all backwards. She’s supposed to be wearing your clothes when you’re dating, not before.” Bob groaned louder.
Silver Screen, Make Me Scream | Robert "Bob" Floyd
Summary: The world is used to seeing Robert Floyd as a Navy admiral on a screen thirty feet tall. You're used to seeing him as the man who spoils you rotten, in and out of the bedroom.
Word Count: 4.2k
Warnings: f!reader, 18+ ONLY, older boyfriend AU, movie star AU, daddy k!nk, unprotected pinv, older bf Bob eats it from behind, cowgirl position, age gap, no y/n
A Note from Mo: Uh...this is porn without plot disguised as a filthy, flirty AU and I am waving from the bars of horny jail. Fellow old man fuckers, this one is for you.
It’s his cold pillow that wakes you.
No deep breaths or soft snores echoing around the vaulted ceiling. The absurdly expensive bedding all yours to take. Your late night should keep you asleep until noon, but it feels wrong to be in bed when you don’t have your lover’s solid warmth against your skin.
You pad down the terracotta-tiled hall and take in the views of the Pacific, the only artwork needed on this side of the house. Stormy blue and glass-riddled sandy white, the picturesque view sells itself. The waves crash on the beach below, their mellow sound seeping into the Mediterranean revival from the open patio doors.
He’s sitting outside in just his sweatpants, coffee in hand, as he watches the water while flicking through a thick stack of pages. The grey at his temples is bright under the early San Diego sun. You know he’s reading something important because he has those horn-rimmed glasses on, the ones he repeatedly complains are too tight around his ears. Won’t even waste a minute to go grab his preferred wire frames.
Robert Floyd may be retired from show business, but he’s hotter than the first day he graced screens.
Eyes lifting from the pages, he catches you staring from your spot by the French doors, negligee skimming your body in the soft ocean breeze. The lids of your eyes are still a little heavy with sleep.
“You need something, baby?” He pats his broad thigh and you assume your perch, snuggling against his sun-warmed skin as you shake your head. How is he always the perfect temperature? The chill from the ocean wafts over you as he wraps his arm around your waist.
Your lips part in a contented smile. “Just checking in on you, Daddy. Missed you in bed.”
“Sorry, baby,” he coos, brushing his lips against your temple. His thick pointer taps against the stack of pages that arrived by messenger at sunrise. “Agent asked me to give this a look over, see if I’d be interested.”
You tilt your head to see the title. “Is that-”
“Yes, baby girl. They’re asking me to come back. Just a few scenes with the new regime, but get to wear that admirals uniform one more time.” Despite him saying it so matter of factly, you can detect his giddiness at wearing those pins once again. “Not sure if it’s the right move though.”
You trail your finger along his pectoral, imagining the ironed uniform underneath your touch.
Robert Floyd had made a career of Naval action films, starting out as a fresh faced Weapons Systems Officer in his debut, to gracing the screen one last time as an Admiral in the franchise’s original conclusion. He’d won over hearts with his steely blue gaze and soft smile, never one for breaking the rules. Yet always the one who celebrated the hardest when his squadron completed a mission.
For military propaganda, he made a compelling poster boy.
Your entire childhood he had been on posters in the mall, trailers on the television during commercial breaks. Those bright sapphire eyes and gleaming pins burnt into your vision, uncontrollably charmed by the strong, silent type.
And now here he was, putty under your palms as you asked if he wanted more coffee.
Without a doubt he’d take the appearance, spend a day or two on set with the next generation of Naval action stars. The next year he’d appear on every talk show and repeat his modesty over his fifteen minutes on camera. Your Bobby would balk at the attention, but glow with pride as the host played his cameo for the audience.
Watching him flip through a few pages, you could already see the shy smile he would win the crowd over as he insisted the revival’s cast members were the real stars.
“What’cha thinking about, sweet girl?” You were so lost in your daydream that you missed his attention turning to you, warm palm running over your hip under your thin robe.
You stroke his jaw, fingers curling into the regulation-cut greying hair. The cut he’s kept since he was first cast in his early twenties. “You should take the role. You look handsome as an admiral.” You peck a light kiss to his lips. “Dashing, really.”
His blush is striking against the ocean sky. As you get up to go make you both breakfast, you can feel his eyes on you; an extra sway in your hips for his enjoyment. Bob lounges back on the outdoor set and looks between the breaking waves and the now slightly rumpled script.
He’s coming back.
The view of the ocean as you zip up I-5 is breathtaking, a gorgeous Southern California day. The early call time was less than ideal, but the energy in the car is electric. Bob’s hand wanders into the passenger seat to wrap around your bare knee, thumb tapping out an unknown rhythm as he navigates traffic.
He looks the vision of wealth and importance sitting in the front seat of his pewter grey Porsche 911 - a sleek upgrade for his 40th from the battered truck he’d been driving since he arrived in Hollywood. The car is understated in its elegance, like its owner. You admire his graceful lines of a life well lived, the pokes of silver woven through his hair. And yet his eyes carry that intelligent, sassy energy that keeps you on your toes, ready for the next challenge he brings you.
