summary: it was only ever supposed to be casual. convenient. roommates with benefits—two rules: no kissing, no falling in love. but when joaquín returns from a week-long mission and his mother comes to stay, tensions rise, jealousy snaps, boundaries blur, and breaking those rules becomes inevitable.
notes: surprise joaquín fic?! my goodness, i've been working on this for months (so i'm sorry if it feels disjointed). i abandoned it back in july and have been slowly adding to it but just recently got the urge to fully finish it, so here ya go! i hope it's good? i hope it's enjoyable? it was really fun, more angsty than i originally planned, and a little more lyrical than i ever intended? i also did a lot of random research for this fic... so please (as always) let me know what you think!!! (and i made a playlist)
warnings: so many metaphors and similies (like seriously, i'm sorry), nevada slander (i'm sorry, again! i just chose a desert state, i promise there's no meaning behind it), jealousy, tension, a bit of angst, italics, likely incorrect spanish, denial (duh), and SMUT (dirty talk-ish, f oral receiving, making out, unprotected p in v, and sorry if it sucks i feel like i struggled with the last spicy scene) 18+ ONLY MDNI!!!
word count: 18779
It started on a random Tuesday night.
You’d been living with Joaquín for almost six months at that point—after years of friendship forged through comms static and high-stakes calls working for the United States Air Force.
You were his handler back in the day. You worked for a joint taskforce—half independent intelligence, half Air Force—coordinating tactical comms and field support. Joaquín was one of your primary field assets, and you were the voice in his ear. You watched his vitals, fed him real-time intel, and talked him out of some seriously bad situations.
After a while, he stopped feeling like an asset and more like a friend—a good friend. You trusted each other more than anyone else in the field. And even after he got pulled into Captain America's world and rotated out of your roster, you stayed close.
You left the handler life not long after—burned out from too many ops gone wrong, long hours, and the creeping sense that your whole life was passing you by. Now you’re a threat analyst contractor—still intelligence, just less intense. More sane. You pick your own hours, turn down jobs that feel like lost causes, and best of all, you get to do most of it from home.
When Joaquín officially inherited the Falcon wings, he started looping you in again—running contracts through Sam’s office, bringing you back into the fold, piece by piece. The work felt familiar. So did he. And when he brought up the idea of sharing an apartment in D.C., it made perfect sense.
Rent was brutal. Joaquín was gone on missions half the time anyway. And you already knew each other well enough to live in sync—how to read each other’s moods, how to exist in tight spaces without getting on each other’s nerves.
You trust him—always have—and the first six months were easier than you imagined.
Then… that Tuesday night happened.
You were sitting on the couch sharing a bowl of popcorn, half-watching some action movie Joaquín had put on while you complained about the lack of fuckable men in your life. Joaquín, of course, acted all offended and joked about how incredibly fuckable he was—at which you snorted, but silently agreed.
There was one long, charged second where neither of you knew what to say.
Then Joaquín said it. He offered. Asked if you wanted to have sex—no strings, just good old-fashioned stress relief between friends.
You hesitated, of course. Torn between tearing off your—admittedly sexy—best friend’s clothes, or telling him that in no way was this kind of arrangement a good idea. You didn’t want to ruin what you had. Living with him was great, and the thought of messing all that up made you nauseous.
But then he licked his lips. Raised a brow.
And something deep inside you snapped.
You agreed. With two conditions: no kissing, and no falling in love.
Simple, right?
Well, you thought so. Until you found yourself under him—or on top of him, or beside him, or in some other twisted position—every second night. Panting, whimpering, crying out his name while he made you come with his mouth, his fingers, his very impressive cock. Once you started, you couldn’t get enough.
And slowly—somehow—you started feeling different. About him. About everything. Different in a way that made your heart race, your cheeks flush, and your stomach do weird somersaults every time he flashed that boyish grin.
You haven’t quite admitted it yet, but you’re pretty sure you’ve gone and broken one of those rules.
And not even the one that should have been the easiest to break—because even after almost three months of being roommates with benefits, you still haven’t kissed him. Not once. Not even almost.
The click of the front door lock startles you. You blink hard at the TV screen you’ve been pretending to watch for the past few hours, then crane your neck to peer over the back of the couch. And sure enough, there he is.
His curls are damp from the rain, clothes a little soaked too, and there are deep purple circles beneath his eyes. He looks exhausted—but somehow, still gorgeous. Still infuriatingly hot, even though you’re pretty sure he hasn’t slept the entire week he’s been gone.
“Hey,” you call, pushing up from the couch.
He drops his duffel and kicks off his shoes. “Hey,” he says, eyes lighting up the second they land on you. “I missed you.”
And God, it doesn’t help when he says things like that.
You roll your eyes and walk around the couch, leaning a hip against the back of it while he shrugs out of his wet jacket and hangs it on the rack by the door. The apartment isn’t huge—just an open-plan living and dining space, with the kitchen off to the side—which means there are only a few strides left between you and him.
“Don’t roll your eyes when I say that,” he adds. “I’m allowed to miss my best friend after being forced to spend a week in hell—or Nevada, as the locals like to call it.”
You laugh quietly, folding your arms just to stop yourself from reaching out. Because holy shit, you've missed him—but you’re not about to admit it out loud.
He misses his best friend.
You miss the boy you’re in love with.
It’s not the same. Not even close.
“I almost cried when it started raining on the cab ride home,” he says with a soft chuckle. “The desert sucked. I’m never going back there. I told Sam he can find a new Falcon if he wants to do more recon in a state that’s more red dirt than grass.”
“Wow,” you mutter. “Maybe Sam should find a new Falcon, then. One that complains less.”
He narrows his eyes as he steps forward, slowly closing the distance between you.
“You know,” he says, stopping barely a foot away, “this isn’t the kind of welcome I was hoping for.”
You lift a brow. “And what exactly were you hoping for?”
He shrugs, lips twitching like he’s trying not to smile. “Candles. Rose petals. Romantic music.” He steps in again, eyes dragging up your body—slow and deliberate. “You. On my bed. Naked.”
Your heart thuds in your throat, and heat blooms across your skin, but you refuse to let it show. You won’t give him the satisfaction of a reaction. You’re used to this—to him. He was flirty even before you started sleeping together, but now? Now it’s like making you blush is his full-time job.
“Really?” you ask, keeping your voice level. “Didn’t think you’d be up for it tonight. Aren’t you tired?”
“Never too tired for you, baby,” he mutters—low and dangerous—as he closes the space between you entirely.
His hands find your waist and his lips drop to your neck, just above the collar of your shirt—his shirt—where he knows exactly how to make you sigh.
And you do.
Like you’ve been holding your breath all week, just waiting for his touch. And now, with his soft lips and wet tongue drawing a slow bruise into your skin, just above your shoulder—you can finally breathe again.
“Joaquín,” you whisper, “I’m your roommate, not your—”
He shoves his body against yours, the unmistakable, rock-hard length beneath his jeans pressing into your hip.
“Cariño,” he murmurs against your neck, “I’ve been living in a one-bedroom safe house with Sam for seven days. I haven’t come since you made me before I left. If I don’t come inside you tonight, it’ll be into my own hand while thinking about you. And I know which I’d prefer.” He presses a wet kiss just beneath your jaw. “What do you prefer?”
Your eyes almost roll back as he slides one hand beneath your shirt, fingers digging into the flesh at your waist. His lips continue their assault on your neck—sucking, licking, biting, soothing—while you choke back moans and grip the front of his shirt for dear life.
“Come on, baby,” he sighs, breath hot on your skin. “Don’t make me beg.”
You bite back a grin as you tip your head back, breath stuttering. “Maybe I want you to beg.”
He pulls back—lips puffy, eyes glazed, that familiar smirk still very much in place. “Want me to beg?” he echoes, brows lifting. “I’ll do it. I’m not ashamed.”
Then, slowly, he drops to his knees in front of you. His hands slide down your body, igniting fires in their wake and making your pulse stumble.
“I want to fuck you so bad, baby,” he mutters, tongue darting across his lower lip. “Please let me.”
The sight of him makes your knees weak—curls tousled, lips damp, eyes dark with lust and something darker, hungrier. God, if you said no to a man like this, you’d have to be insane.
Your breath hitches as he lifts the hem of your shirt and presses a kiss just above the waistband of your sweatpants.
“Please, cariño,” he whispers. “Please let me fuck you.”
He slowly pulls the grey fabric down, sliding it over your hips until it drops in a pool at your feet—leaving only a lacy pair of pink panties between him and what he wants.
You lean harder against the back of the couch, gripping it like a lifeline as he leans in again, lips brushing the tops of your thighs.
“Gonna need you to say something, baby,” he murmurs.
You swallow hard and let out a shaky breath. “Yes,” you manage. “Yes, Joaquín, you can f-fuck me.”
He grins up at you—boyish charm and deadly intention—as his fingers hook beneath your panties and slide them down. You gasp at the sudden exposure, and before you can say or do anything else, his hands grip the insides of your thighs and part them. Your grip tightens on the couch before your knees can give out, and you hear him chuckle as your legs shake with anticipation.
“So wet already,” he breathes, face barely an inch away. “Mierda, cariño… ¿todo esto para mí?”
(Shit, baby… all this for me?)
You nod, once, because you know you can’t speak. Not with him on his knees. Not with his mouth so close to your cunt. Not after a whole week of that useless vibrator, waiting for him to get back.
“Been thinkin’ about this pussy all week,” he mutters, eyes locked on the apex of your thighs like he’s praying.
Then he hitches one of your legs over his shoulder—and his mouth is on you.
Warm, wet, and worshipful, he licks a slow stripe through your folds, lips and tongue coaxing every nerve alive. You gasp, fingers flying into his curls, and your back arches as a strangled moan slips free.
He works you open like he’s savouring every second, tongue deliberate and unhurried, lapping up every drop like it means something. A low moan rumbles in his throat—part pleasure, part hunger—and the vibration shoots straight through you.
Your hips twitch. Your grip tightens in his hair. He doesn’t flinch.
One hand steadies the back of your thigh. The other slides between your legs, fingers teasing your soaked entrance while his mouth keeps working, determined and relentless.
“Fuck,” he groans. “She missed me, huh?”
Two fingers push inside you—slow, careful, deep—and your whole body jolts. You cry out before you can stop yourself, head tipped back as he curls them just right, dragging along that spongey spot that makes your knees buckle.
His mouth stays pressed against you, tongue flicking over your clit in perfect rhythm with every thrust of his hand.
Your breath stutters. Your legs shake.
He’s so good at this. Too good. It’s almost unfair—the way he pulls you apart with his mouth and fingers like it’s nothing. Like he was made for it.
“Joaquín,” you whisper, barely able to speak. “I—fuck—”
He hums again, lips sealed to you like he can’t stand to let go. His fingers move faster, deeper, knuckles brushing as he works you open. Your whole body tightens, strung up and ready to snap.
“Come on,” he murmurs, voice ruined and reverent. “Come for me, baby.”
It builds fast—hot and sharp and blinding. His hand slides from your thigh to your ass, pulling you tighter against his face, guiding you against his tongue until you can’t think, can’t breathe.
He sucks hard on your clit, and it hits. You let out a broken cry, hips jerking, grinding against his mouth as your eyes squeeze shut and—
You shatter.
The wave crashes over you, tearing through every nerve, and you collapse forward with a moan caught in your throat. Your thighs tremble. Your lungs burn. Your hands are still tangled in his hair, holding on like he’s the only thing keeping you grounded.
And he doesn’t stop. Not until your body finally goes slack, and the only sound you can make is a soft, helpless little whimper you don’t even recognise.
He lingers for a beat, lips pressing soft, soothing kisses to your thigh, breath warm against your skin, his hands sliding gently up your sides to steady you. Then he finally pulls back and looks up—curls messy, lips swollen, face glistening. And fuck, he’s never looked hotter.
“That was—”
“Quick,” you mutter, a little breathless, cheeks burning.
He blinks, then grins—slow and wicked. “I was going to say hot. But sure, quick works too.”
“Thanks,” you mutter dryly, eyes locked on the slick shine around his mouth. “You want to clean yourself up, or—”
“Oh, no. I’m not done with you yet,” he murmurs, voice rough and low, his brows drawing together just slightly. “I’m gonna fuck you properly now.”
Before you can reply, he straightens up and grabs the backs of your thighs, lifting you easily. You let out a startled yelp, but your legs wrap around his hips instinctively, your arms locking behind his neck.
“It’s my turn, baby,” he says, eyes sparkling. “And then probably your turn again, and again if you’re up for it.” He pauses, ducking his head to brush his lips against your collarbone. “Your vibrator dead yet?”
You frown as he starts walking down the hall. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
He chuckles. “I figured with me gone all week, you’d be handling things the old-fashioned way. Thinkin’ about me while you—”
You smack the back of his head, which only makes him laugh harder.
“Just because you can’t stop thinking about me doesn’t mean I’ve been thinking about you,” you say, even though it’s a total lie.
He leans back a little, eyes narrowing as he kicks open his bedroom door and steps inside, stopping at the edge of the bed.
“Okay then,” he says, voice dark with challenge. “Guess I’ll just have to fuck you ‘til you can’t think about anything but me.”
Then he drops you.
You hit the bed with a squeal, bounce once, and barely have time to register the ceiling before his weight presses you down. He slots perfectly between your thighs, dragging the hard line of his denim-clad cock along your soaked cunt.
And God, does he fuck you.
He fucks you until you can’t think about anything but him. Until you forget your own name. Until your muscles shake and your lungs burn and your voice is hoarse from moaning his.
And then—after all of it—you fall asleep in his bed. In his arms.
And it’s the best sleep you’ve had since he left.
-
You wake before Joaquín, your nose pressed to his bare chest and his arms wrapped tight around you. One is tucked beneath your neck, the other curled over your shoulders, his hand cradling the back of your head like he’s holding something precious. His chin is resting at the crown of your head, and he’s softly snoring—a sure sign that he’s still deep asleep.
You wriggle a little, testing. He hums and tightens his hold, but doesn’t wake. He’s hard against your lower belly, and for a second you consider waking him with your mouth—but your bladder protests.
And so does your heart.
God, you should’ve made more rules. You should’ve protected yourself. You’ve always known you were soft for Joaquín—already halfway gone long before this whole thing started. And now? Now you’re all the way gone. Completely fucked. Up the creek without a paddle and regretting that you didn’t make a rule about cuddling, because waking up like this feels a lot heavier than just roommates.
You ease your way down the bed, slipping gently from his grip, being careful not to rouse him. He stirs a little, but doesn’t wake, and you realise just how tired he must be after that mission—yet somehow, not too tired to fuck your brains out last night.
You pick up the nearest item of clothing—his shirt, obviously—and slip it over your head as you pad across the hall to the bathroom. The only bathroom in the apartment, which hadn’t seemed like a problem when you first moved in—at least, not until Joaquín got very comfortable walking in on you mid-shower. Not that it matters much now. But still.
You go to the toilet, brush your teeth, wash your face, and count four new bruises along your collarbone—one a little higher than you’d normally let him get away with. Then you head into the living area to find your sweatpants—still crumpled on the floor behind the couch—and slip them on before starting a fresh pot of coffee.
You’ve got your head in the fridge, looking for the packet of bacon you know you bought the other day, when a knock at the door startles you. You stand up so quickly you bump your head on the way, cursing under your breath as you rub the sore spot and glance at the microwave clock—10:27AM.
It’s Sunday, which means no work, no plans. And you know Joaquín has this week off after the mission—so it definitely isn’t Sam here to collect his baby bird.
Another knock echoes through the apartment.
You shut the fridge, still frowning, and walk across the kitchen toward the front door. Every now and then, it does cross your mind that a dangerous criminal could show up looking for Joaquín—he is a superhero now—but today you decide that even criminals probably take Sundays off.
So you open the door.
“Hola… tú no eres Joaquín.”
(Hi... you’re not Joaquín.)
It’s a woman, late fifties—you’re guessing—a little on the shorter side, with dark hair pulled into a tight bun at the back of her head. Her eyes are dark and sharp, dragging up and down your body not with judgment, just curiosity. Her dark brows are drawn slightly, forming two small creases in the middle of her otherwise perfectly tan skin.
She looks familiar. But you know you’ve never met her before.
Oh no.
“¿Tú quién eres y por qué estás usando la ropa de mi hijo?”
(Who are you and why are you wearing my son’s clothes?)
You step back, eyes wide. “Uh, I—I’m sorry, Joaquín is just—”
“¡Mamá! Ay, por favor—¿por qué no me avisaste que estabas en camino?”
(Mom! Oh, please—why didn’t you tell me you were on your way?)
You whip around to see Joaquín—curls messy, shirt only half on—appearing from his bedroom.
“No me dijiste que tenías novia,” the woman—Joaquín’s mother—says.
(You didn’t tell me you had a girlfriend.)
Joaquín sighs. “No es mi novia, mamá. Es mi roomie.”
(She’s not my girlfriend, Mom. She’s my roommate.)
She lifts one perfectly manicured brow. “¿Entonces por qué está usando tu camisa ella?”
(So why is she wearing your shirt?)
“Porque ella solo—” He hesitates, clearly frustrated. “¡Ugh! No importa. Somos amigos. Don’t make it weird.”
(Because she just— Ugh! It doesn’t matter. We’re friends. Don’t make it weird.)
“Lo raro es dormir con una amiga, mijo,” she says with a little smirk.
(What’s weird is sleeping with a friend, my son.)
“¡Mamá!”
She shrugs. “Solo digo. Estas cosas nunca terminan bien. Además, es muy bonita—deberías salir con ella de verdad.”
(Just saying. These things never end well. Besides, she’s very pretty—you should actually date her.)
Joaquín’s brow furrows, not in anger but something like defeat. “No es así.”
(It’s not like that.)
“¡Podría serlo! Quiero nietos.”
(It could be! I want grandbabies.)
“Mamá… ella entiende casi todo lo que dices.”
(Mom... she understands almost everything you’re saying.)
His mother laughs again. “¡Qué bueno! Así sabe que necesito nietos antes de morirme.”
(How good! That way she knows I need grandchildren before I die.)
Joaquín sighs, shaking his head. “Ay, Dios mío. Just speak English. If you're gonna embarrass me, just do it in English.” Then he turns to you with a sheepish smile. “This is my mom.”
You give him a wide-eyed look before turning back to his mother, who’s now grinning at you like you’ve just told her you’re expecting.
“Hi.” You give her a tight smile. “I’m the roommate.”
She grabs your hand and holds it in both of hers. “I’m Lucía, but you can call me—”
“She is not call you mamá,” Joaquín cuts in, exasperated. “We’re just friends, ¿sí?”
Lucía rolls her eyes, dropping your hand. “Okay, okay. Just friends.”
“Give me those,” Joaquín mutters, stepping up beside you to take her bags.
You move aside as he takes her things and ushers her into the apartment. Your feet feel heavy, your pulse is pounding in your ears, and your cheeks are burning so hot you wouldn’t be surprised if you spontaneously combusted.
“This place is nice, Joaquín,” Lucía says, her English carrying just the slightest accent. “Though I suppose it has a woman’s touch.”
She glances at you with a knowing twinkle in her dark eyes, like she’s already two steps ahead.
“Mamá,” Joaquín says, dropping her bags at his bedroom door, “are you going to be weird the whole time you’re here?”
She gives him a sharp smile. “And are you going to be oblivious your whole life?”
He frowns. “Oblivious?”
She looks back at you and nods. And God, you wish the floor would open up and swallow you whole.
“Joaquín,” you murmur, voice tight. “Can I talk to you for a second?”
His cheeks flush pink. “Yeah—uh, Mamá, we’re just going to—”
“It’s okay, mijo,” Lucía says, drifting toward the kitchen. “I’m going to pour myself a coffee.”
Joaquín smiles and nods, his eyes flicking back to you. “Come help me strip my bed?”
His mother chuckles softly but doesn’t say anything else.
You bite back the urge to whack Joaquín square in the chest as you walk past him, slipping into his room with him a step behind and shutting the door a little harder than necessary.
“Why the fuck didn’t you tell me your mother was coming to visit?” you snap, eyes narrowing.
He shrugs. “I was going to. I just didn’t get a chance.”
“Oh, so you decided eating me out and fucking me four times was more important?”
His eyes go wide. “Shh! That woman hears everything—she has ears like a bat.”
You step forward, brow furrowed. “Joaquín Torres, I swear to God—”
“I’m sorry, okay?” he cuts in, lips twitching as he tries not to laugh. “I honestly forgot. I didn’t think she’d be here until later tonight. She called last week, said she missed me, and got all upset that I hadn’t invited her to visit since moving.”
“You could have texted me,” you mutter.
“I said sorry. I just—” He pauses, eyes dropping to your lips before meeting your gaze again. “I got distracted. But she’s here now, and she seems to like you. So, that’s a good start.”
You blink. “You didn’t think she’d like me?”
His eyes go wide. “No, no! I knew she’d like you... eventually. She’s just not always warm the first time she meets someone.”
“Joaquín,” you deadpan. “She was talking about me having your babies before you even introduced us. Doesn’t get much warmer than that.”
He chuckles. “Yeah, she did say that.”
You raise your brows. “Do you really think this is funny?”
He shrugs. “A little.”
You sigh out a heavy breath and drop your head into your hands, wishing you could close your eyes and start the day all over again.
“She’s not going to be here long,” Joaquín says. “Two nights, that’s it. Then she’s going to Tía Carla’s in Baltimore.”
You drop your hands. “Two nights?”
He nods.
“Where’s she going to sleep?”
He glances at the bed. “My bed.” Then he looks back at you, smirking. “After I change the sheets.”
You roll your eyes. “Okay. Where are you sleeping?”
“Well,” he says slowly, “I was thinking—”
“No,” you snap. “Absolutely not. You are not sleeping with me.”
He frowns. “Why not? We slept together last night.”
“Because your mother is going to be on the other side of the wall!”
He grins—slow and wicked. “I’ve got ways I could keep you quiet.”
Your eyes go wide. “Joaquín!”
“Okay,” he chuckles, “okay. I’ll sleep on the couch. It’ll be fine. It’s only two nights.”
You nod. “Good. Couch is good.”
“Besides,” he sighs, turning toward the bed, “I think you’re the one who won’t be able to keep your hands to yourself.”
You step around to the foot of the bed and start helping him pull the sheets up. “Excuse me?”
He flashes you another grin. “You heard me.”
You roll your eyes. “Okay, pretty boy. Let’s not forget who practically mauled me the minute he got home last night.”
He bundles up the sheets and dumps them in a pile on the floor. “And let’s not forget who couldn’t stand on her own in the shower.”
You narrow your eyes, tongue running along your top teeth, watching him dismantle the bed with a shit-eating grin. You want to walk over there and slap it off his face. Or better yet, you want to shove him on the bed and let him fuck you so full of grandbabies you won’t be able to stand again.
Because like it or not, you’re hopelessly in love with Joaquín Torres—and you’re starting to worry that he might just know it.
After helping him make his bed with clean sheets and picking up all the evidence from last night, you reemerge from his room and head straight into your own. You can hear him and his mother chatting away as you gather fresh clothes and pad quietly into the bathroom.
You take a little extra time showering and getting ready, inexplicably wanting to impress his mother—as if you have something to prove.
Please, Mrs. Torres. Tell your son to fall in love with me!
You roll your eyes at your reflection as you apply a generous layer of lip gloss, then you quickly tidy the bathroom—making extra room on the vanity for Lucía—and step out.
“We could go to La Ventana Roja,” Joaquín says, his voice carrying down the hall.
Lucía sighs. “If I wanted to eat Mexican food, I’d cook dinner myself, chico estúpido.”
You press your lips together to keep from giggling as you drop your dirty clothes in the hamper just inside your bedroom door.
“Why do you come here just to insult me?” Joaquín asks, the pout audible in his voice.
“I come here to make sure you’re alive so you can give me grandbabies one day,” Lucía replies.
You step around the corner and spot them in the kitchen, each standing on opposite sides of the breakfast bar with a cup of coffee in front of them.
“Speaking of grandbabies,” she adds with a grin, “you look lovely, linda.”
You give her a soft smile. “Thanks, Lucía.”
Joaquín clears his throat, eyes flicking up and down your body as you come to stand at the end of the counter. “We’re trying to figure out where to go for dinner,” he says. “Sam’s coming too.”
“What about Oil and Salt?” you offer.
He nods. “Italian. I could do Italian.” Then he looks at his mother. “Mamá?”
She smiles. “Yes. Good boy, listening to your novia.”
Your cheeks flush, eyes going wide as you quickly turn toward the fridge, deciding to distract yourself with food.
“Ay, Mamá,” Joaquín sighs. “Stop saying that. She’s not my girlfriend.”
Lucía just shakes her head and takes a long sip of coffee while you keep your attention firmly fixed on the inside of the fridge—though you can feel Joaquín’s gaze burning into the side of your face.
Eventually he gives up on trying to get your attention and dials the Italian restaurant to make a reservation for tonight. You busy yourself making toast while he and his mom continue to catch up, muttering half in Spanish and half in English.
After two cups of coffee, they decide to head to the mall—Miami doesn’t have a Crate & Barrel like D.C., and apparently Lucía loves that place. They ask you to go with them, but your cheeks are still burning and there’s a strange tightness in your chest—because watching Joaquín with his mom, soft and attentive and effortlessly sweet, is making your heart do stupid things. So you decline.
Instead, you spend the day cleaning the apartment and doing laundry, taking extra care in Joaquín’s room to ensure Lucía won’t stumble upon any more evidence of your very not-so-friendly relationship with her son. You also take some time to plan an outfit for dinner—you haven’t gone out in a while, and you wouldn’t mind making it a little harder for Joaquín to keep his hands to himself.
By the time you hear them get home, you’re already halfway through getting ready. You’re in your room, sitting at the small mirror in the corner by the window, wondering what colour blush to use—or if you should use any at all. You’re wearing nothing but your underwear, with the silky, dark green dress you picked for tonight laid across the bed.
“We’re home!” Joaquín calls.
“I’m in my room!” you call back.
You can hear shuffling—paper bags, muffled voices—and then footsteps, getting louder down the hall.
You jump up quickly and dart across your room, planting both hands against the door just as the handle turns, stopping it from opening fully.
Joaquín gives it a shove. “What the—”
“Dude,” you hiss. “I’m not dressed.”
He peers at you through the gap, brows raised, lips twitching. “And?”
You stare. “And we’re roommates. Remember?”
“Right.” He chuckles. “Well then, roommate, are you going to be ready in half an hour? Sam said he’ll meet us there.”
“Yes,” you mutter. “If you leave me alone, I’ll be ready.”
He leans in a little, trying to see more through the narrow gap—like he thinks he’s subtle. “And if I don’t leave you alone?”
You brace yourself harder against the door. “Then you’ll be limping for the next week.”
He grins, challenging. “You wouldn’t.”
“Try me.”
He snorts. “You barely survived the week I was away. You wouldn’t add another—”
“Mijo, leave the poor girl alone!” Lucía calls from the kitchen. “Come help me unpack, and then you can get in the shower so you don’t smell at dinner.”
You can’t help but smile, laughter catching somewhere in your chest as you watch him roll his eyes and trudge back down the hall. Then you shove your bedroom door shut again and return to getting ready.
You finish your makeup, do your hair, and slip into the dress that slides against your skin like butter. It falls just above the knee—silky and forest green—draped in all the right places with a neckline that isn’t too low, but low enough to tease the smallest sliver of black lace if you lean forward just right. You finish the outfit with a pair of knee-high boots and an oversized leather jacket—for modesty, of course. Nothing to do with wanting to shed the jacket at dinner and make Joaquín choke on his own breath.
Half an hour later, you step out of your room into the bright, pungent cloud of Chanel No. 5 saturating the apartment. The bathroom door is shut, but you can hear Joaquín humming behind it, and at the end of the hall you spot Lucía waiting at the dining table.
“Just waiting on Joaquín?” you ask as you step into the kitchen.
Lucía hums. “Like always. He takes so long with the hair, I don’t know what’s wrong with him.”
You bite back a laugh. “Neither do I.”
Just as you unzip your purse to look for your lip gloss, you hear the bathroom door squeak open. The fan clicks off, footsteps echo up the hall—and then Joaquín steps into the kitchen like some kind of smug, fully-formed thirst trap the universe handcrafted to ruin your night.
His curls are damp and pushed back off his forehead, dark ringlets dripping slightly onto the collar of a clean, fitted black button-up. The sleeves are rolled to his forearms. His jeans are dark and well-worn in ways that should be illegal. And of course—of course—his shirt is unbuttoned one extra button more than necessary, exposing just a hint of warm, tanned chest.
Then he sees you.
And he stops.
His gaze drops, slow and deliberate, landing squarely on your boots.
“Well,” he says, voice lower than it needs to be, “look at you.”
You fold your arms to hide the way your hands start to shake. “Look at you.”
He hums—soft, appreciative—as his gaze drags up your legs again. “New boots?”
You shrug like your heart isn’t sprinting laps. “Maybe.”
He steps closer, leaning his weight onto one hip and folding his arms to mirror you. “Buy those just for me?"
You scoff. “Don’t flatter yourself.”
Lucía clears her throat from the dining table, not even trying to hide her amusement. “Ay, por favor. The both of you—stop looking at each other like that. We are going to eat.”
You cough, straighten your jacket, and grab your bag. “Ready to go, then?”
Joaquín just grins—slow, wicked, knowing—and gestures for you to go ahead of him. Lucía sighs, muttering something in Spanish under her breath as the three of you head out the door.
The Uber ride to the restaurant isn’t long—but it feels like hours. With Joaquín’s dark eyes fixed on you through the rear-view mirror, you can barely follow whatever Lucía is saying as she points out the window. The driver tries to make small talk with Joaquín too, but it’s useless. The two of you are somewhere else entirely—a different universe, thick with tension and eye contact, and you’re about ten seconds away from spontaneously combusting and leveling half of D.C.
“Oh, we’re here,” Lucía announces at last—and only then do you realise the car has stopped. “Joaquín, ven a ayudar a tu mamá a bajar del auto.”
(Joaquín, come help your mom get out of the car.)
Joaquín shakes his head and fumbles with his seatbelt, mumbling a quick thanks to the driver before stepping out. You blink hard, forcing yourself back to reality, and follow—circling around the rear of the car to find him helping his mother onto the sidewalk.
It’s almost annoying how sweet he is with her. Sure, he’s always polite—you’ve always known he was well raised—but seeing it is something else entirely. And seeing it while trying to ignore the fact that you’re already stupidly, painfully in love with him makes the thorns tighten around your heart. Clawing up your chest. Flower buds blooming in your throat.
“There she is!” Sam throws an arm around your shoulders, pulling you into his side. “How long has it been?”
You roll your eyes even though your lips twitch. “It’s been, like, two weeks, Sam. No need to be dramatic.”
“Dramatic?” he echoes. “Try spending a week in the desert with Fly Boy over there.” He jerks a thumb toward Joaquín, whose eyes are slowly widening. “Man would not shut up about you.”
Your eyebrows shoot up. “About me?”
Sam nods with the weight of someone bearing deep emotional trauma. “Every day. Every night. ‘I wonder what she’s doing.’ ‘Do you think she’s sleeping?’ ‘Should I text her?’ ‘What if she—’”
“Sam,” Joaquín warns.
“No, no, don’t ‘Sam’ me,” he fires back. “You were a pain in my ass all week.”
You bite back a smile, heat blooming under your skin. “Wow. I know you missed me, but… that much?”
He shrugs a little too casually. “Sam exaggerates.”
Sam scoffs. “I wish I was exaggerating.”
Joaquín shoots him a glare that peel paint—but Sam just pats your arm.
“Anyway,” he adds with a grin, “good to see you again. Next time, don’t make me suffer through another mission with Lover Boy pining the whole time. You can tag along.”
Lover Boy?
Your heart starts to beat a little faster, heat crawling up your neck as you turn toward the restaurant’s front door. He doesn’t really mean that, right? Lover Boy. Sam’s just joking. Being dramatic. Trying to get a rise out of Joaquín.
Right?
You glance at Joaquín, but he refuses to meet your eyes. He just shoves his hands deep into his pockets, his cheeks a little redder than they were a few seconds ago. And when you look back at Sam, he’s already moved on—Lucía has her arm looped through his as they chat like old friends.
You follow them into the restaurant, pausing at the podium while the host checks the reservation under Joaquín’s name. Then you weave through tables until you reach a low booth, bathed in soft gold lighting and tucked away from the rest of the crowd.
Sam slides in first before Joaquín helps his mom onto the end.
“Can I take your coat, ma’am?” the host asks, almost startling you.
You glance at him, nodding. “Uh—yes. Please. That’d be great.”
You slip the leather jacket off your shoulders, and the reaction is instant.
Joaquín freezes.
His jaw drops, eyes dragging down the line of your dress, slow and hungry and stunned. He looks like he’s genuinely forgotten how to function.
“Holy fu—”
“¡Joaquín!” Lucía snaps, swatting the air. “Lenguaje.”
He swallows hard, jaw working as if he’s trying to form a second sentence and failing miserably.
Sam doesn’t even try to hide his amused snort. “Yeah,” he murmurs into his glass of water, “now I see why he wouldn’t shut up about you.”
Joaquín shoots him a murderous glare—but then his eyes flick straight back to you. The humour fades from his expression, leaving something quieter, darker, like gravity pulling between the two of you.
“You look…” His voice comes out rough, quieter than before. “Dios mío.”
Lucía clasps her hands together like this is the most romantic thing she’s ever seen, but Joaquín doesn’t seem to notice. His attention is pinned to you, every muscle in his body tense like he’s holding himself back.
Sam leans back in the booth, smirking. “Just pretend we're not here.”
And that’s when you finally look away—because if you don’t, you’re going to forget how to breathe.
Lucía clears her throat, clearly delighted. “Come, querida. Sit, sit—antes de que alguien se desmaye.”
(Come, dear. Sit, sit—before someone faints.)
You keep your eyes down as you slide into the booth beside Joaquín—not across from him. His thigh presses against yours under the table, warm and solid and definitely intentional. Lucía is already telling Sam about today's trip to Crate & Barrel, but it all washes over you like white noise with Joaquín’s arm brushing yours.
Then the waiter appears.
He’s tall, all clean lines and easy confidence, a white towel draped over one arm. “Good evening,” he says, flashing a very professional—and very appreciative—smile in your direction. “Can I start you all with drinks?”
“We’ll start with a bottle of the house red,” Sam says.
The waiter nods—but his eyes stay on you. “And for you?” he asks.
“Oh—same is fine,” you say quickly, because it’s hard to think when Joaquín is sitting so close.
The waiter offers you another smile—warmer now. “Great choice.”
“Thanks,” you reply, trying to ignore the way Joaquín shifts just slightly beside you, his shoulder brushing yours like he’s reclaiming space.
“I’ll grab that bottle for you now,” the waiter says, barely even glancing at the rest of the table.
The second he’s gone, Sam looks pointedly at Joaquín, brows raised like he’s waiting for something. But Joaquín doesn’t say a word—he just clears his throat and busies himself with arranging his napkin on one knee like it’s a tactical operation.
“So, Lucía,” you say, desperate for distraction. “How long are you staying with your sister?”
She sets her glass down with a soft thunk, dark eyes meeting yours across the table. “However long it takes for me to convince Carla to break up with that criminal boyfriend of hers.”
Your brows shoot up, an amused smile tugging at your lips. “Oh?”
Joaquín sighs. “Mamá, he’s not a criminal.”
“Yes, he is,” she argues. “He has that awful little—uh, ¿cómo se dice perilla?”
“Goatee,” Joaquín mutters.
“Oh!” You giggle, turning to face him. “Weren’t you trying to grow a goatee last month?”
Lucía gasps. “¡Ay no, mijo!”
“That’s right,” Sam laughs. “Looked like he glued pubes to his chin.”
You laugh harder, pressing your lips together to keep from grinning like a maniac.
Joaquín scowls at him. “It wasn’t that bad.”
“It wasn’t good,” you mutter.
He whips around to you. “You said you didn’t mind it.”
You shrug. “I didn’t hate it, but it—”
“Tickled, I know,” he grumbles, rolling his eyes.
Your eyes go wide.
“Tickled?” Sam echoes, nearly choking on his water.
You drop your face into your hands. “That’s not what I was going to say.”
Joaquín turns bright red. “Oh—no, I— that’s not—”
Before Joaquín can finish digging himself into a deeper grave, the waiter returns—wine bottle in hand.
“House red,” he says smoothly, presenting the bottle to you first. “Should I start you off?”
You look up, blinking. “Oh—sure.”
He uncorks it with practiced ease, and the whole table goes quiet. Even Sam stops smirking. The waiter pours a small amount into your glass and tilts it toward you with a gentle smile meant only for you.
“Tell me what you think.”
You pick it up and take a small sip. “It’s great.”
“Good,” he says—voice low and a little too warm. “I’ll pour for everyone else.”
He fills the other glasses—Lucía first, Sam second—and when he reaches Joaquín, he finally breaks eye contact with you. Just barely.
Joaquín meets his gaze, unwavering. His fingers tap once against the table. Sharp. Controlled.
The waiter doesn’t notice—or maybe he does, but his eyes slide right back to you anyway. “Have you had a chance to look at the menu, or should I give you a few more minutes?”
“Um.” You glance down at the menu, unopened on the table. “Maybe five more minutes.”
He nods once, still smiling. “Of course.”
Then he turns and walks away, hands clasped behind his back.
Sam chuckles. “Well, he’s friendly.”
“Too friendly,” Joaquín mutters.
You slide the menu off the table and finally flip it open. “He’s just doing his job."
Joaquín shifts beside you—his knee knocking yours, elbow brushing your arm—as he flips open his own menu. You glance at his other side, where he clearly has enough room to move over. But no. He’s going to stay right beside you, practically pressed against you, for some ridiculous reason.
Lucía and Sam start muttering about the menu, pointing at dishes and debating what to order. You can barely focus on any of it though—not with the heat still crawling under your skin thanks to Joaquín’s earlier slip-up. Your brain is fried, your whole body too warm, and by the time the waiter returns—not a second more than five minutes later—you haven’t even made it past the appetisers.
“Are we ready to order?” he asks, looking straight at you.
“Oh, um—” You glance at the menu, then back at him. “If you could just give me a couple more seconds, I—”
“Of course. I’ll start with the other side of the table.” He turns to Lucía. “What can I get you, ma’am?”
You drop your gaze again and start skimming the list. You’re not even that hungry—or at least, not for food—but this place has a great reputation, so you can’t not order one of the main dishes.
“You’ll like this one,” Joaquín says, pointing at a pasta dish. “Or that one.” He points to another.
You look at him from the corner of your eye. “Are you just saying that because you want to try those ones?”
His lips twitch. “Can’t both be true?”
You shake your head, eyes sliding back to the menu. “God, I know you too well, Torres.”
“And for you?” the waiter asks, turning to Joaquín with raised brows, no smile. “Sir?”
“I’ll have the chicken piccata,” Joaquín says, handing back his menu without breaking eye contact.
The waiter hums, scribbles something down, then looks at you. He’s smiling again—too warm—and his gaze flicks up to your face just a beat too late as you lift your head.
“Which would you recommend between the pappardelle and the ravioli?” you ask.
“I always recommend the pappardelle,” he says, leaning in slightly. “It’s rich. Creamy. Really indulgent.”
Joaquín’s arm tenses beside you.
“Great.” You close the menu and hand it to him. “I’ll get that.”
“Good choice.” His fingers brush yours—lingering just a second too long. “And if you need anything else, just let me know.”
You blink, the small frown between your brows slowly softening as realisation finally hits—he's flirting with you.
With one last smile, aimed only at you, he turns and walks away.
“I think—” you tilt your head, lowering your voice, “I think he was flirting with me.”
Sam snorts, and even Lucía gives a soft little laugh.
“No shit,” Joaquín mutters into his wine glass.
Your pulse trips, your heart stumbling out of rhythm.
Was that... jealousy?
No. It couldn’t be. Joaquín doesn’t get jealous. Not over you. Not when this whole arrangement is supposed to be casual and uncomplicated. Just two roommates who occasionally—and far too easily—find themselves tangled in each other’s sheets.
But there’s a tightness in his jaw now, and a stubborn set to his shoulders like he’s holding something back. Like that little brush of the waiter’s fingers just punched straight through something he’s trying very hard not to acknowledge.
And maybe you’re just imagining it.
Maybe it’s nothing.
But the warmth in your chest says otherwise, and suddenly the room feels smaller. His arm is still against yours, warm and steady, like he’s holding you there—or staking a claim.
You shouldn’t like it. You shouldn’t want the weight of it.
But you do.
You want him to be jealous.
“So,” Sam says, looking at you, “how’s work?”
You clear your throat, setting your wine down with an unsteady hand. “Good. Busy. But good.”
He nods, smirking. “Any interesting contracts lately?”
“None you’re cleared to know about.”
His brows shoot up. “Excuse me? I’m Captain America.”
You shrug, leaning back in the booth. “A spandex suit and an oversized frisbee doesn’t give you security clearance.”
Joaquín snorts beside you. “Ouch.”
You turn to him, one brow arched. “And what are you laughing about, fly boy? You think a mechanical bird costume is any better?”
“Wow.” Sam chuckles. “You actually managed to insult me twice.”
You laugh softly, fingers curling around your wine glass again. “I’m good, aren’t I?”
Sam rolls his eyes, Joaquín shakes his head, and Lucía just smiles into her sip of wine—like she knows something you don’t.
It doesn’t take long before Sam starts talking about their week in Nevada—joking about how much fun it was while Joaquín launches into a dramatic recount of why he’s never, ever going back. Lucía just laughs, muttering in Spanish about how much of a drama queen he can be.
You stay quiet, keeping your wine glass close to your chin and taking a sip every few seconds just to distract yourself from the warmth of sitting so close to him. From the way his thigh presses against yours, the way his arm keeps brushing yours every time he talks with his hands.
You’re so lost in the heat and the burn of wine at the back of your throat that you almost jump when the waiter steps up beside the table again.
“We’ve got the chicken marsala,” he says, placing a dish in front of Lucía. “And the lasagne.” He sets Sam’s plate down next.
Then he turns to your side of the booth.
He doesn’t announce Joaquín’s dish—he just sets it down without looking at him, then shifts the last plate into both hands and lowers it gently in front of you.