“You’re looking at me.” His eyes don’t leave the road, but the smile on the corner of his thin lips is playful.
You fiddle with his fingers, admiring the large dexterous digits. “Just so handsome, how can I not?”
Bob lifts your hand with his, allowing the platinum and diamonds of your bracelet to catch the morning sun - nearly blinding with their sparkle. He brings your interlocked fingers to his lips, pressing a loving kiss to the skin as he finally looks at you. His eyes are the same striking blue as the ocean behind him.
“Perfect girl, what did I do to deserve you?”
You’re wondering the same when he enters the studio lot, passing through security and finding your way to the set. There’s a bustle of commotion as the two of you join the crowd, everyone immediately hushing their voices as the talent arrives. Bob’s chest swells with power as everyone immediately caters to him before noticing you.
“That must be his assistant?” Rumors spread through the crew like wildfire, watching you prance behind film legend Robert Floyd like an excitable puppy. Eyebrows shooting up when he turns back and rests a hand on the back of your bare thigh, leaning close to ask if you want anything from craft.
You slide your diamond-covered wrist around his neck and peck his cheek. Definitely not an assistant.
Since the day he’d made his name on marquees, Bob had been surrounded by women. A tall man in Navy blues with the golden touch of Hollywood? His fellow cast joked more than once that tag chasers didn’t care whether you served the country or just did it on screen. Eventually he’d done the responsible thing and tried marriage, settling down with a woman who cared more about his flashy lifestyle than the quiet man behind the lights. Divorce was swift and the introvert reverted inside his shell, his film career quiet as the next generation of aviators took the screen.
And then you entered his life, with your open face and bright smile. A coffee shop in Coronado he frequented that you happened to pass. A bump of elbows over the creamer, his amused grin when you accidentally grabbed his drink in your fluster. You were so excited to meet a real movie star, a dream come true. And he looked so much bigger than his character - those shoulders brawnier, that jaw sharper. Yet the smile he gave you was heart-melting as you handed him your own coffee cup to sign, nothing else available.
It wasn’t until that afternoon you noticed he’d written his number in neat penmanship. You had to wait until that next night to know you were falling inexplicably in love with a man who the rest of the world already adored. He was bigger than life, your everything.
And for all of your affection, he spoiled you. Dates to restaurants you couldn’t pronounce in Liberty Station, private events with tickets you couldn’t afford. Every week a new trinket left at your bedside, sparkling in the low light while he hummed in the bathroom excited for you to notice. Few things brought him joy at this stage in life, but you traipsing in with nothing on but the latest diamanté left him positively enraptured.
People could stare and point and judge all they wanted. It was love, and it was all yours.
You’ve raided the mini bar and read through the call sheet when Bob finally comes back to his trailer. He strikes a bold figure in his Navy blacks - pins gleaming, white cap under his arm.
“Hello, gorgeous,” he greets you, swooping to kiss your cheek. But your breath is already stolen. You’d seen pictures, caught his movies at the old matinee in Balboa Park. But standing in front of you is the sexiest man you’ve ever seen. He looks so…official.
Bob was already feeling good in the wardrobe trailer, the crew he’d worked with for years stroking his ego as they put the final touches to his starched uniform. He’d be on screen for a total of eight minutes and he was going to look important every single second.
But with your eyes trained on him, pupils wide and mesmerized, it’s the only compliment he needs.
“They look good on you again,” you coo, tracing your fingertips over the sterling silver insignia pins. It’s hard to quell the rising heat as you look at him, standing tall in this uniform - his uniform - just like the posters and movie trailers of your youth.
He rubs his temples and grabs his wire frames from the counter, pressing a kiss to your cheek as he straightens up. “Feels good to wear them, baby. Not sure who I am if not in the ‘Navy’.” He chuckles around air quotes, morphing into a moan as you run your nails down his torso.
Even though he’s not in character, the suit transforms him.
He’s not your Bob, the man who walks around his big ol’ house in band shirts he got in the 80s and his worn shearling slippers. Squinting through his glasses while trying to read fine print for instruction manuals for more Lego sets than he needs, peppering your head with kisses as you sit between his knees. Your Bobby is always goofy and smiling when you come through the door, eager to wrap his arms around you as he patiently listens to all the friend updates from brunch. He’s warmth and safety, that side of middle age where you have to explain internet fads with a playful eye roll.
But this man…this man in front of you is stern and mighty, seizing the room with his intensity. He’s commanding in his own silent way, back straight and shoulders taught. No nonsense, just like the admiral he plays for screens around the world. His presence is intoxicating. You can’t decide if you want to dominate him or be putty in his hands.
You twist in his arms, pressing your chest to his as you smooth the lapels of his suit. It’s only natural that those big, practiced hands of his immediately slip to your legs. Two magnets drawn by the promise of touch. But once he’s inches from your pretty face, ready to ask you to help him read over lines, that gleam in your eyes has other plans.
His girl wants him.
“Babygirl, I’m in wardrobe.” His words say no, but the fervent way he’s stroking the skin under your hem says differently. He’s not immune to a tiny dress and puppy eyes. You watch his hand reach up to drag through greying roots before he remembers it’s styled, redirecting his frustration by slipping rough fingers around the nape of your neck. Holding your head still while he fights his sense of responsibility.
It doesn’t matter that you’re in a tin can trailer with no sound proofing. You lick your glossy lips and give him the most innocent smile. “Please? We can be super careful.”
He eyes you warily. The two of you together is messy.
“Please, Daddy?” You rub yourself against him, feeling the way he shivers underneath his stiff uniform. “I wanna know what it’s like to fuck an admiral. Please?”
He’s powerless against you when you’re like this. Needy and heavy-lidded, unsatisfied until you’ve had your fair share of him and then some. It’s only when you’re a panting mess full of his spend that he can regain any control against you. The age gap is exhilarating and exhausting.
His face dips to rest against your temple, the floral scent of your perfume clouding his senses. So sweet, so soft. You feel his groan against your cheek before he straightens up to his full height, towering over you with a stern expression on his face. Those elegant, practiced fingers tuck under your chin.
“Attention.” Your spine straightens, your breath deepens. “Let’s see if you’re up to regulation, lieutenant.”
A warm gush of excitement floods your body, soaking in your flimsy excuse for underwear. You watch your big, broad, authoritative boyfriend sink down into the plush trailer sofa, knees spread. Patting his thigh with an unamused brow quirk.
Exhilaration races through your veins as you eagerly straddle his lap, sundress sliding up your thighs as you perch prettily on his thighs. The vision of youthful glow, hoping to impress.
Bob traces your heated skin with callused fingers, lips pursed, before sliding a hand firmly up your back. The world spins as he flips you over his lap, your rounded ass exposed to his eyes, modesty barely covered by a scrap of lace.
“Uniform panty inspection,” Bob huffs out, fingers ghosting over the fabric. His voice is restrained, clipped. You stay as still as possible as you hold your breath. You want to pass this inspection so bad.
The firm touch of his ring finger to your clothed sex forces a moan to slip through your clamped lips. So close to giving you what you want. But he remains diligent, stroking your pussy through the fabric until he’s satisfied with the wet patch he created. “Perfectly up to code.”
His finger wraps around the strap of the thong and yanks it down, forcing you to further immodestly part your knees as he discards the sexy - yet unnecessary - piece of fabric.
Your mind is heavy with lust as you turn your head, trying to understand. Normally he’s between your thighs teasing the fabric for longer than you can handle. Your lips are still dry. But before your eyes and brain connect with the visual, film legend Robert Floyd has a rounded cheek in each hand and his tongue plunged deep in your pretty pink pussy.
Blunt nails dig into the soft skin of your ass as he re-acquaints himself with your taste. Sliding his thick muscle along the velveteen walls of your cunt, lapping up the addicting taste of your lust. Your head is empty as he forces you to take it, to enjoy the way he worships the very core of your being.
Saliva and arousal mix on his clean shaven face as he presses deeper, moaning as he feels you clench around him. His own pride growing as you wail with only his tongue fucking you. It’s wet and dirty, the heat along your skin eating you alive as you succumb to your pleasure.
These are the benefits of dating a man with experience.
His tongue retreats, laving over your folds with practiced precision. You bury your head in the rough sofa fabric, muffling the depraved sounds crossing your lips. Your fingers reach up and wrap around his thick wrist, needing a tether to reality. His free hand travels to his belt, loosening the leather and freeing his erection to the humid trailer.
He knows you and your tells. Dragging that wicked tongue back, he corners your little neglected clit. Sucks it into his mouth like an after dinner mint, savoring the tangy sweetness of you. Your hips thrust back at him, desperate for more as you begin your hedonistic descent.
Time and space lose all meaning as Bob goes in for the kill, switching between the heavy pulls on your clit and the slippery licks along your core. Blowing cool air where you’re most sensitive before sweeping in with his burning tongue. The combination of his stiff muscle fucked into your depths and his thumb bumping your swollen clit finally send you over the edge, a white light overtaking your body as you scream into the plush cushion below.
Film legend Robert Floyd cleans your juices from your shaking thighs thoroughly.
Begrudgingly, your limbs are jelly as you bring yourself to his level. Bob’s hands continue their ministrations to the globes of your ass, squeezing and groping the soft skin. When you finally find yourself sitting upright, his thick cock nestled between the soft lips of your cunt, he gives into his desires and draws his hand up, only to bring it down with a slap! The sound rings through the room and his cheeks tinge pink with arousal and embarrassment.
“Admiral!” you giggle as he repeats the harsh slap on the other cheek.
While you have the devastatingly sexy view of a sweaty admiral beneath you, his eyes are glued to the mirror across the trailer that captures the dark red handprint he wishes he could tattoo on your perfect ass.