“The pappardelle,” he says, smiling now.
You sit up a little straighter, creating the smallest sliver of space between you and Joaquín. “Thank you. This looks amazing.”
The waiter leans in—subtle, but noticeable. “It tastes even better.”
You glance up at him. “I bet.”
There’s a beat of silence—a quiet pause where everything at the table seems to still, leaving you and the waiter holding eye contact longer than you meant to.
Then Sam clears his throat. Loudly.
“Right.” The waiter straightens, clasping his hands behind his back—but his eyes don't leave yours. “If you need anything else, just wave.”
You tilt your head, lips curving into a small smirk. “Or just read my mind?”
His smile widens. “I’ll try my best.”
When he finally walks away, the table doesn’t fall back into easy conversation—not right away. There’s a subtle shift in the air, the kind that buzzes under your skin before you even turn your head.
Sam is staring at you like you’ve just pulled off something mildly impressive and deeply inconvenient for him. Lucía hides another knowing smile behind her wine glass. And Joaquín… hasn’t moved.
You shift a little and reach for your fork. “So… this looks great, right?”
Sam lets out a quiet scoff. “Uh-huh. Sure does.”
You shoot him a look. “What?”
Lucía waves a hand. “Nada, querida. Absolutely nothing.”
But there’s definitely something glimmering behind her smile.
Beside you, Joaquín finally shifts—only just—but it’s enough to draw your attention. His fingers tighten around his napkin, smoothing the fabric with unnecessary precision. The muscle in his jaw ticks once, twice, and then he reaches for his fork.
“Eat,” he says softly, not quite meeting your eyes. “Before it gets cold.”
You watch him for a beat, unsure whether he’s annoyed, flustered, or trying very hard to pretend he’s neither. “Okay,” you murmur, twirling your pasta.
The moment you lean slightly forward, his thigh presses into yours again—firmer this time, unmistakable in its intent. And unlike earlier, you don’t move. You let him close that tiny distance between you—and his shoulders visibly relax.
But Sam notices, because of course he does, and he kicks Joaquín under the table.
Joaquín jolts. “Ow—what the hell?”
Sam just raises his brows, the universal expression for please, I am begging you, get a grip.
Joaquín glares at him, then grabs his wine and takes a long, steady drink—long enough for you to feel the heat gathering in your cheeks again, pooling low in your stomach.
You look back at your plate, stirring the pasta you haven’t even tasted yet, trying—and failing—not to smile.
Because dinner suddenly feels less like dinner… and more like Joaquín’s own personal brand of torture.
The rest of the meal settles into something surprisingly easy. A few minutes pass, then a few more, and the earlier heat simmering beneath the surface evens out into something warm and comfortable—tensions forgotten.
Conversation drifts from Nevada to work gossip to an argument about the best empanada filling, and somewhere between the second glass of wine and Joaquín stealing a forkful of your pasta, the sharp edges of the night soften.
Lucía tells a story about Tía Carla’s neighbour who owns seventeen cats and one very unhappy parrot. Sam nearly spits his wine laughing. And Joaquín mutters something ridiculous about government oversight for bird safety, which makes you roll your eyes so hard your head tips back against the booth.
And all the while, his thigh stays pressed to yours—not tense anymore, not deliberate, just there. Warm. Familiar. Like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
By the time everyone’s plates are scraped clean and the last drops of wine have been poured, the earlier tension feels like a distant echo. You’re a little flushed, a little full, and dangerously close to believing this moment could last forever.
Then Lucía sets down her glass—slowly, deliberately—and her eyes slide to you with the kind of gentle curiosity that should terrify anyone in a ten-mile radius.
“So, querida…” she begins, voice warm and sweet and laced with landmines, “how long have you and my son been so… close?”
The air stills.
Your pulse skips.
Joaquín goes rigid beside you, wine glass halfway to his lips.
Sam inhales sharply through his nose like he knows exactly how fast this is about to spiral.
And before any of you can even attempt to recover—
“How’s everything going?”
The waiter appears beside the table with a bright smile and absolutely disastrous timing, dessert menus fanned in one hand like this is the best moment in the world to ask about tiramisu.
The waiter hands both Lucía and Sam a menu, then places one on the table in front of Joaquín before turning back to you with a soft smile.
“If you’re thinking about something sweet,” he says, handing you the menu slowly, “the torta al cioccolato is my favourite. Rich. Intense.” His eyes flick to your mouth—subtle, but unmistakable. “And very, very satisfying.”
You let out a soft hum as you take the menu. “Well… I do like to be satisfied.”
Joaquín goes completely still beside you.
The waiter smirks. “Then it’s perfect for you.”
You tilt your head, looking up at him through your lashes. “You sure?”
“Positive.” His voice drops. “And if you want, I can—”
“We’ll take the check,” Joaquín says—sharp, controlled, dangerous.
There’s a beat of stunned silence.
The waiter blinks. “Sir, I—”
“Check,” Joaquín repeats through his teeth. “Now.”
Lucía sighs, dropping the menu on the table. “Ay, Dios.”
The waiter hesitates—only for a second—before retreating in stiff silence, and the moment he’s out of earshot, Sam groans, dragging a palm down his face like he’s aging in real time.
“Este niño…” Lucía mutters under her breath, shaking her head.
You’ve stopped breathing. Completely. All you can do is stare at Joaquín—at his rigid shoulders, clenched jaw, the way his eyes refuse to meet yours.
“Are you—”
“Fine,” he snaps, grabbing his wine and finishing what’s left in one gulp before he sets the glass down harder than he means to. “Totally fine.”
Sam snorts. “Yeah. That’s definitely the vibe you’re giving off.”
Joaquín shoots him a warning glare just as the waiter returns with the check, placing it delicately in the middle as if worried someone might bite him. Understandable.
“Whenever you’re ready,” he offers gently.
Joaquín snatches it before anyone else can blink. “We’re ready.”
Lucía lifts a brow. “Mijo…”
“I’ll pay at the front,” he mutters.
Everyone shuffles out of the booth and gathers their things. Lucía slings her purse over her shoulder, a different waiter—female this time—brings you your coat, and Sam adjusts the waistband of his jeans like he’s eaten far more than he planned to.
You reach for your bag, but Joaquín grabs it before you can. “I’ve got it.”
Then he brushes past you and stalks toward the front of the restaurant, broad shoulders tense, every heavy step barely controlled. The host standing by the register sees him coming and visibly pales, his eyes growing wider the closer Joaquín gets.
Sam whistles under his breath. “Well. This was fun.”
Lucía pats your hand. “Don’t worry, querida. He’s just… feeling something.”
Your stomach flips. “What do you mean?”
She only smiles—too soft, too knowing. “You’ll see.”
The three of you weave through the tables until you meet Joaquín by the front door—receipt in hand, jaw still set, mouth a tense line.
“Okay,” he says. “Let’s go.”
There’s no room for argument. No waiting for anyone to gather themselves. He shifts until he's walking behind you, his hand hovering at your lower back but never quite touching—like he wants to guide you out but refuses to let himself.
The walk out is quiet. Heavy. Charged. You can feel his frustration radiating off him like heat, the kind that sinks beneath your skin and twists deep in your stomach. And the moment you step outside into the cool night air, he exhales—sharp, shaky, like he’s been holding his breath the entire time.
After Sam bids everyone a good night—giving Lucía an extra warm hug and wishing her luck—the rest of you climb into an Uber. The ride home is almost completely silent, save for the soft crackle of the radio. Not even Lucía tries to make conversation. It feels like hours before the car finally pulls up in front of your apartment block, and when you climb out, Joaquín is already offering his mother an arm—just like he had outside the restaurant.
You make your way through the lobby in that same thick quiet, ride the elevator up without a single word, and by the time the doors slide open onto your floor, the silence has turned into something almost suffocating.
Lucía exhales loudly—dramatically. “Ay, por favor. I’m done. I need a shower and a prayer.” Her eyes flick to Joaquín, then to you. “And tomorrow? I expect better comportamiento from both of you.”
Once inside the apartment, Lucía beelines straight for the bathroom, muttering something indistinguishable under her breath as she shuts the door behind her.
The moment the lock clicks, silence settles over the living room. Heavy. Awkward. Ridiculous.
Joaquín stands in the middle of the room, jaw tight, eyes flicking everywhere but you. You stay by the door, arms crossed, not moving. Not blinking. Not giving him an inch.
You glare at him.
He pretends not to notice.
From the bathroom, you hear the shower turn on—pipes creaking, water running, Lucía humming softly to herself.
Neither of you move.
Neither of you speak.
You just... wait.
After what feels like the longest ten minutes of your life, Lucía finally steps out of the bathroom, calls her goodnights, and disappears into Joaquín’s room. You hear the light switch click, the faint rustle of sheets, and then—silence.
Real silence.
Nothing but the muted sounds of the city outside, and the two of you standing in the dimly lit apartment. Still. Tense. Frustrated.
You break the silence first.
“What’s your problem, Joaquín?”
He finally looks at you. “My problem?”
“Yes, your problem. Because you spent the entire dinner looking like you wanted to throw that waiter off a building.”
He steps forward, jaw tightening. “Well, maybe you shouldn’t flirt with someone who can’t read a room.”
“Oh, you mean you?”
“Me?” he snaps. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
“Keep your voice down,” you hiss. “Your mom doesn’t need to hear—”
“My mom just watched you shamelessly flirt with the waiter for two hours straight—I don’t think a little argument is going to shock her.”
“Shamelessly?” you echo, incredulous. “You really think I was the one in the wrong?”
He drags a hand over his face. “Can we not do this right now? I’m tired, I just—”
“No,” you fire back. “You've been acting like an asshole all night and you made a whole scene over dessert—so yeah, we’re doing this.”
“I didn’t make a scene.”
“You asked for the check like you were about to arrest him.”
“He was flirting with you,” Joaquín snaps. “Right in front of me.”
You frown. “So?”
He looks away, jaw flexing hard.
You take a step forward. “Answer me, Joaquín. Why is that a problem?”
“Because,” he starts, “we were—I mean, wasn’t it obvious that we’re—”
He stops.
Your breath catches.
“He was being unprofessional,” he mutters, too fast. “That’s all.”
“Oh?” You fold your arms, trying to hide the heat starting to crawl up your neck. “So I’m supposed to believe this is about restaurant etiquette?”
“Yes!” he snaps. “Friends don’t—” He cuts himself off too late, frustration spilling over. “Friends don’t do shit like that.”
The words hit you like a slap—and you go still. Very still.
“Right.” You try to laugh, but it comes out thin, broken. “Okay. You want to talk about what friends don’t do?”
His throat works once—visible, panicked—but he stays silent.
You step in, heat rising, heart beating too hard.
“Friends don’t sleep in each other’s beds,” you say, voice low and surprisingly steady. “They don’t shower together, or pin each other against walls, or—God, Joaquín—friends don’t fuck.”
His breath stutters, chest rising and falling too fast.
“And friends definitely don’t get jealous,” you finish, barely above a whisper. “So what exactly are we doing?”
Joaquín blinks. Once. Twice.
His mouth opens, then closes, then opens again.
“I… I don’t know,” he finally mutters. “I thought we were just... friends. I thought we could do this without it getting too complicated but maybe—maybe we should just stop.”
You feel the words hit like a punch to the ribs.
“Stop?” Your voice is soft—dangerous. “That’s what you want?”
“That’s not—” He drags both hands through his curls, taking a step back, panic rising fast. “Look, I’m just saying… maybe this whole thing was a mistake.”
Mistake.
The word hollows you out.
You let out a breathless, humourless laugh. “Wow. That’s great. Really, Torres—thank you so much for finally realising what a mistake I am.”
He winces. “I didn’t mean it like—”
“Save it,” you mutter. “Just... don’t bother.”
Then you turn on your heel, fury and humiliation burning hot beneath your skin as you march down the hall.
Behind you, he calls your name—once, soft, almost pleading—but you don’t look back.
You stop at your bedroom doorway, the last of your patience snapping clean in half.
“I hope the couch sucks,” you say.
Then you slam your door.
Hard.
-
You wake late and lie in bed until you can’t ignore your bladder any longer. The light leaking through your curtains is soft and grey—because of course it’s raining today. The universe would never miss a chance for dramatic ambiance.
When you finally drag yourself out of bed, you avoid the mirror, already knowing you look like heartbreak leftovers thanks to all the crying last night. You shuffle into the bathroom, hearing the faint sound of voices from the kitchen and hating the way your stomach twists with nausea. You wash your face, brush your teeth, and emerge hoping—praying—Joaquín might have left for the day.
But he hasn’t.
Of course he hasn’t.
You step into the kitchen and find him standing at the counter in sweats and a t-shirt, hair messy, eyes fixed on the mug in his hands like it personally offended him. He stiffens when he hears your footsteps, but he doesn’t look up.
You clear your throat. “Morning.”
His reply is barely a breath. “Morning.”
Lucía is sitting at the dining table watching with exasperation, her brows drawn, lips pressed, eyes flicking between the two of you—and the fourteen inches of stubborn silence between your bodies.
“Niños,” she mutters into her coffee mug. “You look like you’re in mourning."
You blink, but stay quiet. Joaquín just sips his coffee.
The silence stretches—too long, too heavy—until you finally sigh and step into the kitchen, moving around him like he’s a live wire. You keep your gaze fixed on the coffee machine, every nerve acutely aware of him standing close enough to feel the warmth of his body, but stubbornly refusing to look at you—or move away.
Lucía watches you silently, stirring her spoon with the slow, patient judgement of a woman who has already written both of your wedding vows in her head.
“So,” she says, far too innocently. “Did everyone sleep well?”
“Sí,” Joaquín lies immediately.
“Fine,” you lie right after.
Lucía hums. “Interesting. Because the couch,” she glances at her son pointedly, “is not comfortable.”
Joaquín’s jaw flexes. “It was fine.”
Lucía eyes the both of you one more time, clearly unimpressed with the silence thick enough to spread on toast.
“Voy a cambiarme,” she announces, rising from the table. “Then we go out. I didn’t fly all this way to watch you two stare at walls.”
Joaquín nods without looking up. You nod without looking at him. It’s pathetic. She knows it. You all know it.
When her bedroom door clicks shut behind her, the apartment slips into that same strained quiet as last night—all sharp edges and swallowed words. You scull your coffee while Joaquín rinses his mug. Twice. Maybe three times. Then, without a word, you head back to your room and try not to cry while you pick something to wear for the day.
Eventually, you all reconvene in the living room. Joaquín grabs his jacket. You grab your keys. And you both follow Lucía out the door like lost ghosts.
She drags you both across D.C. like a tourist seeing the city for the first time—museums, a market stall, a coffee cart where she insists you try something sweet.
Joaquín softens around her. He links her arm in his, laughs when she teases him, smiles without thinking. It hurts in a stupid, petty way. And you can’t bring yourself to walk too close. To join them. You’re just near. Hovering. Following.
Joaquín steals glances when he thinks you’re not looking.
You look away every time, pretending to be fascinated by a city you’ve known for years.
Then there’s lunch—which is worse. Much worse.
Lucía, clearly at her limit with the brooding, decides to try—bless her meddling soul—to lighten the mood.
“So, querida… Juan was very handsome, no? The waiter last night?”
You choke on air. Joaquín goes stone silent.
Lucía smiles like she’s one rude comment away from exploding into laughter.
“Yeah,” you mutter, looking anywhere but at Joaquín. “I guess.”
Joaquín’s jaw ticks, but he says nothing.
And that’s the end of lunch. No one speaks for the rest of the meal.
By the time you get back to the apartment, you’re all exhausted. Not just from walking through the city, but from tiptoeing around whatever fragile thing is hanging precariously between you and Joaquín right now.
Lucía sighs as she kicks off her shoes, then presses two fingers to her temples. “I’m going to lie down,” she murmurs.
Joaquín gives her a soft smile as she starts down the hall toward his bedroom, and when the door clicks shut, silence spreads through the apartment again, heavy like smoke—slow and impossible to ignore. You move into the kitchen just to have somewhere to stand, fingers hovering at the pantry door even though you have no idea what you’re looking for.
Behind you, Joaquín clears his throat. “I can order dinner later,” he says. “If you’d like.”
A peace offering—fragile as glass.
You keep staring at the cereal box in front of you. “I’m not hungry.”
He shifts—the kind of shift you feel rather than see. “You barely ate at lunch.”
“And you barely spoke,” you say before you can stop yourself, finally turning to face him.
His jaw tightens. “I didn’t have anything to say.”
“You could’ve tried,” you murmur. “You could have said something.”
He swallows once. Hard. “I’m trying now,” he says quietly. “I’m asking you to eat dinner with me.”
It should feel good. It should feel like effort. Growth. Something inching toward reconciliation. But it doesn’t. It just feels like someone pressing a thumb into a bruise to check if it still hurts.
You exhale hard, gaze dropping to the floor. “I can’t sit across from you and pretend we’re fine.”
He steps closer—barely—but it still feels like too much. “We’re not fine?”
Your eyes flick up, a short, hollow laugh slipping out. “You tell me, Joaquín.”
He doesn’t answer—he just looks at you, apology lingering at the edges of his gaze, swallowed by fear before it can reach his mouth.
“I’m gonna shower,” you say, already turning away. “I’ll... see you later.”
The bathroom door closes behind you without a slam—which is worse, somehow—a gentle surrender instead of rage. A reminder that you’re not angry, not really. You’re just... sad. Heartbroken. Finally at the crossroads you’ve been dreading, where you have to give up what you’ve been hopelessly holding on to.
Because it’s not real.
And you can’t keep pretending it is.
Under the hot spray of the shower, you press your forehead to the wall and let the water hide the tears you swore you were done with. When you emerge thirty minutes later, hair damp, wearing an old t-shirt you’re not even sure belongs to you, you can hear him in the kitchen with his mom—cutlery clinking over quiet conversation.
You hover in the hallway—not eavesdropping, just... overhearing.
Lucía’s voice is low, but not low enough.
“Joaquín,” she sighs gently, “¿Qué te pasa? You were cruel last night. And today? You barely spoke to her.”
“I wasn’t cruel,” he mutters. “I just—it's complicated and it got out of hand.”
Lucía sighs, exasperated. “You are so blind. How do you not see the way that girl looks at you? Desde el momento que abrió la puerta, I knew she was in love with my son.”
Your breath catches. Hard.
A chair shifts, scraping softly against the hardwood floor. You imagine him sitting back, rubbing the back of his neck—embarrassed, uncomfortable, running from the truth like it burns.
“Mamá…” Joaquín’s voice is soft, frustrated—afraid. “You’re reading too much into things. It’s not—we’re not—it’s just casual. Nothing more.”
Your heart lodges in your throat, fresh tears burning your eyes.
Lucía huffs. “Casual? Joaquín, cariño, nothing about the way you look at her is casual.”
The silence that follows is heavy. Thick. You know too well that kind—the kind full of truths that could shatter either one of you if you dared touch them.
You don’t wait to hear more.
Before anyone notices you standing there, you slip silently back to your room and close the door without a sound. You climb into bed, pulling the blankets up like armour, and stare at the ceiling as your heartbeat stutters in your throat.
Because she sees it.
Everyone sees it.
Everyone but him.
You lie there for what feels like hours. Or maybe it’s twenty minutes. Time is strange when your chest feels too tight to hold air properly. You stare at the ceiling until the shadows shift, then you roll over, curl into yourself, unfold again. You toss. You turn. You try to sleep.
But you don’t.
Your eyes burn, and you swipe at them with the heel of your hand like it might stop the ache. But it doesn’t. So you grab your phone, dim the brightness, and scroll mindlessly—news, memes, someone’s engagement announcement you want to be happy for but mostly you just feel hollow. You watch three videos of raccoons washing grapes and read half an article about hair loss you don’t absorb.
Eventually, you hear Lucía’s voice—soft, muffled—saying goodnight to Joaquín. Then a door closes, footsteps fade, and the apartment settles into stillness. The kind of quiet that leaves you alone with your thoughts. The kind you wish you could outrun.
You switch off your phone and try again—eyes shut, breathing slow, blanket tucked up to your chin. It’s peaceful for maybe sixty seconds.
Then thunder starts to roll, low and lazy across the night sky. Not dramatic, not a storm—just enough to rattle the window and stir something restless under your ribs. The kind of sound that makes you think of company, warmth, someone’s chest to press your ear against.
You squeeze your eyes tighter. It shouldn’t be like this. You don’t get to think about him right now.
He’s not yours—no matter how much you wish he was.
Then another rumble. Closer this time. Louder.
You shift onto your back and stare at the ceiling again—heart beating too loud, the air too thick, the walls too close. Every second stretches until you’re sure you could hear a pin drop.
And then—a knock.
So soft, it’s barely a tap.
You stop breathing.
Another knock—gentle, hesitant—the kind that asks for permission instead of expecting it.
You know that knock. You’ve felt it against this door before—late nights, whispered laughter, the weight of a body sliding under the sheets beside yours like it was natural.
“Hey—uh, are you awake?”
Your heart stutters hard enough to hurt.
“Um. Yeah.”
There’s a pause—like he’s gathering courage, or trying to decide if he should turn around.
“…Can I come in?”
For a moment, you consider saying no. You should say no. It’d be easier. Simpler. But your heart betrays you like it always does.