Lips descend upon his and the trailer is filled with the slick sounds of tongues and moans, four hands grasping with the need to touch. But where to touch? His burning skin? The cool pins of his jacket? It’s almost too easy a choice to wrap your fingers around the bulbous head of his cock while he swallows your desperate little tongue.
“That’s it, feel how hard Daddy is for you.”
He finally pulls himself from your kiss-bitten lips as his hands tug down the neckline of your filmy dress, exposing your heaving breasts to the room. Lips dipping down to wrap around your hardened nipple, leaving teeth marks and wet kisses on tender flesh. Your moans egging him on to bite deeper, suck harder.
The world knows the reserved man who waits to speak, level-headed in the most dire situations. And yet here he is, the remnants of your orgasm staining his chin as he closes his eyes to better enjoy the peaked bud he’s devouring.
He’s delicious and all yours.
Your fingers tangle at the nape of his neck, grasping the short strands with all your might as you pull him off your chest with an audible pop. Those impossibly blue eyes look at you reverently, letting you call the shots so he can continue to enjoy your body as it deserves. You drag your shared gaze to where your bodies meet and a grunt involuntarily leaves him. Finally.
The first touch is a puzzle piece falling into place. The thick head of him asking for entrance, slick with your desire.
Those unbelievably large hands hold themselves delicately at your waist, assisting your descent. His eyes flicker between yours and the welcoming entrance of your cunt. Your commanding admiral - your sweet Bobby - grasps you securely as you try to sink further on his swollen cock.
“Daddy, it’s too big.” Your voice is pained, teary eyes struggling to hold his gaze just as he likes. His size splitting you open like his own personal cock sleeve.
“You can take it, baby, just breathe.” His heart threatens to beat out of his chest as your impossibly tight cunt squeezes around him. “There’s my good girl, gonna fit all of Daddy, aren’t you?”
Hesitantly lifting your hips, muscle memory takes over as you adjust. The ease of taking his thick cock coming back to you as your breasts bounce with your fervent movement. The lapel of his jacket wrinkles as you hold it, lip between your teeth as he grazes that spongy spot only he can reach.
He guides you in your pursuit of pleasure, admiring the way you thrust you chest out as you clench around him. One hand on his lapel, the other grasping his knee. Truly using his body to get yourself off. So unbelievably sexy.
Your admiral’s thumb finds your clit, rubbing persistent slow circles over the sensitive, swollen bud. Times a hard press with when you are completely full of him, your senses overwhelmed. Bob. Bob. Bob. His balls ache with the need to claim you as his.
Impatient, knowing call time is mere moments away, Bob lifts his hips to yours. Pumping his erection deep, all the way to the hilt as his balls brush your ass. He’s so deep, so perfectly deep. A guttural moan leaves your spit-slicked lips, begging for your orgasm.
“Are you going to cum for your admiral?” His deep voice rings through your ears as you chase your high, the world clouding as only his cock becomes your reality. Your fingers card through his hair, silver and golden brown weaving together to keep you grounded in your pleasure. “I said, are you going to cum for your admiral?”
“Yes!” The next lot over could probably hear you shout to the heavens, plunging yourself down on Bob’s thick cock as your orgasm plunges you over the cliff. Sweet relief flooding your senses as your pussy pulses around him as a thank you.
Your lips find his neck as you nuzzle in, hips still sunk low on his throbbing erection. You need to be filled with Daddy’s cum.
The stiff fabric of his uniform jacket rubs your bare skin as he holds you close, pressing your nipples to his insignia pins as he strongly thrusts those last few times. Grunting into your cooing mouth as he finally lets go, cock pulsing as thick white jets of his cum coat your walls.
“Thank you, Daddy,” you whisper in his ear when you carefully pull off, barely enough energy to keep your thighs closed for the sake of his uniform. He gently guides you onto your back, ever the gentleman.
You stretch your sore limbs and relax into the plushness of his trailer sofa, hands wrapping behind your head as you smile, satiated, while Bob’s creamy cum runs past your thighs to pool on the fabric. Your graying lover gives you a wry smile as he regains his breath against the back the couch, uniform crumpled and bearing a stain a little too close to his zipper.
Always so messy. But so worth it.
There’s a rap at the door, three quick knocks that shake you both from your orgasmic haze. Bob rushes to cover your modesty, fiddling with the hems of your dress with clumsy fingers. Wishing you were home so he could wrap you in his robe and run a bath before watching the ocean from the terrace instead of praying there’s wipes in this shoddy trailer.
“Mr. Floyd? We’re ready for you,” comes through the door. The PA who whispered you were an assistant, now only steps away from your bare breasts and dirty thighs.
You wiggle your eyebrows at Bob as you fix your own appearance, amused as the bigger than life Robert Floyd shuffles around the room, tucking in his button up and wiping sweat from his collar. Blush in full force as he hands you the thong resting on the kitchenette. He shakes his head at you, mirth softening the edges of his hard gaze. There’s another knock at the door.
Uniform fully back in place, Bob takes a moment to admire you before an afternoon in front of cameras. Enjoying this last moment before he gets into character. Hands on your soft hips, sated cerulean eyes appreciating the curves of your mischievous lips. “Be a good girl for me today and Daddy will give you a reward later. Deal?”
You bite your lip and nod with a smirk, opening the door of the trailer so he’s not later than he already is. Today you get to watch him do the thing he loves, that in itself is already a reward. The crowd outside the trailer watches you turn back and leave one last kiss to his lips.
“Yes…Admiral.”
Bob can’t wait to surprise you with the South Sea pearl and diamond earrings he’s saved for this day. It’s his baby girl’s first day on set, only the best to commemorate the occasion.
could we have some frank boyfriend hcs please? love ur writing !! <3
frank castle as your boyfriend. 𝜗𝜚 hc’s
r e q u e s t e d ♡
cw ᝰ .ᐟ gender neutral reader ,, sfw ,, it’s frank castle so 🤨 mentions of blood and stuff
FRANK AS YOUR BOYFRIEND . . . loves quietly. fiercely. like it’s carved into him. he’s not the type to write poems or whisper sweet things — but he brings you coffee before you wake up and keeps his arm around you in every crowded room. he remembers how you take your tea, what shirt you sleep in, the exact sound you make when you laugh too hard.
frank doesn’t fall in love. he commits to it. like a vow. something permanent. he watches over you the way most people breathe — effortlessly, constantly, without needing to think. puts himself between you and danger before you even register that something’s wrong. it’s not dramatic for him — it’s just instinct.
watches bad action movies with you and critiques the gun work the whole time. “that’s not how recoil works.” “no way that guy walks away from a wound like that.” but when you laugh at him for it, he gets all smug. “just saying. i could do it better.”
frank’s not invincible. he carries grief in his ribs and guilt in his spine. sometimes it catches up with him. some nights he won’t come to bed. just sits on the floor beside it, back to the wall, eyes dark. like if he closes them, he’ll lose everything. including you. he doesn’t talk about his past much. doesn’t talk about feelings either. but when he holds you it’s with this kind of aching gentleness, like you’re the last good thing in a world he doesn’t trust anymore.
he never asks for anything, but he always lights up when you touch him first. when you kiss his shoulder without warning. when you reach for his hand. like it catches him off guard, every time — the idea that someone like you could choose someone like him.
he always drives. always. he won’t say it out loud, but he needs to be in control — needs to protect you, even from a fender bender or a bad intersection. keeps one hand on the wheel and one on your thigh, thumb brushing back and forth. sings quietly when his favourite old songs come on. you almost miss it the first few times.
has a quiet little grunt-laugh when you get sarcastic. never full-on laughs — not the belly kind — but it’s a sharp exhale, a crooked smile, head tilted like “you got me.”
“you tired?” you’ll ask, and he’ll grunt something half-hearted. “i’m good.” but then he’s pulling you in, pressing his face into your neck, one heavy arm around your waist like a shield.
he doesn’t say i love you much. but he shows it in the way he always notices when you’re cold, the way he drives a little slower when you’re in the passenger seat, how he keeps an extra sweatshirt of his in your closet like it belongs there. frank listens when you talk. keeps your words tucked away like secrets. remembers names you mentioned once, the kind of books you like, the way you bite your lip when you’re about to cry but don’t want to.
he’s not scared of bullets or pain or anything that can be solved with his fists — but he gets scared of you leaving. scared that you’ll wake up one day and realize you deserve someone softer. someone safer, someone cleaner. so he’s careful. careful not to break things, careful not to raise his voice. careful not to bleed too close to you, even when he’s hurt.
keeps a toolbox in your apartment before he ever brings a toothbrush. fixes that squeaky cabinet door without being asked. rehangs your shelves, patches your drywall, silently wires your lamp so it stops flickering. doesn’t make a big deal about it — just hands you a cup of coffee after and kisses your forehead like it’s nothing.
does your dishes without saying a word. folds laundry with sleeves tucked in and socks matched. gets grumpy if you try to help while he’s in the zone. “i got it,” he mutters, brow furrowed like laundry’s a mission he must complete correctly. then he’ll look over and gently nudge you onto the couch. “sit. rest.”
like taking care of you is just part of his day.
he doesn’t sleep through the night, but he tries not to wake you. gets up quietly, makes tea in the dark. reads worn paperback thrillers with a flashlight like he’s still out in the field. but if you come find him — sleepy and barefoot, rubbing your eyes — he just opens his arms. pulls you into his lap, tucks his chin over your head.
gets oddly proud when he teaches you how to shoot. or fix a leak. or throw a punch. grins when you hit the target, calls you a natural. but the truth is he never wants you to have to use any of it. he’d burn the world down before he let something hurt you.
keeps a knife in the drawer by the bed. one in the glove compartment. one taped under the coffee table. it’s not paranoia — it’s habit. he was trained to anticipate the worst. but when you ask him about it, he softens. “just in case,” he says, hand resting on your back. “nothing’s gonna happen to you.”