“…Yeah. It’s open.”
The door creaks, opening just enough for him to slip inside. The hallway light silhouettes him for a second—messy hair, wrinkled t-shirt, uncertainty shaped into a boy who looks like he hasn’t slept either. He closes the door softly behind him, as if a noise too loud might break whatever fragile thing hangs between you.
You sit up, dragging your knees to your chest and hoping your voice is steadier than you feel. “What’s up?”
He looks at you, then the blankets, then the window behind you.
“I… heard the thunder,” he says quietly. “Didn’t know if it bothered you.”
You huff a laugh. “It’s just weather, Torres. I’ll survive.”
He takes a tentative step closer. Then another.
“I know,” he murmurs. “But... still didn’t feel right leaving you alone.”
Your heart flips. Stupid, traitorous thing.
You tilt your head toward the foot of the bed. “You can—uh, you can sit. If you want.”
He hesitates—just a second—then sits at the edge of your bed, careful to keep space between you. Not touching, but close enough that the mattress dips toward him. Close enough that you feel him like static.
Silence settles. Not heavy like earlier—but fragile. Delicate. Like one wrong move could shatter everything.
Then Joaquín sighs, his shoulders sagging. “I hate this,” he admits.
Your throat tightens. “Me too.”
He nods, staring at his hands like the words he needs might be written in the lines of his palms.
“I keep trying to figure out what to say,” he murmurs. “But every version sounds wrong.”
You shift, not away from him but toward, the blankets rustling as you pull your knees tighter and wrap your arms around them. “You could try just... talking to me,” you whisper.
He exhales—a long, slow release that softens something rigid in his posture—and when he looks up, his eyes catch yours with a kind of tired honesty that twists something deep in your ribs.
“But what if I say something that ruins everything?”
Your breath stutters, just a little.
He notices—of course he notices. He always does.
Then, slowly, he shifts closer, like gravity is doing the work instead of intention. The mattress dips beneath his weight, and you feel it—not just physically, but in the air, in your bones, in the way your pulse picks up like it recognises something familiar approaching.
His knee brushes yours, light enough to pretend it didn’t happen.
Neither of you move.
The room is dim—only the glow of moonlight bleeding through your sheer curtains, soft and silver, painting the curve of his cheekbone, the soft dent beneath his lower lip where he bit down earlier without thinking. His curls fall messy across his forehead, still a little damp from his own shower, and he’s close enough now that you could count the beauty marks scattered across his skin.
He clears his throat quietly, eyes flicking to your mouth and back like he regrets looking—but can’t help it. “Do you remember,” he asks, voice low and too warm, “the rules we made? Back when this was supposed to be simple?”
Your heart squeezes, painfully.
You nod slowly. “Yeah. I remember.”
He leans in a fraction, voice soft with something vulnerable. “What were they again?”
You feel it then—the moment the floor drops out from beneath you, the air thickens, the entire world shrinking down to the fragile space between your bodies and that question sitting between you like a live wire.
He knows the answer.
You know he knows it.
But he wants you to say it.
He wants to hear it now—from your mouth.
And God, it’s intimate.
Intimate in a way sex with him never scared you, but this does.
He waits—eyes searching your face like whatever you say next could ruin him completely.
Your voice comes out quiet, barely above a whisper. “There were only two rules.”
Something shifts behind his eyes—recognition, regret, something carved deep and unspoken. He leans closer. Slow. Careful. Like he’s approaching something he’s wanted for a long time but never trusted himself to touch.
Your breath catches when his thigh presses flush against your hip, when you can feel the warmth of his exhale on your lips. You don’t move away. You couldn’t if you tried.
“What were they?” he asks—soft, coaxing, like he wants you to ruin him.
You swallow, hard, because saying them now feels like prying open your own ribcage and handing him your heart still beating.
“No kissing,” you say, your voice thin.
His gaze drops to your mouth—slow, reverent—as though he’s memorising the shape of the rule he’s been breaking in every touch, every look, every moment he let himself linger. He’s close enough that one tilt of your chin would erase the space between you, and he knows it. God, he knows it.
“And the second?” he breathes.
Your pulse thrums in your ears, loud enough you’re sure he can hear it. You lick your lips without thinking—and his eyes follow the movement like he’s starving.
You breathe in once. Shaky. Unsteady. Then you give him the second rule like reopening a wound half-healed.
“No falling in love.”
The words hang between you. Heavy. Bare. Irreversible.
His breath stutters. You feel it—the tiny hitch in his chest, the way his fingers curl into the sheets like he needs to hold onto something before he reaches for you instead. He leans in a fraction closer, close enough that the tips of your noses nearly brush.
“Shit,” he whispers, eyes searching yours. “We really fucked that up, didn’t we?”
Your lips part—but nothing comes out. You’re not sure you could speak even if you tried.
He lifts a hand, slow as forgiveness, fingertips trailing along your jaw in a feather-light graze. A question. A plea. Permission hanging on a breath.
“I’m done pretending,” he murmurs.
Your breath catches somewhere between want and fear.
“And I’m about to break both of those rules.” His voice drops low, wrecked. “Unless you tell me not to.”
The whole world stops.
You don’t say no.
You don’t even think it.
You just breathe his name—soft, helpless, like a prayer you’re tired of choking down. “Joaquín.”
And that’s all it takes.
He moves first—barely—just a tilt of his head, the faintest brush of his lips to yours like he’s afraid the moment will vanish if he touches you too quickly. It’s soft, tentative, a question disguised as a kiss. His mouth is warm, careful, almost reverent. Like he’s been waiting to do this for a lifetime and doesn’t want to rush the first second of it.
You inhale sharply—not out of surprise, but relief. Relief so deep it aches. You kiss him back just as gently, your fingers curling in the sheets like you need something to anchor you before gravity takes over.
And it does.
Because when you don’t pull away—when you lean in the smallest amount, when your lips part on a quiet, helpless sound he swallows up—Joaquín breaks.
His hand slides from your jaw to the back of your neck, drawing you closer with a desperation he’s fought too long to hide. The kiss deepens—slow at first, then hungry, then all-consuming—months of every touch but this, every touch but the one that mattered, breaking open between your mouths like those rules were never meant to exist.
He tastes like mint toothpaste and that fruity soda he had with dinner—familiar and new all at once, like something you’ve known forever and only just realised you were starving for. His other hand finds your waist, fingers splaying possessively, tugging you across the sheets and into him like he needs you closer—closer still—not just next to him, but against him.
You go willingly.
Your knees uncurl, your body shifting until you’re pressed chest to chest, breath mingling, heartbeats stumbling over one another. His curls brush your forehead, damp and soft, and he makes a sound low in his throat—not quite a groan, not quite a sigh—just pure want.
When you kiss him deeper, his fingers tighten at your waist; when you slide your hand into his hair, he exhales like you’ve knocked the wind out of him. The world narrows to mouths and heat and the slow drag of his thumb at your jaw as if he can’t believe you’re real.
He pulls back just a fraction, lips hovering over yours, breath shaky and warm.
“You have no idea,” he whispers, voice wrecked, “how long I’ve wanted this.”
And the way he says it—raw, unguarded, like confession and promise tangled together—makes your stomach twist, makes your pulse leap, makes any distance between you feel unbearable.
You kiss him again.
Harder this time.
His mouth meets yours, deeper this time—no hesitation, no gentleness left unspoken. The kiss steals whatever is left of your breath and gives back something hotter, hungrier. Your fingers tighten in his hair, pulling him closer, and he goes willingly, like he’s been waiting his whole life to be asked.
As you lay back, his weight settles fully between your thighs—careful, but urgent—and the low sound he makes against your lips borders on a plea. He’s everywhere at once—the warm press of his chest, the slow drag of his palm up the back of your thigh, the way his nose bumps yours when he tilts his head to kiss you harder.
He pulls back only far enough to speak, breaths mingling, foreheads pressed together.
“Tell me you want this,” he whispers—like he needs the words to anchor him. “Tell me you want me.”
Your thumb brushes his cheekbone, soft and trembling. “I want this,” you whisper. “I want you.”
Whatever restraint he had left dissolves.
He surges forward, kissing you like he’s making up for every night he talked himself out of this—slow, then deep, then deeper still, like he’s afraid to come up for air in case you disappear.
His hand slides beneath the hem of your shirt, pushing it up your ribs, reverent fingertips mapping skin he’s only ever touched in half-dark—never like this, never with your lips and your heart, never sacred.
He breaks the kiss just long enough to look at you—really look—eyes glassy like something inside him cracked open and light spilled out.
“You’re sure about this?” he asks, voice rough. “My mom’s still here, we can just—”
“Joaquín,” you breathe, “shut up and fuck me.”
He drops his head and groans against your throat, lips brushing your pulse, each word a confession pressed into skin. “I want you so bad,” he murmurs. “I want every last part of you—I need you."
He lifts the hem of your shirt higher—slow enough to back out if you push his hand away, slow enough for consent to breathe between you—but your hips arch instead, inviting, answering without words.
He exhales a shaky laugh—relief, disbelief, hunger—before pressing a kiss to your sternum through the thin cotton.
He helps you sit up just enough for the shirt to slip over your head, leaving you in nothing but underwear and the soft shadowed light. His gaze drags over you like a touch, slow and adoring, and his voice drops to something quiet and raw.
“You’re so beautiful.”
Then he leans down again, kissing the newly bared skin of your collarbone, then lower—trailing devotion like a rosary he’s repeating in reverse. His hands slide along your waist, your hips, your thighs, guiding you back into the pillows with something between gentleness and possession.
Your hands skim down his chest and curl into the fabric of his shirt, bunching it up until you can’t pull it any higher. A soft whine slips from your throat—wordless, pleading. He breaks the kiss only long enough to laugh under his breath, a low sound that vibrates where your palms rest on his skin, and then the shirt is gone—pulled over his head and tossed somewhere you’ll never find again.
He barely has it off before you’re touching him again, palms exploring lower, nails dragging lightly over the ridges of his stomach. He exhales like the contact winded him, like your touch is enough to undo him. Your fingers find the waistband of his shorts—hooking, tugging—and his breath catches as he shifts to help, pushing them down over his hips with a quick, desperate motion, never breaking the kiss for more than a second.
Your panties are last. The last thing between you and everything you’ve both been pretending wasn’t real. Wasn’t more.
His fingers hook in the waistband, dragging them slowly down your thighs with a reverence that borders on worship—slow enough for you to feel every inch, slow enough to make your whole body spark. You gasp when his fingertips brush the inside of your thigh, a shock of heat rippling through you, arching you off the mattress without conscious thought—just hunger. Just him.
When they’re finally gone, he settles between your legs again—and you gasp, sharp and helpless. He’s already hard, heavy, sliding through your slick with a slow grind that feels like he’s committing every inch of you to memory. Like he needs the friction. Like he needs it more than he’ll ever admit.
A strangled, unhinged sound tears out of you when the head catches just barely at your entrance—too close to ignore, not close enough to satisfy. Just torture.
He smiles against your mouth, voice a low murmur of affection and arrogance all tangled together. “Always ready for me, huh, cariño?”
Then he moves lower, his mouth closing over your nipple, and you break—back arching, thighs squeezing around his hips as his tongue flicks and his teeth graze just enough to make you burn. His hand cups your other breast, thumb circling lazily in a rhythm that steals the air right out of your lungs.
“Joaquín—” your voice catches when his hips roll, dragging the thick length of him over your clit, slow and deliberate.
“Shh, baby,” he whispers, breath hot against your skin as he moves to your other nipple. “Gotta be quiet for me.”
You bite your bottom lip hard—copper blooming faint on your tongue—trying to hold in the sounds clawing up your throat as your body arches beneath his mouth. He’s warm above you, solid and shaking, teasing you with slow, deliberate rolls of his hips that skim right where you’re aching for him. Heat coils low and deep, tightening with every breath, every touch.
“I’m sorry,” he whispers as his mouth trails up your collarbone, voice rough like gravel dragged over confession. “I was jealous last night.”
You let out a sound—half laugh, half desperate moan—nails digging into his back like you need something to hold onto before you break apart under him. Words scatter. Thinking is impossible.
“I wanted to kill that guy,” he breathes, lips brushing along your jaw, voice dark and sinful. “The way he looked at you…” His tone drops lower—a growl you feel in your spine. “You’re mine.”
The word detonates inside you. A shockwave of want. Of relief. Your back arches, thighs trembling as heat rushes through you like a fuse lit too fast. You swallow a moan, shoulders pressing into the mattress.
“P—please,” you pant. “Joaquín, just—”
He shifts, slow and deliberate, guiding himself against you again—teasing, sliding through your slick, dragging pleasure through you in agonising, perfect strokes that make your vision spark.
“Please what?” he breathes, noses brushing, lips hovering over yours. “Use your words, cariño.”
His forehead rests against yours, breaths shared, hot and uneven. You feel him steady himself before sliding along you again, slow strokes that have your whole body trembling, coating himself inch by inch in the proof of how badly you want him.
You whimper, hips tipping up instinctively in invitation, but he still doesn’t push in—not yet. Instead he catches your mouth again, kissing you slow and messy like he’s trying to burn the shape of your desperation into his mind, rocking his hips just enough to drag pleasure through you until your legs shake.
He groans against your lips, the sound deep and unguarded. “Dios, baby… you’re already so wet for me.”
“Joaquín—” your voice breaks, raw and pleading. “Please. I need you.”
He lets out a sound—half laugh, half pained relief—and shifts his weight to one arm, the other hand sliding between your bodies like he needs to feel exactly how ready you are for him.
“You sure?” he murmurs, searching your eyes like he’s asking for more than just consent—like he’s asking for trust.
Your hands move to cradle his face, holding him there, close. “Joaquín, I’m going to scream if you’re not inside me in the next five seconds.”
His answering laugh is wrecked, soft with something dangerously close to love. “As you wish.”
Then he moves.
He drags himself down, nudging right where you’re open for him, and pushes in—slowly, unbearably slowly—like he wants to feel every inch of you take him. Your body stretches around him, tight and warm, and his breath breaks in a shuddered moan at the sensation.
“Fuck—” he manages, voice thick and ruined. “You feel… Dios… you always feel so good.”
Your fingers dig into his back, pulling him closer without thinking, legs tightening around his hips like instinct. He sinks deeper, then stills, foreheads pressed, chests heaving together as the moment settles—heavy, holy, too much and not enough all at once.
His eyes open just enough for you to see them—dark, vulnerable, worshipful. “You’re perfect,” he whispers, like he means it. Like he finally understands it.
Then his mouth is on yours again, soft at first—an exhale, a promise—and then he sinks into you fully, slow and steady, until he’s as deep as you can take him. The sound that escapes the both of you is almost identical—relief, disbelief, something too raw to name.
For one suspended, impossible second, you just hold each other there.
Breathing. Shaking. Whole.
Then—on a breath that brushes your lips—he starts to move.
Slow at first. Deep. Each roll of his hips measured, deliberate, like he’s speaking with the motion instead of words—I love you. I want you. I’m yours. You’re mine.
Your fingers find his back, shoulders, curls, anything you can hold onto as your body moves with his like instinct. Your lips graze his jaw, a half-moaned, half-cracked sound caught in your throat.
“Fuck, Joaquín—”
He answers with a groan that sounds like it’s been waiting years to escape. He pulls back only to return with more intent, more need, and the drag of his body against yours sets your nerves alight. Heat coils low and tight in your belly, slow-building and unstoppable.
“Feels so good,” he whispers against your mouth, voice frayed. “You feel so good, cariño. I’m not—God—I’m not gonna last long.”
Your legs tighten around his waist, urging him closer, urging more, and he kisses you again—slow, hungry, desperate—even as his rhythm deepens, pace picking up like he can’t help it. Like you’re pulling it from him.
Each movement has you gasping softly into his mouth, the world narrowing to shared breath and heat and the way he holds you like you’re something holy.
“You’re mine,” he breathes between kisses, voice rough, almost breakable. “All mine. Gonna keep you right here—wrapped around me, making those pretty little sounds.”
You whimper, helpless to stop it. Every inch of him is inside you, moving through you, dragging against that tender spot that makes your vision blur. The tension between you—months of denial and longing—sparks like a live wire, lighting up every nerve in your body.
His thrusts grow harder, quicker—hungry now—each one hitting deeper, stealing the air from your lungs. Heat coils lower in your belly, winding tight, your whole body trembling under the rhythm of him. There’s nothing but the press of his chest, the warmth of his breath, the drag of his body inside yours. Too much. Not enough. Everything.
“That’s it, cariño,” he groans in your ear, voice rough. “You take me so fucking well.”
You don’t even know what sound comes out of you next—something broken, needy—and your hand slides up your chest, fingers pinching lightly at your nipple. His rhythm stutters, a shaky moan falling out of him at the sight.
“Shh,” you breathe, or try to, voice wrecked. “Gotta be quiet—your mom—”
“Fuck,” he gasps, hips snapping harder. “How am I supposed to be quiet when you—God—when you feel like this?”
His hand tightens on your hip, the other pushing your leg open wider so he can drive deeper, like he wants to carve himself into every part of you. Each thrust is devastating—deep and relentless—pleasure building sharp and fast, curling tight behind your ribs.
Skin meets skin in soft, desperate rhythm—wet, breathless, messy—the only sound in the room besides your shared panting, his soft curses pressed against your mouth, your throat, your shoulder.
Your thighs shake where he holds you open, but you barely register anything beyond the pressure building, climbing too fast, too much. Your fingers tug at your breast again, desperate for more, your voice breaking against his shoulder.
“Joaquín—” it’s barely a word, more a prayer. “I’m close. I’m—fuck—I’m already so close.”
“I know, cariño,” he grits, sweat dripping from his temples. “I can feel it. You’re gripping me so fucking tight.”
His pace stutters, then finds a slow, devastating rhythm—deep enough to bruise, tender enough to worship. He kisses you again, sloppy and hungry, like letting go would kill him. You feel how close he is too, can hear it in his jagged breathing, feel it in the way his muscles tremble with restraint.
“Gonna come for me, baby?” he breathes against your mouth, voice raw enough to break you.
You whimper, nodding helplessly. Words are impossible now—your mind gone, your body nothing but nerve endings and him. Every thrust hits that perfect spot inside you, grinding up into your clit with each downward roll of his hips. It’s maddening. Hot. Unforgiving. You’re shaking, eyes fluttering, breath catching in broken gasps.
Your fingers claw down his back, reaching for any grounding you can find, your other hand sliding down your stomach—needing more, needing something—
But he catches your wrist, pushes it away, replacing it with his own hand like he knows exactly what you’re asking for without you saying it. His thumb finds your clit and circles—slow at first, then with steady, knowing pressure that has your breath catching sharp in your throat.
Your whole body arches, breath caught in your chest, every muscle drawn tight as the pressure builds, sharp and consuming. His thumb doesn’t let up—circling, pressing, teasing—until it’s too much, not enough, and everything in between.
“Come on, baby,” he murmurs, voice thick and gone. “I’ve got you.”
Your thighs tremble around him, the pleasure twisting tight like a live wire pulled to snapping point. You choke out something broken—half a sob, half a plea. “‘S too soon—”
He lets out a wrecked, disbelieving laugh, forehead pressed to yours. “No it’s not. I’m right there with you. I—fuck—”
You crash your mouth to his, hips rising to meet the next thrust just as his thumb presses down perfectly—
And then everything goes white.
It hits you like a tidal wave—your orgasm ripping through you so fiercely it borders on pain, heat flooding every nerve as your body locks tight around him. You cry out before you can stop yourself, legs shaking, fingers digging into his shoulders like you’ll fall through the mattress if you don’t hold on. You pulse around him—slow, deep, relentless—and it feels endless.
“Fuck,” he groans, voice wrecked as he buries his face in your neck. He keeps moving through it, slower now but deeper, like he wants to feel every second of you coming around him. “That’s it. That’s my girl.”
You don’t even have time to breathe before he breaks too.
His hips falter, then stutter, and he lets out a sound you’re going to think about for the rest of your life—something raw and helpless and entirely yours. He thrusts once, hard and final, and you feel him come with a shudder that shakes through both of you, spilling into you as he gasps out a broken, devastating, “Fuck—I love you.”
You hold him as he falls apart, his body trembling against yours, his breath hot and uneven at your throat. The room is quiet except for your mixed breathing—heavy, tangled, like you’re still sharing lungs.
For a long moment, neither of you move. You just exist in each other’s arms, skin to skin, hearts trying to beat out of your chests and into each other’s.
Then he lifts his head and kisses you—slow and gentle. The kind of kiss that feels like an apology and a promise and a confession all at once.
You smile against his mouth, breath still shaky.
“I think,” you whisper, “we might have been a little loud.”
A huff of laughter escapes him—soft, breathless—like he’s too wrung out to laugh properly but too happy not to. He presses another slow kiss to your lips, then one to your cheek, then your jaw, like he can’t decide where to love you first now that he’s allowed to.
You both sink back into the pillows, limbs tangled without thinking. His weight settles partially on top of you, heavy in the nicest way—grounding, real. His hand slides under your ribcage and tugs you closer until your thigh is hooked over his hip, your chests pressed together, hearts finally beating in something that feels like harmony instead of war.
He noses your temple.
You smile.