he’s the kind of boyfriend who always knows when something’s off. even if you’re smiling, even if you say you’re fine. he notices when you’re quiet for too long, when your shoulders are tight. doesn’t push — just pulls you close, rubs slow circles into your back.
won’t ever tell the world what you are to him, but he keeps a photo of you tucked behind his driver’s license. always checks on it before he leaves for anything dangerous. you’re his anchor. his reason. he’s not a man who believes in second chances — but somehow, you are his.
he cooks like he’s back in the marines. efficient. fast. always enough for leftovers. but over time, he starts adding things just because you like them. makes your eggs how you like them, even if he doesn’t eat that way. tries your weird coffee orders without complaint. grumbles when he actually likes it. “too sweet,” he says, but finishes the whole thing.
when you fall asleep on the couch, he carries you to bed. always. tucks the blanket around you, kisses your forehead, brushes your hair back with hands that have broken bones and pulled triggers — but only ever touch you like you’re made of silk. then he lays beside you, arm wrapped around your waist, breath evening out to the rhythm of yours.
still wakes up too early. still checks the locks. still sits with his back to the wall in restaurants, even when it’s just brunch on a sunny sunday. but now he does it with your hand in his, thumb tracing soft, absent-minded shapes across your knuckles. he doesn’t say it, but his body speaks for him: i’ve got you.
he keeps things simple. practical. doesn’t like clutter. but then your books start piling up on the nightstand, and your sweater ends up on his desk chair, and your perfume lingers in the bathroom air — and he doesn’t move any of it. not even once. instead, he adds to it. a second toothbrush. a pair of slippers in your size. a grocery list stuck to the fridge that says “your coffee” in his blocky, all-caps handwriting.
he won’t say i miss you when you leave for a few days, but he’ll text to ask where you keep the cereal. then follow up with “never mind, found it.” when you come home, the bed’s made, the dishes are done, your favorite blanket’s draped over the couch. he doesn’t know how to say i missed you, so he just lives it.
he starts to laugh more. not loud, not often — but the kind that makes you freeze for a second because it’s real. usually when you tease him. or when you trip over nothing and pretend it was “parkour.” that little huff he gives, the crinkle by his eyes — it feels like a gift every single time.
he does that thing where he kisses the top of your head every time he walks behind you. in the kitchen, brushing your teeth, putting on your shoes. just a soft press of his lips to your crown.
you’re the only one he lets bandage him. he’ll brush off broken ribs like they’re nothing but sits still when you press alcohol-soaked cotton to a split knuckle. watches you like you’re something holy. like your hands could undo every war he’s fought.
reads labels now. like, really reads them. checks if the cereal has too much sugar. makes sure the medicine doesn’t interact with the one you take. won’t admit it, but he googled the skincare brand you use to see if it was safe.
refuses to let you carry heavy groceries. like, absolutely not. you once tried to bring in two bags and he took them out of your hands mid-step. “what the hell are you doin’?” he said, annoyed, already loading up his arms.
doesn’t like crowds, but he’ll go anywhere with you. leans down and says “stay close” in your ear, hand low on your back the whole time. doesn’t let go until you’re home again.
he won’t dance. won’t sing. won’t go to parties. but he’ll hold you in the kitchen, swaying slightly to the radio while you hum into his chest. that, he’ll do.
major dog person. duh. doesn’t care that he’s tough. doesn’t care that he’s seen things — nothing melts him like a dog wagging its tail. he’s the kind of guy who’s out in the yard throwing a ball, talking in that low, soft voice that only dogs get to hear. “go get it, buddy!” and you almost can’t believe it’s him saying it.
makes sure your car is always in running condition. not just oil checks, either. he replaces your windshield wipers, cleans the headlights, checks the tires — all without you asking. it’s like his way of protecting you, even when he’s not around. he knows it’s a small thing, but it’s one more way to make sure you’re taken care of. you get a flat tire? frank’s there in a second. doesn’t matter what time it is, doesn’t matter if he’s just gotten home after a week-long job. he’ll grab the tools, roll up his sleeves, and take care of it — no problem.
when he gets home after a mission, he’s quiet at first. but then he’ll slide into bed next to you, pull you close, and breathe you in like he can’t quite believe he’s back. “missed you.” he’ll whisper, voice hoarse, like it took everything out of him just to say it.
when you’re quiet, lost in thought, he notices. doesn’t pry, but always checks in with a low “you alright?” just so you know he’s paying attention.
frank is actually really into music, but only plays it when he's alone with you. he has an old guitar stashed in a corner of the apartment and you’ll catch him strumming it softly in the mornings before either of you are fully awake.
whenever you’ve had a bad day, he’ll quietly take care of things around the house — extra dishes done, the laundry folded without you asking, everything wiped down and cleaned up. not because he has to, but because he wants you to feel like home, like you have one less thing to worry about. he doesn’t say anything about it; he just silently goes about it while you take a nap or relax.