And for a long moment, neither of you speak. You just breathe. Warm. Shared. Safe.
Your fingers trace lazy shapes up and down his spine, memorising him in quiet ways—the dip at his waist, the slope of his shoulder, the tremor still hiding in his breathing. You’re both wrecked. You’re both glowing. You’re both absolutely done for.
“Why now?” you murmur into the dark, voice soft and a little fragile. “We’ve been doing this for months. So… why now?”
He stills—not tense, just thoughtful—his thumb brushing the underside of your breast absentmindedly, like he’s touching you just to reassure himself you’re real.
“I’ve always loved you,” he says finally, voice quiet and unbearably honest. “I just… didn’t let myself say it. Or think it.”
You swallow, chest tightening.
He shifts, just enough to see your face in the low spill of moonlight, curls falling across his forehead. You run your thumb along the curve of his jaw, and his eyes flutter shut like the touch knocks something loose inside him.
“When we were in Nevada,” he admits, “I kept turning over in bed expecting to find you there. I kept looking for you in every stupid moment—at breakfast, in the hall, brushing my teeth—and you weren’t. And it felt like someone carved something out of me and forgot to put it back.”
Your breath catches. “It was only a week, Joaquín.”
“And then last night,” he continues, voice even softer, “watching that waiter look at you like he had a chance—like he could be the one to make you laugh, or hold you, or wake up next to you—I realised I couldn’t do it anymore. Couldn’t share you. Couldn’t pretend this was casual. Not when every part of me already feels like it belongs to you.”
Your eyes burn—warm, aching.
“Joaquín...” you whisper, not sure how to hold everything he’s giving you.
“I don’t know why it took me so long,” he says, thumb tracing slow circles at your hip. “But I know we broke that rule months ago. I just didn’t have the guts to say it.”
You run your hand through the curls at his nape, gentle and slow.
“And now?” you ask.
He kisses you—soft, sure—like the answer is in his breath and not his words.
“Now I’m yours,” he murmurs against your lips. “You’re stuck with me.”
You tuck your face into the curve of his throat, breathing him in—warm skin, mint, something that feels like home. His arm curls around your waist, holding you like he doesn’t plan to let go this time. Maybe ever.
This time, when you shut your eyes, sleep comes easy.
And when it finds you, it’s tangled together—his fingers laced with yours, your leg thrown over his, his breath slow and steady against your shoulder like a promise.
Somewhere down the hall, a floorboard creaks softly.
Lucía’s door, maybe.
Or fate laughing quietly to itself.
Either way, you fall asleep smiling.
-
Sunlight wakes you before anything else—soft, warm, slipping through the curtains in thin golden stripes across the sheets. The first thing you register is heat against your back. A slow rise and fall. An arm around your waist. A leg tangled with yours like he anchored himself there in his sleep and never let go.
You turn your head just enough to see him—hair a mess, mouth soft, lashes dark against his cheeks. He looks young like this. Peaceful. Like last night cracked something open and let light in.
For a few minutes you don’t move.
You just watch him breathe.
Like a creep—maybe—but you don’t care.
Eventually, he stirs—nose brushing your shoulder, fingers flexing at your hip like his body notices you’re awake before his mind does.
“Morning,” he murmurs, voice thick with sleep.
You turn enough for your noses to brush, and he kisses you—slow, unhurried, the kind of kiss that feels like a secret being shared instead of stolen. His hand slides up your spine, fingertips barely there, just tracing, memorising.
It would be easy to stay here forever.
Too easy.
But your stomach growls—loudly. You didn’t eat dinner last night.
Joaquín snorts, his laughter warm against your mouth. “Okay,” he says, “I think that was a cry for food.”
You shake your head, nuzzling into his neck. “Five more minutes.”
He kisses your forehead, then your cheek, then your lips like punctuation marks. “If we wait five minutes, we won’t leave this bed.”
And he’s right—because the way he’s looking at you makes it a dangerous truth. So you groan, flop onto your back, and let him sit up, curls messy and lit by the bright morning sun.
He offers his hand, and you take it.
You both slowly find your clothes from last night, thrown somewhere across the room. It isn’t fast, because every time you get close, you pull each other in for another kiss. Just one more. Which is a lie every time, because after ten minutes of getting dressed, you’re both still only halfway there—sprawled across the bed again, hands roaming, smiles pressed against each other.
By the time you make it to the kitchen, you’re both half-dazed, hair scrambled, wearing the kind of glow you couldn’t hide if you tried.
Joaquín moves around the kitchen with that easy familiarity he always has—barefoot, shirtless, sunlight catching the slope of his shoulders as he rummages through the pantry. You hop up onto the counter just to watch him move, legs swinging, hands gripping the counter edge. It’s embarrassingly domestic how natural it all feels.
When he reaches the coffee machine, you feel your skin warm with recognition. His hand brushes your knee on the way, thumb lingering just a second too long. And the moment the button clicks on and the machine hums to life, you wrap a hand around his bicep and tug him closer.
He lets out a surprised laugh but goes willingly—slotting between your legs like he belongs there, looking up at you with those stupidly soft brown eyes that have completely ruined you.
“Can I help you?” he asks, smile lazy and lovesick.
You hum, hands sliding up to cradle his jaw. “I don’t know. Got anything to offer?”
“For you?” His fingers tighten at your hips, warm and sure. “Anything. Everything. Just ask.”
You try to roll your eyes, but it dies halfway with a lovesick grin to match his. “God, you’re cheesy.”
“But you love me.”
You inhale, leaning in until your noses brush. “Yeah,” you breathe. “You’ve got me there.”
And then you kiss him again.
Slow at first—soft and morning-warm—but it deepens quickly, heat sparking under your skin like flint to tinder. Your legs wrap around his waist, pulling him closer, and he goes pliant in your hands, mouth parting for you like he’s been waiting all morning for this exact contact.
The kiss turns lingering. Then hungry. Then something sweeter—fed by new honesty instead of tension.
His mouth trails to your jaw, down your throat, kisses slow and sweet and sinful, and your fingers dig into his shoulders as he presses closer, hips nudging against the counter between your thighs. You gasp against his lips and he swallows the sound eagerly, thumb brushing your jaw, eyes dark with softness and hunger all at once.
And that’s when—
“Ahem.”
You jolt so hard you nearly knee Joaquín in the stomach.
Lucía is standing at the edge of the kitchen—still in her slippers and robe, smirking like God personally handed her front-row tickets.
“Well,” she says, “glad you two have finally learned how to communicate.”
Joaquín’s cheeks go pink, and you bury your face in his shoulder.
“Buenos días, Mamá,” he mutters, voice embarrassingly wrecked.
“Buenos días, mijo,” she says, smirk widening as she steps around you both toward the coffee machine.
Joaquín peels himself away from you, strategically keeping his back to his mother as he rounds the breakfast bar to stand on the other side in the world’s most obvious attempt at dignity. His ears are red. His neck is red. He is, in fact, a tomato with abs.
You slide off the counter and drift to his side, like gravity is a concept invented just for the two of you.
“Sleep well, Lucía?” you ask, trying for casual and missing by a mile.
She hums as she pours her coffee. “Very well.”
Then she pauses, takes a slow sip, and turns to face you both—with a smile so smug it should be federally regulated.
“Although,” she says lightly, “I think this apartment is embrujada.”
Your stomach drops. “Haunted?”
She nods, far too innocent. “Sí. I heard… noises… in the middle of the night.”
Heat rushes to your cheeks so violently you’re surprised the lights don’t flicker.
“Oh?” Joaquín replies, edging behind you like the coward he is. “What kind of noises?”
Lucía takes another sip—slow, dramatic, weaponised. Her eyes never leave her son.
“You know what kind of noises, hijo.”
Lucía sets her mug down, eyes twinkling with wicked amusement. You already know she’s about to deliver something lethal—and she does.
“Bueno,” she says casually, as if commenting on the weather, “if you two are finished making the walls shake, maybe we can celebrate properly. A nice dinner? Or…” she pauses just long enough to kill you both, “the engagement party later?”
You choke on air. Joaquín chokes harder, spluttering like someone handed him a live grenade instead of a mug.
“Mamá,” he manages, voice cracking in the middle. “We literally just—”
She waves a hand, dismissing his suffering. “Ay, por favor. Why so embarrassed? You’re grown adults. You don’t think I know how these things work?”
She pauses—taking another slow, theatrical sip of coffee.
“I know where babies come from, hijo.”
You’re pretty sure your soul leaves your body.
Heat floods your cheeks and you step back, searching desperately for dignity and finding absolutely none. “I’m—uh—going to… get dressed before I die of embarrassment,” you say, words tripping over each other as you retreat like you’re escaping a burning building.
You make it halfway down the hall when arms wrap around your waist from behind—warm, strong, sure—and a laugh ghosts against your neck.
“You’re really just going to leave me to suffer alone out there?” Joaquín murmurs, voice low, teasing, already smiling.
You try for stern and fail spectacularly. “Yes. Obviously. That's your mother.”
He spins you gently—not dramatic, just enough that your toes leave the floor and you let out a startled squeal you’ll deny later. You land against his chest, palms splayed over warm skin, and he looks at you like last night wasn’t a mistake or a question—like it was a beginning.
His forehead dips to yours, voices low enough that Lucía can’t hear.
“You’re not going anywhere,” he whispers. His hands slide to your hips, grounding you, worshipping you in the simplest way. “Not a chance.”
Somewhere from the kitchen, Lucía calls out—
“¡Cierren la puerta si van a hacer más ruido!”
(Close the door if you're going to make more noise!)
You bury your face in Joaquín’s shoulder as he walks you backward toward your room, and he’s shaking with silent laughter, kiss landing on your cheek like it belongs there.
The world feels warm. Ridiculous. New.
And when he nudges your door open with his foot, you know exactly how your day is going to end—happy, stupidly in love, tangled up in him with no intention of ever letting go.
✿・・───・・just a really big collection of lewis fanfics i really really enjoyed and love and overall just made my heart melt :3╰(*´︶`*)╯
_ _ + some thoughts and light commentary
fandoms included: marvel (thunderbolts*), top gun, outer range, the line
[✿] fluff [✦] angst [★] smut
divider creds to @mang0smoothie and @strangergraphics !!
bob reynolds:
[✦] [✿] [★] cowboy like me by @goldenlikedayl1ght | word count: 9.4k
summary: you get a text from an old friend and think.. you could do worse than a book club.. with some benefits.
thoughts: second chance romance will be the end of me !! i just love reading about people who grow out of a relationship to find themselves to inevitably fall back into that love with a better understanding of themselves. also just despite this fic being named after one of my favourite songs of all time it'll always be called book club to me :p
[✦] [✿] catalyst by @shadowbriar | word count: N/A
summary: For once, he actually let himself grow comfortable in the gentleness of another.
thoughts: two people finding a sense of peace in a very sterile environment has my heart in a clutch !!
[✿] [★] lights, camera, action ! by @avastarred | word count: N/A | complete!series
summary: When your best friend and her fiancée move out of the home you share, you're left looking for a roommate. You find one, a sweet, down to earth guy named Bob, but what do you do when you find out what he really does for work, and he asks for your help?
thoughts: so so many thoughts that i can't articulate well enough !! this fic is that kind friends to lovers thing where the pair is constantly dancing on the line between of friendship and something more, but in a way that they're caught up and in love with each other that they don't even notice it. yk that kind of like seamless old married couple transition period !! and that's honestly the best friends to lovers execution and i eat it up each time
[✿] wrong number, right person by @brainfriedkitten | word count: 4.7k
summary: A voice message sent to the wrong person sparks an unlikely friendship between two people who have never met. Can an online friendship turn into something more?
thoughts: the premise is so very crazy 90s romcom plot to me !! i love how when fanfiction has such very captivation unrealistic plot line that hooks through these series of events
[✿] nothing matters by @em1i2a3 | word count: 12.6k
summary: In preparation for Bucky’s wedding, Bob decides to attend dance lessons so he doesn’t have to embarrass himself during the reception.
thoughts: i love me a good fun classic cheesy meet cute :3 this just made me kind of explode i spent all morning reading it like golly it's just so awww
[✦] [✿] damsel in distress by @brookghaib-blog | word count: 9.5k
summary: In which the team is eager to meet Bob's ''imaginary'' girlfriend, and the chaos just seems to pile up as the time goes by.
thoughts: we need more emotional dramatic people representaion !! also has a lot of thunderbolts*/new avenger banter and shenigans that just makes me really really happy :3
[✦] [✿] scared to take a breath by @myladybelle | word count: 11.6k
summary: ava and yelena have no choice but to call your ex-boyfriend when you refuse to leave girls’ night out without him. but in your drunken haze you forget you’re broken up, and bob was never very good at telling you no.
thoughts: this fanfic makes me feel very soft like i can't deal with yearning and wanting something you know you can't have just yet and the self restraint—golly!!
[✿] between book pages and baked pie by @gyugraphy | word count: 7k
summary: He came in on Thursdays. Always looking for new books to read. Always smiled like he didn’t quite belong anywhere. Then, you asked him to pretend to be your boyfriend for one night. And he said yes. Then you found out he’s the Sentry—and suddenly, pretending doesn’t feel so simple anymore.
thoughts: no thoughts just seething in envy and resentment that this fic isn't the life i'm living right now.
[✦] [✿] polaroid by @54nboo| word count: N/A | wip!series
𓂅 polaroid pt. 2
summary: the team asks about the polaroid in bob’s wallet, so he tells them about the girl he never even dated.
thoughts: again, i will never stop saying it. i love it when life separates people to bring them together again !! eeeeekk !! i am also patiently waiting for part three :3
bob floyd:
[✦] [✿] [★] how can you look at me and pretend by @frankels | word count: 12.3k
summary: You’ve known Bob Floyd for nearly eight years since your first days at Naval Air Station Pensacola, and your friendship has always been flawless, effortless, and completely platonic… at least on the surface. Your lives are defined by high-stakes training, neverending missions, and the camaraderie of the team. Yet beneath the banter, shared glances, and seamless coordination in the air, there’s a tension between you and Bob that no one can miss—except the two of you.
thoughts: i love unecessary mutual pining but at the same time you just kinds wanna yell at their faces that they're in love :3 u loveable stoopid freaks
[✿] loopy medication by @withahappyrefrain | word count: N/A
summary: The pain medication given to Bob after a training accident has some interesting, albeit endearing, side effects.
thoughts: drunk anesthesia fics hold us together as a society
[✿] wanna buy you a drink by @anonymooseforever007 | word count: 3.8k
summary: It's been five months since Bob's seen his wife, and aside from Natasha he had yet to mention her to his team. He calls it privacy, she jokes it's internalised possessiveness. But tonight, with Penny's help at the Hard Deck, more than one person is in for a surprise. After all, who doesn't love a good innuendo?
thoughts: bob floyd secret wife fics are kind of the bane of my existence right now
[✦] [✿] [★] speak now by @scarletmika | word count: 16.2k
summary: Bob Floyd is madly in love with you, and you're in love with him. The problem? You're getting married...and it's not to Bob.
thoughts: oooo wait these two were messyyyy so much so that you root for them all the way but love who you love guys !! just make sure they're the on you're marrying you next time :3
𓂅 [✿] knight in shining glasses by @/scarletmika | word count: 11k
summary: All you wanted to do was enjoy your first night in San Diego at the bar recommended to you by your father, but a hot-shot new to the Top Gun program was intent on bringing you home with him, or at least couldn't take a hint. Lucky for you, there's a knight in shining glasses ready to save you.
thoughts: N/A (haven't read this one in a bit but all i know is loved it !! :p)
[✿] winner takes it all by @totallynotashieldagent | word count: N/A
summary: Reader is at the base to write an article, everyone's betting if Bob would get a kiss. The squad doesn't know they're already married.
thoughts: if it isn't the bob floyd fic that ignited my adoration for this fictional man bob secret wife fics took over me for a while because of this !!
[✦] [✿] [★] roostering it by @ghostgirlwrites | word count: N/A | complete!series
summary: After years of friendship, reader finally decides it’s now or never to confess her feelings to Bob—only to have him appear at the Hard Deck, hand-in-hand with someone else.
thoughts: i read the whole thing before going to sleep last night and it WRECKED ME only to build me together again ofc :3 but still. it captured the pain of wanting something that's so unreachable that it feels more farther the closer the you get to it, if that makes sense. i know this feeling too well especially this year... so erm—sooo safe to say falling for you bestfriend is truly not for the week.
Rhett Abott:
[✦] [✿] [★] dog days by @lewmagoo | word count: N/A
summary: "i tried so hard to quit you, like i promised my momma i would"
thoughts: i saw a fan made music video awhile ago of taylor swift's 'but daddy i love him' and that sparked a need within me of a rhett fanfic with a similar plot sooo imagine my excitement when i found this on the hashtag :3
[✿] [★] shoulda knocked by @verricherri | word count: N/A
summary: N/A
thoughts: absolutely hilarious !! and i learned a lesson to keep doors locked because if this ever happened to me i would be swallowed by the earth i think :p
𓂅 [✿] [✦] right here by @/verricherri | word count: N/A
summary: N/A
thoughts: waittt i reread this just a couple days ago (i find myself reading this every now and then) and this is just kind of wrecks me in such a beautiful way i think. for my own sake i'm not gonna trauma dump on fic rec rant but, this fanfic just reminds to be patient that there will be someone who's gonna be willing to be there for me through all of life's turbulances someday
𓂅 verricherri's masterlist by @/verricherri | i binged the entirety of the lewis fics i gotta reccoment all of em' :3
[✦] [✿] [★] that's my kind of night by @lewsangs | word count: 28k
summary: parent trap AU
thoughts: one of my most favourite ever niches that i've stumbled upon are parent trap aus sooo imagine my excitement finding this :3
[✿] ruin the friendship by @illiterateaffairs | word count: 7.3k
summary: inspired by ruin the friendship by taylor swift. you and rhett have been best friends since you were pre-teens neither of you realize how many times the others wanted more - until you take it.
thoughts: this is all i need ever in life i love this song so much
[✿] commission by @pileofboneswrites | word count: 3.4k
𓂅 commission pt. 2 | word count 8.1k
summary: you're the weird tillerson girl, your brother's joke that you make billy look normal by comparison, but you don't really care. you enjoy life off the ranch, living in town and contributing to the community. your art studio is your sanctuary, and the day that rhett abbott walks in asking to commission a painting for his parents anniversary, your world flips upside down.
thoughts: this was so so GOOD !!! someone find me a man who'd fix things for me :( i love their dynamic and kinda impatiently waiting for pt.3 :p
[✦] [✿] [★] no angels by @/em1i2a3 | word count: 18k
summary: You and Rhett have been friends for almost your entire lives and you’ve had a crush on him ever since you could remember. You’ve never made a move out of respect for the friendship, but when Maria–an old crush of Rhett’s–comes back into town, you can’t help but get a little jealous of how much he swoons for her.
thoughts: this is the first rhett fic i read and i think i remember distinctly squealing when i read the summary and erm... at some points while reading it because of how angsty and unrequited it got (art imitates life guys) and i just love a really really well done friends to lovers story that has excrutiating mutual pining !! alsooo i really love how it portrays the years worth of envy and bitterness. like i think i could go on and on about this fic i just love it so so much
Todd Stevens:
[✿] midnight on campus by @enderdaggers | word count: 7.2k | wip!series
summary: ghostface!au It's your junior year of college and you don't even mind that it's somewhere new. Fresh start. Far from every bad decision that ruined you before. You can really decide what kind of person you want to be for once, even if it means involving yourself with the annoying, frustratingly attractive president of the Kappu Nu Alpha fraternity, Todd Stevens.
thoughts: i don't usually read a lot of ghostface aus but i really enjoyed this one !!
[✿] paper cuts by @mustaaarrd | word count: 8k
summary: it starts with a jammed printer and a boy who doesn’t know how to fix it. todd stevens is loud where you’re quiet, charming where you’re cautious, and for some reason, he keeps showing up — in the library, in lecture, beside you when you least expect it. what begins as study sessions turns into something softer. hours spent joking, sharing snacks, talking about nothing and everything. it’s easy to ignore what’s happening until a rumor spreads, and the line between friendship and something more starts to blur.
thoughts: i dunno if this is odd in anyway but i love love loveee this !!! it reminds me so much of old marauders era fics i read HIHI but like it's one of those really sweet study buddy esque fics that are just so adorable
[✦] [✿] [★] i wanna be adored by @/em1i2a3 | word count: 12.8k | complete!series
summary: You’re not his girlfriend and he’s not your boyfriend. You’ve never even kissed in public let alone been seen together outside of the classroom setting. But somehow, every time Todd Stevens is alone with you, it’s like his self-control gets tested in ways he never imagined. You were supposed to be just a secret–until hiding it stops feeling like protection and starts feeling like a punishment.
thoughts: like i mentioned before on some of the other recs i really love LOVEEE a slowburn that has this seamless transition period in between of point a to something more meaningful. basically when their feelings take the wheel unbeknownst to them and they find themselves doing acting on things in a not so casual way anymore it just makes me so HADWHJAKNWHADB EEEEEKK
Welcome to my Lewis character directory, full of all the stories I love of his individual characters! Each work is credited to their amazing author, and if you enjoy a story as much as I do don’t hesitate to reblog or comment to encourage and show them some love.
masterlist ● Bob Floyd rec list ● B.F pt2
⋆˚⟡˖ ࣪ rec list
Miles Miller
𖤝 roles reversed┃@sadboyeddie
Miles has been driving for far too long and decided to stop in at the El Royale.
𖤝 the el royale┃@buckysdingus
you show up to the el royale while on the run and take a big liking to the check in clerk in the lobby, luckily he takes a big liking to you too.
𖤝 hotel el royale pt2 ending 1 ending 2 ┃@astraldelights
After a long journey, you only had one place to rest between borders
𖤝 druxy┃@noncrush
when you get hired at the el royale, you don’t imagine you’ll be staying there long. you don’t imagine you’ll find the love of your life, either. as it turns out, you’re wrong two for two.
𖤝 a mercy not meant for him┃ @authorchariot
when a storm forces you to stop at the el royale, you expect creaky floorboards, flickering lights and a stiff bed for the night; not the wide-eyed hotel clerk who stares at you like you just fell from heaven
𖤝 little games┃@hederasgarden
Miles knows it’s wrong to watch you but he just can’t help himself.
𖤝 if I could hold you for a minute ┃@withmyloveasyourgarden
when miles accidently confesses the terrible things he's done to the pretty guest who's always kind to him, he expects you to either judge him as a monster or run. he never thought that you would stay—that when his dreams turned to nightmares and his sins came back to haunt him that you would come everytime he called, broken. but in your arms, miles finds a peace he never thought he could have and it makes him want to be better, for you and himself.
𖤝 baby it’s you┃@em1i2a3
Miles has always had an affinity with collecting things from patrons at the El Royale; whether it be their toiletries, pieces of clothes, or even their jewelry. But when you arrive for a week-long staycation, Miles’ affinity turns into a nefarious obsession.
Rhett Abbot
𓄀 yours officially┃@verricherri
𓄀 soulmates do exist ┃@elisabethwritestoo
Rhett and reader have always felt that pull, but one jealous best friend has always stood between them.
𓄀 is it casual now┃ @lewmagoo
𓄀 that’s my kind of night┃@lewsangs
parent trap au meets bull riding rhett abbott, you absolutely hated living in wabang that is why you left
𓄀 banquet┃@em1i2a3
You’ve been in the circuit scene for as long as you can remember but when you move to Wabang and become the newbie, you’ve got a lot to prove especially to your top competitor, Rhett Abbott.
𓄀 fifteen years @elisabethwritestoo
Childhood friends reunite after fifteen years when you return to Wabang as a vet. Rhett is stunned by your transformation, and old crushes ignite into a slow-burning, irresistible passion that finally erupts in the barn.
𓄀 no angels┃@em1i2a3
You and Rhett have been friends for almost your entire lives and you’ve had a crush on him ever since you could remember. You’ve never made a move out of respect for the friendship, but when Maria–an old crush of Rhett’s–comes back into town, you can’t help but get a little jealous of how much he swoons for her.
𓄀 under the gym lights ┃@elisabethwritestoo
New in town, you meet Rhett Abbott while he picks up his niece, sparking instant attraction. Repeated small-town encounters build tension—until a meeting at the school fundraiser ignites a heated, unforgettable kiss.
Saw your inbox is open so would love to put in a request!
I am in dire need of more absolutely feral in bed Bob Floyd. This man is the picture of respect and kindness but behind closed doors he’s in total and absolute control (consensually of course). Bonus points if it’s a friends to lovers kind of situation and reader makes the mistake of thinking she’ll be in charge when they get to the bedroom and then has her mind absolutely freakin blown buy her bestie in the dorky glasses.
yes my inbox is open!! yay!! (also so sorry this took so long!! i've been swamped with uni lately...) thank youuu for the request you got my gears TURNING rn….cause bob is such a looks so innocent but is the biggest FREAK in the sheets for sure. like get me in that mans pants STAT i mean what…who said that……..
bob has always been your friend, a best friend at that—your best friend. but god had he always made crazy.
he’s always been that type of guy who always holds the door for you, who always walks on the side of incoming traffic, the type to pick you up if there is a puddle just so you don’t have to ruin your shoes. The perfect embodiment of a gentleman, someone you could always count on.
so for him to be currently pinning your waist down, his large hands gripping tightly that you couldn't think of anything else besides the ramping of his cock into you, and you knew the bruises you'd have tomorrow would be killer, it was something you had only ever dreamed about.
bob's breathy moans were floating into your ear, his face pressed in the crook of your neck mouth pressing open mouthed kisses erratically across your neck.
"bobby..." you moaned out hands trying to claw at his back to get him to slow down even just a little. but he only chuckled deeply, his tongue running up the side of your neck, licking like he could consume you in that very moment.
the pace was insanity, the utter control he had keeping you pinned, the way his turned his face, leaning in so close to you, that his nose kept brushing yours and sweat prickling his skin. he smelt so divine, his body on top of yours, you didn't want this to end. you wanted him to fuck you for the next century.
"aww come on darlin', you were just begging' for my cock three mins ago." bob was smirking, face pulling slightly away so he could hit at a different angle. and when you whined nails coming up to grab at the back of his neck to bring him down again, he laughed again, eyes analyzing every shift of your features, reveling in the effect he had on you. bob's lips were glistening with spit, his glasses were fogged and hanging almost on the tip of his nose, and his chest heaving.
you didn't have the strength to try and come up with an explanation knowing that the only reason you were begging was because bob, the boy who you thought was a soft, vanilla, nerdy man, was a freak in the sheets. you'd expected to get to control your nerdy best friend, but god had you been so wrong, and now you were paying for the idea that you'd had of him.
bob chased his high, reaching down to rub your clit pulling you through the second orgasm you'd had a wanton of moans filling the room as he spilled inside you cursing as he breathed you in.
he collapsed on your chest, cock still twitching inside of you, breath ragged as he was mumbling how much he loved you and how wonderful you felt and how thankful he was for being allowed to be inside you.
he rested his head against your bare chest, letting the two of you catch your breath, he allowed you to brush his messy hair that stuck to his forehead. gently pushing his glasses up you tried not to blush under the intense stare he was giving you.
"m' so in love with you." he mumbled, kissing your chest before pushing up gently and crawling up your chest kissing every sweaty piece of skin that he could.
"i love you too." you hummed back, grabbing his face when he got close kissing him and smiling so softly. he looked so pretty all fucked out in front of you, those blue eyes, that small smile, god you could just fuck him all over again.
bob kissed you again, a deep moan escaping him when he moved, his cock hitching inside you again.
"think we need a shower now," bob mumbled, breaking away from your mouth to lift himself and grabbing underneath your waist. you yelped, arms instantly wrapping around his neck as he giggled playfully.
gripping him tightly you let him drag you into the bathroom knowing that tonight was going to be a long night.
so sorry it took me so long to write this!!!! its been sitting in my drafts forever so I hope its alright (and what you were asking for!!!)(apologies if there is any spelling errors i really needed to get this out)
Just read cherry pie and omg I love you more Lewis forever please ❤️❤️❤️
ahhh!!! i'm so glad you enjoyed it!!! it took me forever to get out but i'm so happy i finally published ♡ and yes!!!!! i don't think i'll ever stop writing for lewis i'm so in love with that man i'm gonna be here til i perish I FEARRRRR
✶ pairing! robert ‘bob’ floyd x fem!bradshaw!reader
✶ summary! just imagine, bob falls in love with single!mom!bradshaw!reader. (bradley and reader are twins).
✶ w. count! 16.2k
✶ warnings! a child (NO), reader is a nurse, reader’s lover (father of their daughter) died before the story takes place, reader gets called a buckle bunny, reader punches a shit man in the face, bob being absolutely enamored with reader, the kid’s fav songs having the word ‘pie’ in the titles (i was streaming cherry pie on repeat while writing this forgive me), mentioning of smoking weed, cigs, and underaged drinking in high school (please don’t smoke/drink unless you’re of age i know LAME of me to say, but it should always be said—taking care of your mind & health is so important especially when its at such an important time of growth & development), reader has the mouth of a sailor (if you’ve seen dexter—think deb vibes), lots of twin jokes, reader’s daughter also gets in a fight with another kid, & if there is anything else lmk!!!
A.N. firstly 1) i’m in a cowgirl boots phase (because of lewis) so sorry…. 2) this is my second actual fic on this account & both include children HELP lewis pullman u are the only man to ever make me wanna have kids… (i hate children, i’ve never wanted to have children, but lewis heyyyyy). lastly my semester started a few weeks and i wanted to get this out as quickly as possible, and i only proof read it once HSJSHD so i apologize if there are any spelling mistakes or anything!!!
“Mav come on just, just, hold her for a minute. I swear it’ll just be a minute. I gotta go’n grab my dissertation from that dungeon Penny calls an office.”
Your voice was laced thin with exhaustion. Every word being exhaled, like the effort of speaking was almost too much to bear. That it was only making you more tired with each sentence being pushed out.
You couldn’t wait to get home.
Roughly ten minutes ago, you’d quickly changed in the back seat of your car, ridding your work scrubs for a simple pair of jeans and a white tank top (the only pair of extra clothes you had back there). You’d shuffled your little girl into the bar, despite it being packed like an unopened can of sardines—with one purpose; get your dissertation and get out of there.
Being as gentle as possible, you reached down, lifting her, your daughter (who’d been clutching your leg—as if she were shy, she was the most social kid you knew), by her armpits.
You shifted, ignoring the way Maverick’s mouth opened to protest, as you passed her off without a second thought.
Maverick was family. Uncle Mavy you used to call him, teeth missing from repeatedly running into things, hair always tangled, and miss-matched socks. You’d grown up with him always ruffling your hair, teaching you how to throw a football and spike a volleyball into Bradley’s face. He taught you how to fly, how to beat up boys three times your size, and most certainly how to break the rules. Bradley had always wanted your mother’s approval and attention, especially after the death of your father (of course you wanted the attention, however, you found living on the edge a little more thrilling).
You were rebellious if you could even call it that. You liked to live life, you liked being free. And Bradley was no prude, especially in your high school years, but while Bradley fulfilled his momma’s boy arc, you found yourself sticking to crowds your mother would’ve had an aneurysm from if she ever found out.
Friday’s, Saturday’s, even into the early Sunday mornings—beer, weed, cigarettes, just normal teenage things, were your playmates. You’d wished you’d take care of yourself more back than, but you couldn’t really blame yourself. Living with Bradley and your mom, as much as you loved them, it was so hard sometimes. And all you ever wanted to do was to pack up and leave, just for a little while, just to get away and see what this world had to offer.
And with Maverick’s teachings, it wasn’t too much of a surprise that you’d gotten knocked up and did exactly that.
It hadn’t been planned, as things rarely were, but you’d loved the girls father, and you really thought you’d spend the rest of your life with him.
You’d met him in high school, your high school sweetheart, and the two of you eventually ended up in Texas, why you’d decided to end up there was—well, you were more or less following him. He’d gotten transfered to a base out there, and who were you to not go with him.
He was the father of your daughter and you loved him.
So you three had packed up, filled your car, kissed your family, told Bradley he had to call you every single day or you’d fly back and beat his ass—and then you were off.
But like always, the universe seemed determined to never let you be happy.
His death was classified, all you knew was that it’d been some sort of training incident—something too important to let the mother of his child know. And you tried to not blame anyone, you really did, but the one person you couldn’t give any slack to, was yourself.
You’d known the night before that something was going to happen, you’d felt it in your gut—hell even Bradley knew something was wrong. He’d called you, when you’d awoken yourself at four in the morning, nauseous and terrified out of your mind.
The man you loved who lay silently beside you slept peacefully. You’d kissed his temple, and answered your twin brother’s frantic call.
Call it twin-tuition, call it the universe laughing at you—you didn’t know. All you knew was that Bradley had been able to calm you down, you’d crawled back into bed, and hugged the man you loved tightly.
Like nothing could ever tear you away from him.
He’d left a note that morning, kissing your forehead and whispering a goodbye to your daughter, before leaving when the sun still stirred underneath the horizon.
You’d wished you’d woken up again, you hated yourself for not getting a proper goodbye from him.
You hated yourself so deeply. You should made him stay home, even though you knew he couldn’t.
You should have done, something.
Anything.
Now that stupid American Flag made your eyes burn every time you glanced at it on the display table. You’d burn it if it wasn’t one of the last things you had left of him.
Penny pulled you back from the land of memories, her finger reaching out to flick your forehead, fingers then dangling the keys to her office in front of your face.
You must have really zoned out.
Rubbing the spot where she flicked you, you tried not to whine in pain and furrowed your eyebrows at her. She had an incredibly strong grip, you were surprised she didn’t fracture your skull.
“Need someone to drive y’all home, hun?” She asked, now looking genuinely concerned with how exhausted you appeared.
Back to back 14hr shifts at the hospital were definitely not something you’d planned on, but you’d needed to pick up an extra shift and at least now you had two days off.
You planned to at least take one of those to sleep the entire time. You’d drop your girl off with Maverick, he deserved it, you never asked him to watch her, always feeling like you’d be burdening him.
“No s’alright Pen, we’re not too far.” You offered her a small smile, eyes flickering back to Maverick. It looked like he was currently playing for everyone’s drinks, for having said something (unintentionally…maybe) rude to Penny not even five minutes ago—so you didn’t feel bad about adding holding your daughter as another sentence for being disrespectful.
She was giggling, her head tilted, like she always did whenever you picked her up, twirled her, anything. She was just a bundle of happiness, it was no wonder her nickname was 'Sunshine' it was as if the world lit up whenever she entered a room, laughed, giggled, or even just smiled. Nothing could stomp out her light.
Even with her being absolutely more stubborn than the older man in front of you, she was still the happiest kid you'd ever known.
Maverick was ready to grumble, his hand pushing a drink to the side and away from the small child, mouth ajar—about to loudly proclaim that he wasn’t a babysitter, but a glare from Penny and a pout from you, sealed any form of complaints.
He gave a dramatic sigh in defeat as he watched the child settle herself onto the top of the bar. She wiggled to make herself comfortable, her sundress, the longer jorts, and cowgirl boots combo almost like nothing he’d ever seen before. Maverick reaching forward to fix her sleeves (they always seemed to be falling down, it reminded him so much of you), her smile bright as she reached her hand out.
"Evenin' Mavy.” Jasmine, your little girl, was desperately trying not to laugh, her attempt at being professional for a four year old. Maverick was used to the child's antics letting out a huff of a laugh, his eyes rolling playfully as he indulged her shaking her tiny hand and ignoring the grin Penny was shooting his way (even though he literally just pissed her off) as she filled another drink for patron.
The Hard Desk was definitely no place for a child, you knew that—especially with the rowdiness of drunk men tripping over their own foot. But you’d just gotten off your shift, picked Jasmine up from Richard Crane, your daughter’s best friend’s dad (which side note: you literally just got to this town not even two weeks ago and she already had a best friend), he’d been kind enough to watch her because you didn’t want to bother Bradley or Maverick (knowing their work). Penny had offered Ameila’s help—but you’d just waved your hand, they’d helped you so much already you hated feeling like you were burdening them. And Rich had basically trapped you into agreeing, his son and your daughter were best friends, he could pick her up from daycare, it just seemed like the easiest way—without bothering too many people. You just hated being a bother.
Especially now.
And you as much as you’d wanted to head home, tucking your daughter into her bed, and finish that crying session you were pushing off (watching your favorite romcom, Me Before You). But, Penny had sent you a text saying that she’d finished reading and annotating your dissertation that afternoon and you were afraid it might end up destroyed if it stayed any longer in her pile of—whatever the fuck of a monster she kept in her office.
So here you were, digging through the mounds of papers like Indiana Jones searching for the Art of the Covenant. Fingers threatening to receive a thousand tiny paper cuts as you dug and scoured. And after nearly ten minutes you'd spotted it, the thick packet littered with the pink sparkly ink of Penny's handwriting.
Sighing, knowing that even with the coffee stains, at least it was still intact.
Leaning over another stack of receipts you shimmed your way out of the office, locking it and doing your best to avoid the couple—or hookup—happening not nearly far enough away from you. God you really wished you didn’t have so much to worry about right now. Because you definitely needed to get laid.
Bracing yourself, the exhaustion really starting to catch up to you, you made your way back to where you'd left Maverick and your daughter at the bar.
However with a single glance you noticed that, that bouncing and bubbly girl was no where to be seen and Maverick was again busy chatting Penny up like he was hoping to take her home. (He definitely was).
“Mav, where the fuck is my child.”
Your voice cut off Maverick’s deep and drunk laugh as he turned, his hands raised to stop you from smacking the back of his head, something you couldn't help but doing because sometimes he was just a stupid old man.
“Rooster’s got her.” He mumbled drunkly with a wave of his hand, like he was trying to swat a fly. You would have punched him if Penny hadn't enacted that 'No violence at my bar' rule. You loved your brother. Truly you did, he was your twin, your other half—however, knowing Jasmine, she would want to hang onto Rooster for the rest of the night, even if that meant being around drunken military men and women.
“You’re so lucky I can’t afford to go to jail right now Mav.” You grumbled out not really caring if he heard you or not as you offered Penny a tired but soft smile, sliding her keys back across the table.
“Thanks for the annotations Pen, Jaz and I’ll be a little late tomorrow, forgot I gotta take her to the dentist." You smiled, your voice traveling slightly as you folded the packet of paper before tucking it into your cowgirl boots.
The jeans you wore were starting to grow tighter with each turn, the buckle of your belt (that you kept in your car) was digging into your lower abdomen, just a sign that your body was getting tired of being in 'actual' clothes—you couldn't wait to pull sweats on. You would have stayed inside your scrubs but, knowing the men here, you wouldn’t put it past one of them either spilling a drink on you, or trying to enact some nurse fantasy of theirs—you’d seen it all.
Not that what you were wearing now could be considered any better—the, albeit simple, white wife-beater clung to your body, riding slightly up to show a sliver of skin at your waist. And the bra you wore was practically on display, a black bra underneath a white top, not the smartest idea you’d ever had.
And it was so hot, so muggy, like a furnace had been turned on inside the building—even though the windows were open.
As your eyes flickered around searching for your daughter and Bradley, you couldn’t help by feel completely underdressed in the room full of military men and women, their uniforms making you stand out like a sore thumb.
God you’d forgotten how it felt to have eyes linger on you.
"S’alright hun, food’ll be ready whenever you stop by!” Penny called with a wave when you’d begin your search, stopping for a moment to turn, smile, and waved back.
Brushing past a couple dancing, you turned towards where you figured Bradley would be—probably swinging your daughter around or recruiting her to walk across the pool table to stealing the balls of whoever was playing against him. (It has happened way too many times to count).
With a sigh, you smiled when your daughter's laughter grazed your ears. Even over the music and loud conversations you were always attuned to her.
Crossing your arms over your chest, you watched her almost trip tugging on the pant leg of a man, who was not only holding a cola but also leaning down to listen to her.
Jasmine was muttering something you couldn’t make out over the music, her little hands debating on trying to climb into his lap. After a few moments the man laughed quietly, his head tipping back as he lowered his hand offering a drink from his cola. That was definitely something you would have chastised her for, but seeing as he was one of Bradley's friends you trusted he wasn't trying to drug your daughter.
Combed hair, glasses perched on the bridge of his nose, head lowered as his deep blue eyes kept his attention on your daughter as she rambled. It was so endearing, so precious to watch and you couldn't help the small smile that started to crawl up your lips.
Jasmine rarely liked men, especially not after her father had died (unless it was Maverick and Bradley, she actually despised Rich too for some reason). She wouldn't even go near a man she’d never met before. She’d always said that she just didn’t feel comfortable around men, so to see her leaning into the lap, let alone ramble and tug their pant leg, of this man it made your eyebrows furrow.
"Bradshaw, what did I say about stealing my kid." You called when you'd finally fully approached the group, arms crossed and hip jutted just slightly to the side as you leaned.
Bradley's smirk crossed his lips before his eyes even met you, that loud laugh of his echoing as crossed the distance between the two of you. It wasn’t even a second later before he had his arms wrapped tightly around your neck, squeezing the life out of you.
Curse him and his stupid strength.
"It's Sunshine's fault she came willingly." He called loudly making sure the girl heard him, lips in a permeant smirk just waiting for Jasmine to argue back with him.
Rubbing his back, you tried to not laugh at his antics.
It was normal, the bickering, he really loved teasing her, it was his favorite pass time. And your daughter, as if baited, sent him a glare, something she definitely got from you.
Bradley pulled away, pressing a kiss on your forehead before leaning to rest his arm across your shoulder.
Bradley was always a clingy brother—always hung on you, always took care of you, always made sure you were doing okay. You loved him, but sometimes he could just be a little too much at times.
With a tilt of your head, you watched your daughter, who was still playing with the man’s pant leg.
Jasmine began with a "Uh-uh", sticking her finger out to wave it, "Mommy, Chick'n kidnap me from Mavy." Her words were slightly jumbled, (one of her teeth still missing and the other loose—from face planting not even a few days ago) as she motioned towards Bradley who pulled away to put his hands up in mock-offense.
You bit the inside of your cheek, desperate to not laugh knowing that it would just feed the both of them into arguing more and making you stand there longer.