he’s sentimental about your things. you’ll catch him carrying around a keychain you gave him, or putting a postcard from your last vacation on his fridge. it’s subtle, but there are all these little pieces of you around his place — items that remind him of you, things that carry a piece of your heart.
good at remembering all your friends’ names. and the names of their kids. and their jobs. you’ll be like, “i saw claire today,” and frank will be like, “the one with the twin boys? she doin’ okay?” like it’s his job to keep track of your whole social circle now.
he has a weird soft spot for baking shows. says he doesn’t care, just watches ‘cause you do — but then suddenly he’s dead serious about whether the sponge is overbaked. sits there with his arms crossed, judging the contestants like he’s on the panel. “too much fondant. gonna cost ‘em.”
he’s surprisingly good at picking gifts. not flashy ones — thoughtful ones. a new mug because your favorite one cracked. a hoodie from a concert you couldn’t go to. a book by that author you said you liked once, six months ago. he remembers everything.
he buys you snacks when he’s mad at you. not big mad — just quiet, brooding, stubborn mad. instead of talking it out right away, he drops a bag of your favorite chips or candy on the counter and walks away like that settles it. it kind of does.
he’s so gentle with your stuff. your phone, your clothes, your decor — he handles all of it like it’s fragile, even if you toss it around like nothing.
he has zero patience when you’re sick. not annoyed — just worried. extra gruff. keeps asking “you need anything?” even though he just brought you tea, tissues, meds, and a hoodie. paces around the house like he’s prepping for battle against your cold.
he doesn’t talk in the mornings. just grunts and nods. but if you’re up before him and being cute or busy or just existing in his space, he’ll pull you into his chest without saying anything.
he’s not a big texter, but he reads all your messages the second they come in. always leaves you on “read” because he’s looking at it immediately, even if he replies 3 hours later with just “ok” and a thumbs-up emoji he definitely didn’t mean to send.
he always checks the expiration date on your food. opens the fridge and mutters under his breath about the milk “cutting it too damn close.” doesn’t want you eating anything that’ll make you sick. throws out the sketchy yogurt when you’re not looking.
he’s so good at reaching things for you. doesn’t matter how tall you are, he lives to reach the thing on the top shelf before you can. you stand on your toes, and he’s suddenly behind you like, “you’re gonna hurt yourself.” then hands it over like a knight returning a holy relic.
he doesn’t like you walking home alone. ever. if he can’t come get you, he’ll track your location. texts you the whole way like, “where are you now?” “you inside yet?” “door locked?” and you know the second you stop answering he’s already throwing on his jacket.
he uses your bath products and thinks you don’t notice. you’ll wonder why your fancy shampoo is suddenly disappearing faster, but then he walks past smelling like lavender and vanilla and acts like nothing’s different. you bring it up once and he grunts, “smells nice. don’t make it a thing.”
he tucks your legs into his lap when you sit next to him. even if he’s sore. even if you’re fidgety. he just wants you there — anchored to him, warm and close. sometimes he absentmindedly rubs your calves or traces circles on your ankle while he watches the news.
he hates being away from you overnight. says he doesn’t mind, but when he’s gone, he sleeps like shit. texts you random things at 3 a.m. — “you lock the door?” “the heater working?” “dog okay?” you know he only really rests when he’s home and you’re curled up next to him.
he always brings you water before bed. even if you don’t ask. even if you forget. there’s always a glass or a bottle on your nightstand when you crawl under the covers.
he kisses the inside of your wrist when he’s too tired to speak. when the day’s been too much. when his body hurts and his mind’s too loud — he pulls your hand to his mouth and presses his lips there.
he never lets you pump your own gas. doesn’t matter the weather. rain, snow, heatwave — he takes the keys and gets out before you even unbuckle. doesn’t say a word about it. just does it because it’s second nature now.
he always opens jars for you, even when you don’t ask. like you’ll just be holding it, about to try, and suddenly he’s there. doesn’t say anything, just takes it, opens it, hands it back.
he lets you warm your hands on him. no complaint, no hesitation. just grabs your frozen fingers and presses them to his neck, under his shirt, into his palms. grunts when it stings, but never pulls away. just says, “go ahead. s’okay.”
always lingers at the door when you leave. watches you walk to your car, stands there until you’re out of sight. won’t move. won’t blink. like part of him won’t settle until you’re home again.
he’s weirdly good at untangling necklaces. big hands, thick fingers, but somehow he’s patient as hell with tiny knots. sits at the table, squinting like he’s disarming a bomb.
he knows which drawer all your stuff is in. at his place, at your place, doesn’t matter — he knows where you keep your chargers, your snacks, your pain meds. grabs things before you even ask. sometimes you wonder how he pays that much attention. you forget — he’s a soldier. he notices everything about what he loves.
he lowkey judges your shoes. not fashion-wise — function. “you’re gonna walk five blocks in those?” and if you say yes, he just sighs and gives you his arm the whole time. doesn’t say another word. but if you stumble once? “told you.”