"Jaz, y'know it's Rooster." Bradley fake huffed his lips coming out into a pout as she only shook her head lips pursed into a line her cheekbones prominent as if she were a judge serving him his papers and not a four year old girl in miss matched socks, cowgirl boots, and a sundress, dirty from tumbling around.
"Yer a chick'n to me." She concluded as if it were the most obvious thing in the world and that caused the group to burst into laughter, a laughter that everyone had been desperately trying to keep to themselves.
When you'd glanced around you noticed that only a few of Bradley’s friends were here, the very pretty guy sitting on the stool, name—Unknown, the girl to your left, Natasha Trace or better known by her callsign, Phoenix, and by the smirk of the man beside Bradley you were most certain he was Hangman, or Jake Seresin.
It had been only a week in a half since you moved back, and Bradley had wanted you to finally meet his friends—however both of your schedules had just never synced up.
"Y'know what I kinda like the sound of Chicken, the kids gotta be right." The man smirked wider, if that was even possible, his head tilting as he sent Bradley a wink. Bradley in turn rolled his eyes flipping him off only to get a gasp from your four year old as she began reprimanding the man.
Jake leaned away from the pool table, his hand reaching out towards yours.
“The handsome, the glorious, the most stunning and perfect man you’ll ever come in contact with.” Jake introduced himself and you couldn’t help the confused tilt of your head as you tried to not burst into laughter.
Bradley was right when he said that he was very very full of himself.
You shook his hand, clocking the slightly accent as you ranked your eyes across his body. He was beautifully built—you couldn’t deny it, but the ego was definitely a hard turn off for you.
“Rooster said y’ah lived in Texas, y’know I’m from there.” He added and you hummed, that you had heard from Bradley, whenever he was having his daily rants about the ‘stupid cowboy who doesn’t know how to ever shut the fuck up’.
You couldn’t hold back a smirk.
“So I’ve heard.” You drawled out, releasing his hand as you tried not to physically step away from him. It wasn’t had he made you uncomfortable, he seemed like a decent guy, but you honestly just wanted to head home, not go down a line of introducing yourself to the remainder of Bradley’s friends.
You had time, you could do all of this another time.
A sigh left you as you shifted onto your other leg. You honestly needed to hurry up your little girl, knowing that if you didn't pull her away now, she would either fall asleep in some rando’s arms or you'd end up pass out on the dirty bar floor.
Both of which happened to not sound all that appealing.
Glancing back towards your daughter, you watched as she cut Bradley off with a wave of her hand completely done with the conversation. She turned and tugged on the pant leg of man (who you still didn't know—and if you were going to meet anymore of Bradley’s friends tonight, he was definitely one you would not be mad about) reaching and finally climbing her way into his lap as if he weren't some stranger she'd just met.
"No, no, Sunshine come on, time to go." You began to call, your arms uncrossing as you started towards them. You tried to be stern with her, but even you could tell that your voice was half-assing it. You only watched her snuggle more into this man, as if she were more interested in staying with this random man arms than going home and sleeping (like you were).
"Nuh-uh." Was all she replied back, turning fully around and facing the man, her hands coming up to play with his glasses.
The man, with the patience of a saint, let her play with his glasses, his ears flushing. You were sure it was more or less from being in the spotlight seeing as he was only drinking a cola. His hands were just barely touching her, just enough to make sure that she wouldn't fall off his lap with her wiggling.
You could already feel the ache of a headache forming and you didn't think you had enough patience in you to deal with your daughters persistent need to get her away.
But, how could you really blame her, she was your daughter after all.
"Bob, you do know when I said Bob stood for Baby-on-board, I didn't mean go-n-get yourself a kid." Jake began his hip leaning back into the pool table as he earned a chuckle from the Bradley and Natasha. (That comment was the highlight of Jake's night).
After noticing the way you tried not to sigh to loudly, your hand coming up to rub the furrow between your brows, and the occasional of switching which leg you were leaning on Bradley could tell that you were most likely more exhausted than the lot of them after doing three hundred push-ups, and so he started towards Jasmine. But the girl had seen him coming and she turned into her favorite animal; a koala, clinging herself onto the man. Bob—who, you felt bad for because he looked so surprised when she yelled out a "No!" before her arms wrapped around his neck, tried not to fall out of his seat, setting the cola down and adjusting.
"He's coming home with us." Jasmine mumbled but everyone had heard her, getting a stifled laugh from Natasha who whipped around to face the other way so that she wouldn't see the glare you sent her way.
They were all just feeding into you girls playful manner and all Bob could do was hold her arms so that she wouldn't choke the life out of him. That would be in an interesting way to go; death by a four-year-old from hugging too hard.
Bradley called your name with a slightly drunk tone as he waited for you to meet his eyes, "How does it feel to have your daughter as a wingman?" He giggled and you tried, you really really tried, not to glare too hard, you knew your brother was only joking, he was your brother, it was a simple joke at the fact that for over a year you hadn't met anyone, hadn't had the time or the patience to handle anyone that wasn't your daughter. But it still, the comment, hurt because deep down you knew this whole parenting thing would be so much easier if you had someone.
"Bradley, if you don't shut the fuck—"
"Thats a bad word Mommy." Jasmine hummed out, cutting you off instantly and getting a few more stifled laughs from Natasha and now Jake as well. You were close to shoving your headache induced head into a wall.
Bringing your hands up to your eyes you tried not to scream in frustration, you rubbed them.
"Right, sorry baby, come on, let's go, you got daycare in the morning, y'know Ms. Jessel'll have my a—my butt if you're late again." You tried again using your pleading voice but she wasn't budging. Her fingers were playing with Bob's hair on the back of his neck mumbling about how she hated Ms. Jessel, when you for sure knew she adored the woman.
(You were the one who disliked her.)
You’d opened your mouth to speak again, to almost beg your daughter to let go of the man so that they two of you could go home, when a drunk voice drawled your name out from behind you. A chill ran down your spine, and you tried to not tense too awkwardly, too quickly.
You’d froze, shoulder blades inching together as you found Bradley’s eyes. He was glaring at the man behind you, and thats when you felt his presence. Unbearable and unnerving. As he occupied the space right behind you, like he owned it, like he was going to try and get back to owning you, you tried not to react, like he would want.
Demanding Bradley’s eyes, you gave him an ‘I’ll handle it’ look, motioning towards Jasmine in your own twin way of telling him to make sure she wouldn’t see what you were about to do. Because as much as you didn’t want to shield your daughter from the way of the world, you also didn’t think she was ready to see you beat the shit out of this douchebag—if it came to that.
The man behind you, reached, brushing your shoulder blades, his finger tips just barely ghosting like he had any right. Like he could touch you without your permission. He called out your name again, like he was reminiscing, a sigh leaving his drunken lips.
You definitely didn’t want to hear this right now. God the universe did actually hate you, what had you ever done to it?
“Thought I heard Bradshaw sayin’ his buckle bunny sister was comin’ home.” He mumbled, when you’d turned around to face him. His eyes ranking your body like a starved piranha. And even with the mumble, the group, Natasha, Jake, Bradley, and the man who still held your daughter carefully all quieted, a few people in the outer circles hushing their voices, also having heard the man.
God you hated that nickname, it wasn’t even remotely accurate to you. You’d dated two ‘cowboys’—one of which was standing in front of you, and suddenly you were a buckle bunny.
If you were a buckle bunny, then Bradley was Father Christmas.
“The fuck y’ah want Johnny.” You greeted, trying desperately to be polite (this was as polite as you could be with him), because you honestly didn’t know how else to approach this situation.
When his eyes finally left your chest, fingers tracing the metal part of your buckle, bile rose in the back of your throat. You should have swatted his hand away, but you knew how he got when he was drunk.
You’d forgotten he’d been transferred a month before you moved back, you truly thought you could put him past you. (Bradley also forgot to warn you, twin forgetfulness).
A few stupid one night stands—you’d all but used each other (you apparently more so than him), just to get frustration out, but this guy could not take a hint that you were not interested anymore. Hell you hadn’t been interested in him since before you’d met Jasmine’s father.
“And I’m not a buckle bunny, ‘member? You’re not much of a cowboy, couldn’ stay on that bull for more than a few seconds, if I recall correctly, so the buckle bunny status was revoked.” You added, not being too loud (you could have definitely been a lot louder, he’d done enough to you to deserved to be publicly embarrassed) watching the way his lip twitched in a slightly.
You couldn’t help in the smirk that tugged on your lips. He was so easily angered.
“I remember you stayin’ on for a lot more than 4 seconds.” He called back, taking a step forward (he definitely didn’t need to invade more of your space) not talking about the bull anymore, as you finally grabbed his wrist. His fingers were always so slippery, he always touched where he shouldn’t without the fear of Bradley beating the shit out of him. Because you always said that, you could handle it.
Ever since you were 13 picking fights with the older boys, you could handle it. Senior in high school, beating the fuck out of an older guy who tried to get into your pants at a college party, you could handle it. An old ex with loose fingers, a piece of cake—you could definitely handle it. Even if you wanted nothing more than to smack his smug grin off his lips.
“Nearly a decade ago, what the fuck do you want.” You finally snapped, smirk gone, fingers digging into his wrist as you brought it up and away from the way he was trying to reach underneath the hem of your tank top.
Johnny grunted in pain as you raised your eyebrows as if to tell him to continue explaining himself.
“Fuckin’ christ, forgot how strong your damn grip is, just wanted to see how you were doing s’all.” He snapped back, initiating his innocent act and yanking his hand away. You watched him finally take a step backwards in any attempt to gain his composure.
You raised your eyebrows as you refused to look away from him, he had something planned, he always did.
“Thought we’d reconnect y’know? My favorite Bradshaw in town, figured since y’ah boyfriend’s all dead and buried, we could rekindle that fire, go back to before you up ‘nd you ran off with that waste of space. Could’a told y’ah he was bad news, knocked y’ah up good though didn’ he? Such a pretty lil girl you got, too bad he’d rather nose dive into the ocean than be in a big ol’ happy family. What can you expect from a fuckin’ cuck like him, bet he would’a loved to see you creaming all over my c—”
The ‘No violence at my bar’ sign beside Penny seemed to blur from your memory. A lapse in judgement you’d claim as you leaned slightly, raised your fist and knocked the air straight out of Johnny’s jaw.
There was a gasp and a few ‘oohs’ as you connected your knuckles with his face. You didn’t stop though, everyone who knew you, knew you wouldn’t stop unless someone pulled you off. Your temper sometimes got the better of you. Blame Maverick.
You’d watched him fall back slightly, letting out a ‘fuckin’ bitch’ before you raised your wrist again and punched him once more. The satisfaction of hearing a bone crack should have made you smile for being such a fucking asshole, but you couldn’t find it in yourself—just the punching would have had to do.
His blood stained your knuckles as you let him fall climbing on top of him. You didn’t stop when Maverick started shouting out your name, not when Bradley (who had let you get in multiple blows without even stopping you—knowing the bastard deserved it) had jumped forward finally grabbing your arms and pulling you back as one of Johnny’s friends pulled him away from you.
You’d pushed Bradley off harshly, not really in the mood for his protective brotherly stance as you approached Johnny again, who was still on the floor, his buddy trying to help him up.
You kicked him, hard, in the side, continuing to beat him as if every kick would amend the words he’d said about the man you’d loved and lost.
Bradley grabbed your arms again, pulling you back once more as Maverick had put himself in between the two of you, pulling Johnny off the ground and escorted him out (more or so, so you wouldn’t jump at him again—because Maverick knew you were a carbon copy of him, you’d beat the shit out of him again if you even glanced in his direction).
“He’s such a fuckin’ prick, this fuckers gotta be fuckin’ kiddin’ me I swear to everything fuckin’ holy, swear to the fuckin’ ground, the fuck he thinks he can just talk about him like that, fuckin’ balloon headed stupid ass fuckin’ mozart wannabe fuckin’ lyin’ ass sack of fuckin’ piece of shit, get the fuck outta my way Bradley.”
You should’ve hit him harder.
You were pacing now, hands on your hips as you ignored the way your knuckles had cracked open, his blood and your blood. You really needed to get it cleaned up, but you couldn’t stop spiraling. He had no right calling him shit like that, especially when Jasmine’s father had been the most caring and kind man you’d ever met. He’d loved you so deeply, and you, him.
So someone attacking his character? Yeah you were gonna raise hell.
“The mouth on you girl, damn.” Bradley tried to lighten the mood a little as he stopped you from pacing, his hands reaching up to rest on your shoulders. Trying to ground you in the only way he knew how, physical contact.
“Just come on, cool down for a second.” He added tilting his head to try and get you to look at him.
“Fuck,” You pushed the air out of you chest as you brought your hands up to rub your eyes.
You didn’t even want to look behind him, afraid that Jasmine had seen it all—seen the anger you tried to keep so buried down that she would never see it. Especially when you’d told her violence was never the answer.
Maverick had come back with a warm cloth, slipping past a few patrons who’d gone back to their drinking and chatting. Especially now that the ‘show’ was over.
“Need a goddamn fuckin’ cigarette.” You muttered out as you took the cloth from Maverick, thanking him and telling him to get back to Penny—that you were fine, it was just a scratch.
Maverick sighed as he shook his head, leaning forward to kiss your temple before ruffling your hair.
“Can’t be smokin’ around her remember you quit for that reason.” Bradley hummed as you finally glanced backwards at the two (Jasmine and Bob). Bob had her faced away, still in his lap, from you and Bradley, involved in what looked like a very important conversation. He had moved a couple feet away, and from the position, Jasmine wouldn’t have been able to see that it was you throwing a punch into Johnny’s face.
You could have thrown yourself onto the ground and kissed his feet in gratitude.
"Jaz," You began again, sighing and handing Bradley the now bloodied cloth. You side stepped past Bradley, ignoring the way your body absolutely felt like it was ready to drop dead right in front of everyone.
Jasmine shook her head and only buried herself farther into Bob—like a mole into mounds of dirt. She was mumbling about how she didn’t want to leave her ‘new friend’. And if you weren’t so exhausted you would have cooed at the mention of her making a friend. Especially when her only friend was a boy she’d kicked off the swing set on her first day of daycare.
"I can bring her out for ya." Bob, the man who had mostly stayed silent—listening to the girls ramblings and mumblings, finally spoke in an offered whisper. And then his eyes finally met yours and you could have fainted. Right then and there, if you hadn't reached to brace yourself as quickly as you had, your knees would have fully given out. He looked so beautiful, you'd be surprised if your jaw wasn't on the floor already. And not only was he watching you with such fondness like you hadn’t just beat the shit out of a man not even minutes ago, he was also holding your daughter like she was the most precious thing in this entire world and you didn't know how to function.
God you needed sleep.
"No, no, no thats okay, she's just being stubborn." You forced the words out as you let go of the pool table that you'd braced yourself on, hands coming out as if to wave the thought of him carrying your child out of your mind.
"Wonder where she gets that from." Bradley tried to joke, wanting to put the little fight-debacle behind everyone, a smirk rising when you glared at him again.
Sometimes you hated your twin.
"This is all your fault Bradley, she gets like this because of you." You snapped.
Bradley raised his hands in innocence, "She didn't come outta me." He fired back with shrug and you were sure, as sure as that fuckass mustache he supported on his upper lip, that you could have killed him in that moment.
Bradley, who had just pulled you off a man, Bradley who had grown up with you beating him in every game of football, Bradley who knew from that look that you’d mess him up—had taken a step back, dragging Jake in front of him, because he knew you just might.
"It's no problem," Bob began again, his voice ever soft a n octave lover as he finally stood, "I also think she fell asleep on me."
Bob's arms wrapped around the small girl (who was definitely now pretending to sleep) protectively maneuvering her so that she could lay her head on his shoulder more comfortably. (Bob knew that Jasmine wasn't asleep, but who was he to give up this perfect opportunity of getting to spend more time with you).
Bradley watched, no longer frightened for his life, another smirk creeping onto his lips when Bob walked past him and he watched as Jasmine smirked one of her eyes peaking open to see if anyone believed her.
He had to hide his laughter in a cough, especially when you shot him another glare.
Bob passed you, his arm warm—like he was a living furnace—just barely brushing you as you tried not to stare (you definitely were, mouth slightly ajar, opening and closing like fish). And you just stood there, still, trying to comprehend if he was just being nice or if he was kidnapping your child.
And when his back was fully to you, (those big broad...shoulders..) you made eye contact with your daughter, whose eyes were open again now, playing with Bob’s hair again as she was smirking like she'd won the lottery.
"I'm gonna beat her ass."
"You can't even scold her without crying." Natasha laughed as she tipped her drink back before nudging your shoulder making you shake your head.
She was right of course, you would rather cry than tell her no, perhaps it was horrible, she definitely would turn into a monster, but you were doing your best. (You could beat the breaks off a man for saying nasty things, but if your daughter asked for cookies in the middle of the night, you’d climb out of bed and make them yourself—you had your priorities straight).
“And hey,” Natasha began again, nudging you with the edge of her beer bottle, “At least she picked Floyd, out of everyone, he’s probably the best one to trust with your kid. I mean—” She tilted her head toward the blond mid-debate with Bradley (probably over something stupid), “—imagine if she'd picked Bagman…”
She grimaced dramatically at the thought and gagged for extra emphasis while you tried not to laugh. It wasn't just the way she visibly retracted but also the way you could hear Jake gasping, like the comment had personally reached out and smacked him, that almost sent you over the edge.
"Hey!” He jabbed a finger at himself, lower lip jutting out in an exaggerated pout. “I’d make a great dad.”
You snorted, shaking your head and agreeing with Natasha, forever grateful that your daughter did not like him. Crossing your arms over your chest again, you watched briefly as he argued with Natasha.
“I pray the day you have children Seresin, never comes.” She responded with a tip of her bottle as if cheering to the prospect of him never having children.
Jake shook his head turning towards Bradley as if to say 'do you hear her?' But Bradley just raised his hands claiming he was Switzerland in this conversation.
"Wow,” Jake sighed out dramatically, still pouting but now theatrically wounded like his pride had taken a hit, "You all seriously underestimate how good I am with kids. I’d be the best parent in the world—no, scratch that, the universe.” He was definitely going to pout about this the entire night, and you knew that you didn't have time or the effort to stay and indulge him. So you began to bid your goodbyes knowing that Bob was just paying his tab and you didn't want to make him wait carrying your child.
Bob adjusted Jasmine, she was now curled up against him, little arms draped lazily around his neck, only wiggling slightly so she could lean back to wave Maverick and Penny goodbye, the both of them slightly confused at the sight because everyone knew Jasmine hated being held by anyone who wasn't you, Bradley or Maverick. Yet there she was, resting against Bob like she’d known him her entire life.
Placing cash down, Bob gave Penny a smile muttering for her to keep the change as his gaze kept drifting back towards you—you smiled, warm and unguarded and Bob felt his chest constrict. If he hadn’t been holding your daughter, he might have fainted.
You tried to ignore the way he was looking at you, your chest tightened and your insides turning to mush. You felt like a teenaged girl all over again with a stupid crush. And without a word, the two of you headed out together.
By the time the two of you had gotten to your car, the silence had becoming deafening. Bob honestly didn't know what to say, you also didn't know what to say, and so the two of you listened to Jasmine humming a tune as you unlocked your car, walking to Jasmine’s side of the car, opening the back door and letting him shuffle her into the seat, which she thankfully allowed him too.
Giving her a smile, Bob stepped aside, walking back towards the drivers side, as you took his place and leaned towards her.
"Yknow Jaz, we're not supposed to hang on strangers—you know that." You began softly in a whisper as you brushed her hair from her head before kissing her temple and buckling her in.
Jasmine lifted her eyes as she watched you get her all settled into her carseat, lip biting nervously as she waiting for you to meet her eyes again.
"He just reminded me of Daddy." She whispered, however not quiet enough from the cough that came from the man behind you.
Giving her a soft smile, you pressed another kiss to her forehead before gently closing the back door.
You circled to your side of the car, pulling the door open and leaning in to reach across the seat. With the shift of your tank top rising, your back dimples peaking out, it made Bob's throat dry up as he desperately tried to keep his eyes respectful. But with Bob’s presence just behind your shoulder it made your skin prickle, and you tried to ignored it, focusing on rolling down Jasmine’s window.
She was still humming some tuneless little melody until—
“Mommy I want Cherry Pie,” She announced loudly, punctuating her demand with a light kick to the back of the seat.
You let out a small groan, rolling your eyes affectionately. You’d cursed the day you ever introduced her to that damn song. Now it was the song—one of the only songs—on her personal playlist, and she didn’t have the faintest clue what the lyrics meant.
“Alright, alright…” You clicked the accessory on, switched the stereo to CD, and sure enough, the familiar opening strum of Cherry Pie by Warrant blasted out like a punch to the throat, as if the radio itself was trying to deafen you.
“Fuckin’ Jesus—” You winced, scrambling to turn the volume down while Jasmine giggled like it was the best joke in the world. She probably had been the one to turn it up all the way.
Shaking your head, you backed out from the front seat and shut your door. When you turned, you expected Bob to have slipped back inside to avoid the cool night air. But instead, he was still there, hands in his pockets, cheeks faintly flushed, a small, polite smile on his lips. And the unmistakable look of a man who had definitely been staring at your ass and was now pretending he hadn’t.