has a deep, secret love for hot chocolate. doesn’t ask for it, never buys it, but if you make it? he’s sipping it silently, eyes half-lidded, shoulders relaxed. you catch him making it for himself once. refuses to make eye contact.
he gets the mail before you can. every day. rain or shine. not because he cares what’s in it — because he wants to be the one to deal with anything stressful before it reaches you. bills, notices, whatever. you only ever get the fun stuff. the packages. the postcards.
he remembers anniversaries you forget. first date. first road trip. the day you moved in. doesn’t make a big deal out of it, just quietly brings home your favourite dinner or sets a movie up you mentioned on that day.
he absolutely has a favorite mug. won’t admit it. but if you’re ever using it, he pauses for a second like he’s been emotionally robbed. won’t take it back, though. just pours his coffee into something else and quietly hopes you offer to switch.
he fixes things that don’t even belong to him. neighbor’s broken porch light? fixed. squeaky gate down the block? doesn’t squeak anymore.
never lets you walk through the door first if it’s dark. goes in ahead of you, even if it’s your place. checks the rooms out of habit. flips the lights on.
knocks before entering your space, even when you live together. bathroom door cracked? he knocks. bedroom door half-closed? still knocks. doesn’t matter if he knows you’re alone — he respects your space.
weirdly good at calming you down in traffic. if you’re driving and someone cuts you off? hand on your thigh. if you're stressed about getting lost? “take the next right, i got you.”
he teaches you how to punch — gently. wraps your hands himself, touches your wrists like he’s afraid they’ll bruise. he holds the pads out and murmurs “that’s it, right there,” every time your form’s good. he doesn’t teach you so you can fight. he teaches you so you won’t ever feel helpless.
so careful when you’re sleeping. gets out of bed like you’re made of glass. turns the TV down low. covers you up without waking you, tucks your hair behind your ear, kisses your shoulder and just stares for a second like he still can’t believe he gets to have this.
he writes down your car’s license plate. and the make. and the year. and the tire pressure. keeps it in a little notebook in his glove box — not because he’s nosy, but because he needs to know in case anything ever happens.
puts his name down as your emergency contact without asking. just does it. one day you’re filling something out and he goes, “already on file.” like it’s the most natural thing in the world. like of course it’s me. who else?
he reads manuals. like, actually sits down and reads them. toasters. phones. whatever you buy, he knows how to fix it, clean it, use every setting.
he wears your hair ties on his wrist. even when you didn’t ask him to. finds them in the bathroom or under the couch and just keeps them there like it’s a reflex. you don’t notice until one day he silently hands you one without looking and you realize — he’s always paying attention.
calls you “kid” sometimes, even if you’re not younger. not condescending — it’s fond. soft. it slips out when he’s feeling protective. like, “c’mon, kid, get some rest,” or “you did good, kid.” and if anyone else calls you that, he bristles like no — mine.
he gets tense when you’re near windows at night. especially lit ones. moves around the room in ways that put him between you and the glass. not paranoid. just hardwired to protect you. you don’t notice until one night you go to close the curtains and he’s already there, pulling them shut with a soft, “let me get that.”
he texts you like he’s on a recon mission. all short updates: “headed back.” / “store’s packed.” / “traffic’s shit.” but every now and then, he’ll throw in something like “you eat yet?” or “thinking about you.” and those are the ones that wreck you a little.
he always leaves the porch light on if you're out late. even if you say you don’t need it. even if you’re only gone for ten minutes. it’s not about the light. it’s about you always having something to come home to.
he’s secretly a little superstitious about you. doesn’t let you say things like “what if something happens to you.” knocks on wood under the table. leaves the porch light on even when you’re only gone ten minutes. he’s seen too much not to be cautious. and you — you’re the one thing he refuses to lose.
double-knots your laces. crouches down in front of you without a word, doesn’t make it a thing. just ties them up snug and gives your ankle a gentle pat before standing.
sets your things by the door if you’re running late. bag, keys, jacket, water bottle. lines them up neatly like he’s giving you every small advantage he can. “you’re gonna be late,” he says, already handing you your coffee. you kiss his cheek on the way out. he pretends it didn’t make him smile.
he gets fussy if you don’t eat. doesn’t scold, just… fusses. quietly. starts cooking something without asking. sets a plate in front of you like “you don’t gotta finish it, just eat a little.”
wears your chapstick when he can’t find his. acts like it’s no big deal. “same stuff, right?” but if it smells like you he ends up keeping it in his pocket the rest of the day.
refills your water bottle. always. before bed. before work. if you leave it in the car, he brings it in and tops it off. just does it. in his head, hydration = survival = love.
he buys you medicine before you even realize you’re sick. notices you sniffling or rubbing your temples, and the next day it’s already there — cold meds, your favorite tea, tissues, cough drops.
genuinely cannot breathe because this is the best thing i’ve read oh my god??? truly believe this is the man that belongs in my life & where the hell do i find him ????