For a beat, neither of you said a word. The thump of “She’s my cherry pie,” floated between you, Jasmine singing the pre-chorus slightly off-key in the background, her feet kicking the seat with each beat drop. It was no surprise that your car had as many scuff marks as it did.
You cleared your throat, a smile tugging at your mouth. “Thank you. For, uh… not letting her see that back there in the bar, and for uh bringing her out.” You tipped your head toward the backseat, feeling a warmth creep up your neck. You didn't know why you felt so small underneath his eyes, like you hadn’t just beat up a guy twice the size of you. And as your eyes fawned over him, all you could think about in that moment was what he would look like above you.
“It’s no problem,” Bob said, voice quiet but earnest, swatting that image of him above you instantly away. His smile wasn’t flashy, it was soft, almost shy, but it had a way of burrowing itself somewhere deep in your chest.
You wanted to believe he would’ve done it for anyone. That it wasn’t personal. But the way his eyes lingered just a little too long, the way he shifted his weight like he didn’t want to leave, it made you doubt that.
“I mean it,” You began again, your own body suddenly not wanting to leave either, crossing your arms—not because you were defensive, but because you needed to keep from fidgeting under his gaze.
“I know she can be a little difficult.”
Bob glanced toward Jasmine, who was now drumming the tips of her boots against the seat in perfect time with the song. “She’s great,” He smiled softly, like it was the simplest truth in the world. “And for what its worth, I can see that you’re doing a good job with her.”
The words caught you off guard. Compliments about your parenting always did—but coming from him, they landed heavier than you expected.
You let out a slow breath, your lips curling into a small smile. “Thanks." It was breathy the way it pushed past your lips, as you reached up to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear.
“That means more than you think.”
And Bob nodded, but you caught the faintest flicker of something in his expression—like he wanted to say more but didn’t trust himself. The air between you felt heavier, charged in a way you weren’t sure how to name.
"Put a smile on your face ten miles wide"
Jasmine’s voice rose again in the background, half-singing, half-yelling the lyrics, blissfully unaware of the tension simmering just outside her window.
You laughed under your breath, your daughter’s favorite part of "You ain't gonna swing with my daughter no more" continuing in the background as you tilted your head towards him.
“I’m sorry if you get that song stuck in your head now.” Trying not to laugh loudly knowing that it would draw attention to yourself but couldn't help in watching as Bob’s smile widened, his cheeks still lightly flushed as the corners of his eyes crinkling.
"Too late.”
And for another moment, you both stood there, the glossy overhead from the street lamps casting soft shadows across his face. His combed hair slightly tousled from Jasmine’s fingers, and the way his lips twitched slightly in a smile. He was so beautiful—not in a loud, showy way, but in that steady, grounding way that made you think of safety and home. You had not truly been looking for love, not now, especially with the way your daughter and your job kept you busier than anything. But looking at him, seeing how careful he was with your girl, god, he made you want to.
You opened your mouth to say something else, maybe even ask if he wanted to maybe meet up sometime for some coffee or something, when Jasmine’s voice rang out again.
“Mommy!” She interrupted loudly from the backseat, the song ending, just to restart again (because it was the only song on that playlist that actually worked—unfortunately for you).
"He can come for pie too!”
What was with your daughter and wanting to bring this man, this stranger, she had just met home. It was like last week when she tried to bring home that stray cat.
Bob’s brows shot up, as you were sure yours did, while he tried not to look at Jasmine knowing that he wouldn't be able to say no to her.
You turned toward your daughter a soft smile creeping onto your lips, knowing that even if you wanted him to come home for 'pie' he should definitely just go back into the bar with his friends. “Sweetheart, it’s bedtime.” You called softly as if that would sway her. Jasmine just waved her hand as if dismissing the idea that just because it was bedtime didn't mean they couldn't have pie.
“But he likes pie,” She insisted, as if she's known this man her entire life. She leaned across her booster seat, hands trying to free herself as if she could get a better view of him. “You like cherry pie, right Mr. Bob?”
Bob felt his heart jump into his throat trying desperately to not think about the innuendo—especially with the song playing in the back ground. But no matter how hard he tried to think of something else, hell even real cherry pie, all he could think about her you. You and that sweet scent of your shampoo, you and the way you looked so warmly at him, you and the way you took care of your daughter, you and the way you’d handed that man his ass, you and that stupidly beautiful smile you kept giving him.
God he wanted to bury himself in your thighs for hours.
Bob chuckled awkwardly, of course he liked cherry pie, and he definitely would not mind eating your cherry pie right about now either.
“Uh yeah, yeah I do.”
You shook your head, laughing despite yourself, taking the comment in the way that you knew he was thinking about.
Uncrossing your arms you motioned back towards the Hard Deck.
"You better get back in there before my brother thinks I kidnapped you, Bob.” You tried not to blush at the way he kept watching you, a small part of you was wishing he would stay even with you telling him to go back inside.
Bob's gaze lingered on you for a moment longer, like he was debating something, then he gave a small nod, his lips twitching slightly as if the words wanted nothing more than to escape.
"Goodnight.” He added a soft twang onto the way he send your name, your knees feeling instantly like jello.
Then he took a step back, and Jasmine piped up again—louder this time.
"Wait!”
Both of you turned toward the backseat, startled at the sheer volume of her voice. She was leaning forward farther this time, eyes wide and mischievous like she just had the brightest idea ever.
"Mr. Bob, you can’t leave yet, Mommy didn’t say thank you with a hug.”
Your jaw dropped, (you believed it’d fallen to the floor) heart stopping as you tried to not meet Bob's eyes.
“Jasmine—”
Bob shifted awkwardly, rubbing the back of his neck.
“It’s okay, she doesn’t have to—”
“She has to,” Jasmine insisted interrupting Bob, and pointing at you like she’d just delivered a state sanctioned order. “’Cause hugs make people happy, right Mommy?”
She was smiling so wide, teeth peeking out as she used the back of her palm to pushed her hair back.
"Jaz, neither of us are sad right now." You tried to reason but she just shook her head and waved her finger as if she didn't believe either of you.
"You could thank him with a smoochy."
You felt the way your face heated up quickly as you glanced back at Bob, he was equally flushed his hand reaching up to scratch the back of his neck nervously, again.
“She’s very… persistent.”
His lips twitched like he was fighting a smile, eyes flickering back to meet yours fully.
“So I’ve noticed.”
The silence stretched just long enough for you to make a choice. Stepping toward him, you unfolded your arms, wrapping them around his neck, raising on your tip-toes to accommodate his height.
He was warm, like a walking furnace, and steady like he could throw you over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes. His arms slid gently around you with a kind of careful certainty, like he was making sure you knew you could pull away at any moment. But you didn’t. You let him wrap his arms around you, engulfing you in his scent. And you truly never wanted to leave.
Jasmine let out a muffled little 'yay' from the car, but the rest of the world seemed to quiet, the thumping of Cherry Pie fading into a background hum.
When you finally eased back onto the heels of your boots, your hands still rested lightly against his shoulders, and you realized you were close enough to see the flecks of warmth in his blue eyes, the way his glasses slightly fogged from your breath, and the tips of his cheek bones burning so red you believed if you brushed them it'd burn you. He didn’t let go immediately either large hands tapping your hips and the air between you shifted slightly—heavier, charged. Like in that moment you could change the trajectory of whatever this possibly could be.
“Guess that was your official thank you,” You found yourself whispering as you still didn't pull away.
“Guess so,” Bob replied, his voice lower now, as he tried not to look down at your lips. For one dizzy second, you thought he might close the space entirely. Your gaze matched his flicking just barely down to his mouth without meaning to.
You’d almost forgotten about sleep, wanting nothing more than to just engulf this man. But before either of you could cross any line, Jasmine's voice rang out again.
“I'm tired!” Jasmine shouted, breaking the moment clean in half. You stepped back quickly, arms instantly pulling away from him and clenching to your sides as you cleared your throat. “Right, we, uh…we should go.”
Bob nodded, though there was something unreadable in his eyes, like he wasn’t quite ready to leave either. “Sleep well,” He hummed, quieter this time, before leaning around your body and towards the window, smiling at Jasmine. "You too, Jaz, sleep well.”
Jasmine smiled as she waved at him, before tucking herself into the corner happy with herself.
Watching him step back slightly, you tugged your dissertation from your boot before tossing it into the passenger seat and sliding into the driver’s seat. You couldn't get your heart to stop beating so fast that even your daughters singing sounded like it was underwater. Stealing one last glance as he stood there, hands back in his pockets. You absolutely hated that your heart was still thudding like you’d just done something dangerous.
Bob stayed there as you pulled out, trying not to smile to hard as he returned another wave from your daughter. He stayed there for a few more moments, his heart beating in his ears as he tried to control the way his chest felt so warm, his cheeks hot and his brain all foggy like he’d had several beers, when in actuality all he'd drank was cola.
He didn't remember entering the bar again, nor did he remember making his way back over to the group.
"So,"
Bob began to speak, his voice abruptly cutting off everyone's conversation—each of them curious as to what had taken him so long. He began settling into his seat again, brushing the seat awkwardly trying his best to ignore the way the others were waiting on him for the details.
"Uh, Rooster,” Bob avoided Bradley’s eyes, words spilling out, his cheeks warm, “Is your sister…uh..single or..?"
The color of Bob’s face grew more and more red as he cleared his throat.
He knew Bradley could have beat the shit out of him if he wanted too, he knew that asking about his best friends sister was probably crossing some sort of line—but in that moment, Bob physically couldn’t stop himself from asking.
He needed to know.
Bob would never forget the way the group immediately fell silent, like someone had cut the sound from the entire place. Even the hum of the jukebox felt quieter.
Bradley froze mid-swig, his beer hovering halfway to his lips. Natasha’s eyes went so wide you’d think Bob had just announced he was moving to Mars. And Jake's laugh had gotten caught in his throat, his hand coming out to pound on his chest, in an attempt to prevent him from choking on his beer and his tongue.
"Robert Floyd," Bradley lowered his bottle, eyes finding Bob (who was doing everything in his power to avoid). The hair on the back of his neck stood, a shiver inching—from the addressing of his full government name, "Y’ah telling me you’re crushing on my sister?"
Bob blinked, heat continuing to crawl up his neck. He was sure he looked like a tomato, there was no doubt about it.
There was a beat of silence before Bob opened his mouth, closed it, then opened it again.
"I…uh…I was…uh…just asking—"
The rest of the night Bob sat, practically strapped to his seat, while his three friends (and specifically an over protective brother) interrogating him relentlessly.
━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━
The second time you’d meet Bob Floyd was when Natasha had volunteered him and Bradley (everyone else were all either busy or they were working their shift—Bradley invited himself) over to your place.
You’d off-handedly made a comment, while on the phone with Bradley (he always put you on speaker) and Nat over heard that; because you'd been so busy over the past couple weeks you still hadn't full unpacked your apartment. And Natasha being Natasha, had offered (the boy's) help (while she sits back, gossips, and drinks up your entire liquor cabinet).
And you'd tried, really tried, to deny the help saying that you had it covered. That Jaz’s friend’s father would be taking her to daycare—(another person you had to deal with), and it was your day off (finally) so you’d be home alone, with nothing to do.
But with one threat to invite himself over anyways, from Bradley, Nat convinced Bob to tag along also. (Not that Bob needed much convincing). And how were you supposed to deny the help, even when you hated burdening people, they would have found a way to break in anyways if you said no.
So here you were, ushering them into your small and currently chaotic apartment.
This morning had been rough to say the least. You were running late (as if you were ever on time), having rolled off the couch (because you hadn’t had the time to even put your bed frame together), not even twenty minutes ago—Jasmine shouting up and down the halls about how you were sleeping too long.
You had to give her credit for her little body waking herself up before you, because if she hadn’t awoken you from the deep sleep and possible lovely dream about a certain Lieutenant, Ms Jessel would have had your head on a spike, thats for sure.
Nat was currently in the middle of the argument with Bradley (who was smirking—so you knew he was winning unfortunately) who had one hand holding a bag of (definitely squished) donuts and his other arm wrapped tightly around Bob’s shoulder, keeping him close in an almost locked position like Bob had no were else to go.
Bob, flushed at the neck, lifted his head and raised his hand in a small wave.
You could have just dropped to your knees.
Why did he have to be such a heartthrob.
Letting the door close quickly, you didn’t bother locking it, knowing that Rich would be arriving sooner rather than later. Trying not to actively search for Bob’s eyes (oh who are you kidding, you meet his before you even looked at your brother), a blush crawling up your own neck as you waved back—doing everything in your power to not bite a hole in your cheek.
“Apologies for the mess..” You began, taking your eyes off Bob (who didn’t even try to hide the way he kept staring) and kicking stray shoes into the wall, out of the way.
Bradley let out a laugh as he squeezed Bob once more before pulling away and shuffling the bag of donuts into your face.
“You’re always a mess.” He replied shaking the bag trying to get you to grab it faster.
Sending him a glare you snatched the bag before sticking your tongue out at him.
“You’re such an asshole, y’know that?”
Bradley only smirked as he ventured farther into your apartment like he owned the place.
Turning back towards Nat and Bob, you gave them both a smile.
“Make yourselves at home, I’m kind of running late, so just bare with me, I’m so sorry.” You added quickly apologizing as Nat just shook her head swatting her hand like there was a fly.
“Don’t even worry about it,” She began, “You do you, girl.”
Finally letting out a sigh, like you’d been told you could finally breathe, you smiled.
But almost instantly you remembered Ms Jessel’s angry face before you nodded and then got back to being busy.
Bob slide himself beside Nat who was slouched on your couch, as he let his eyes wander about your apartment.
He could definitely tell that you hadn’t fully unpacked, the multiple boxes scattered around, things laying everywhere—mostly from you rushing this morning—but it was the song playing in the background that made a small smile crawling onto his lips again.
"Jaz can we please listen to something else."
You groaned, opening the donut bag, and shoving the donut Bradley bought for you, towards him knowing you wouldn’t have time to eat it.
“I bought that for you, you—”
You shoved it into his open mouth before grabbing a paper plate, placing Jasmine’s donut on it and then on the counter for her.
“No time.” You called back. (It would either grow stale on your counter or Bradley could eat it).
‘Cherry Pie’ was again blaring through your ears. Jasmine must have gotten ahold of your phone (how she knew how to open your phone and open the playlists was beyond you), putting her favorite song on. It was slightly muffled with her being in the bathroom, but as you quickly moved through the kitchen trying to make it look presentable you couldn’t help but groan at the lyrics you knew were gonna be stuck in your head.
Jasmine was ignoring you, singing her little heart out, as you found your eyes flickering to Bob again.
He was watching you, every time you glanced over, as quickly and subtly as you could (all in while trying to clean, pack your daughters lunch, and what not) and every time your heart skipped a beat.
Seeing him in his uniform had been one thing, but seeing him now in a loose shirt, his hair slightly messy and damp (as if he’d taken a shower before hand—you needed to calm down), and sweatpants. If you weren't so stressed trying to get the four year old ready, you would have dropped to your knees in a heartbeat. Even with an audience. (Of course you would first usher them out, you weren’t a fuckin freak—especially since one of the audience members was your brother).
Bob smiled at you when you met his eyes again and you quite literally sighed in relief, it was like the simple smile had cured all the tension in your shoulders.
"Mommy here you can change," Jasmine called from down the hall, her little feet patting against the cold wood. She was wearing her favorite tank top (the one with the big ass Kool-Aid man on the front—because she thought he was cute) and jean shorts that went to her knees. Her hair was still a mess when she entered the kitchen, eyes tired, toothbrush sticking out of the side of her mouth. Her hand was holding your phone for dear life as she thrusted it into your thigh.
You’d just barely caught it as she let go, skipping back towards the bathroom.
“But y’ah gotta put the American one on now!” She called loudly as she entered the bathroom again.
Bradley was trying to hide his laughter wiping his mouth from the donut, as you glared daggers at him. It was his fault honestly for her being obsessed with music—whenever the two of you would visit, he’d always took her for joy rides in his Bronco, blasting music without a single care in the world.
"What's with Sunshine and her favorite songs having the word 'pie' in them?" Natasha called with a laugh as she leaned forward to see you still glaring daggers at Bradley. Letting out a sigh, you gave up, knowing that you were wasting time. Rubbing your eyes, you tucked a few strands of lose hair behind your ears as you began to scramble around again.
"Just wait til she's asking for Custard Pie, or Country Pie or god forbid Slice of Your Pie." You huffed out with a laugh, flicking the song American Pie on before tossing the phone onto the counter and grabbing a couple shirts off the ground, smelling them and tucking them underneath your arm.
"I think she just loves pie." You added, as you stopped for a moment to look towards Nat and Bob.
Motioning towards the kitchen, you offered them both a tired but warm smile, “If y'all want a drink or something to eat, feel free." You spoke, not bothering to include Bradley knowing that he always made himself at home anyways, even without your permission. ‘Thats what twins do’ he’d shrug.
And then you were off again, not even bothering to wait for Nat’s or Bob’s response, nearly tripping over a Barbie with her head popped off heading towards the dryer room searching for Jasmine's missing socks.
When you had succeeded in your mission for the missing socks, you found yourself glancing down at your beeping watch. You had less than ten minutes before Rich would arrive.
Letting out another sigh, you entered the living room again and now Jasmine was, (hair no longer a mess thanks to Natasha for brushing it), trying to twirl around singing loudly "By by Miss American Pie" like she was on stage performing for the biggest audience.
Bradley had turned to lean against the island table, Bob was leaning his elbows against his knees smiling softly and listening intently and Nat was clapping along.
Even with the wonderful vibe, you felt that awful feeling. That feeling you always got when you were running late, or something just wasn’t going the way you planned. You should have woken up from your alarms, you should have had her ready thirty minutes ago, you shouldn’t be stressing yourself out so much.
And then, it left your lips, before you could slap a hand on it.
"Fuckin’ hell, I'm a terrible Mom."
Blinking the thoughts away quickly, you crouched down in front of her. Jasmine was no longer singing along, her lips pouted as she reached forward to hold your face.
"Y'ah the best Mommy don't say that." She spoke with such conviction as she reached forward to kiss your forehead. And if you weren't currently running late, if you definitely didn't have like ten thousand other things to get done and if you didn't have an audience you would have bursted into tears.
Reaching forward, when she pulled back to smile softly widely, you kissed her cheek, her forehead, and then her nose your heart warming as she giggled trying desperately to pull herself out of your arms.
There was a knock at the door, a dramatic groan leaving you.
Offering Jasmine another smile, a kiss on the forehead again, you patted her foot in a motion to tell her to put her socks on.
"It's open!" You called, the door swinging open as Richard popped his head in—freezing slightly when he saw the living room filled with people he didn’t know.
"Damn," He began calling your nickname, one that he had heard Bradley call you once over the phone—and now apparently thats all he wanted to call you (despite the way you hated how he said it), "You got yourself a full house." Rich chuckled, his hands going onto his waist as he scanned the room, unfamiliar with everyone, besides you and Jasmine of course (and he’d heard of Bradley but had never put face to name).
Each of them scanned him equally confused but you only hummed with a nod, taking your daughter's sweater off and flipping it around before putting it back over her tank top.
"She's almost ready Rich just, just gimme a minute." You called not even looking up at him as he waved his hand making his way into your kitchen as if he too owned the place. It was one thing for Bradley to prance around, but for him? You hated when he did that. But right now, you had more important things to worry about.
And if Jasmine wasn’t too busy trying to glare him down she would have shouted at him to stop drinking their water.
Bob had never been a jealous person before, truly, he found jealousy to be a taxing emotion and he hated the way it made his stomach feel.
But seeing this man just waltz his way into your kitchen, he couldn't deny the way his heart squeezed and his hands twitched just slightly at his side.
"If you get warm, give the sweater to Ms Jessel—Penny’ll skin me alive if you even get a drop of sweat on it." You said flattening out the wrinkles on the sweater before buttoning her pants, and brushing her hair from her eyes.
Standing you brushed your knees, "Get your boots on," You called with a nod of your head before making your way into the kitchen. Three steps and you were in front of Fletcher, taking the glass of water from him and drinking the remaining. That had been the first glass of water you'd had all morning (besides the little bit you used to swish your mouth when brushing your teeth). It wasn't weird for you to drink from the same cup, you drank from the same cup as your four year old, however to everyone else it looked more than friendly.
And you if you weren’t still sleep deprived and desperate for a glass of water, you might have wondered why you even did it.
Natasha’s eyes darted straight to Bob’s face, her brows climbing. She was leaned closer to Bradley, who had pushed himself off the island to settle into a spot beside her, her lips curling slightly into a smirk. "He’s not liking this, is he?" She narrated in a whisper, though not quietly enough, because Bob heard her clear as day.
Bradley was grinning like a cat playing with a toy. "Oh, he’s hating it." He mocked, his eyes watching Bob with amusement.
"I’m fine," Bob muttered, though he hadn’t been asked directly, doing his best to keep his eyes off of you and Rich.
"You’re red," Natasha smirked, "And not in the sunburn way."
Bob ignored them, clenching and unclenching his jaw as he focused instead on the little tug at his pant leg. Jasmine had approached him, looking up at him with big eyes, steadying herself on him as she wriggled one boot on, then the other.
"She already ate, please let Ms. Jessel know that she's been having an iffy stomach lately cause I know the bitch'll force her to eat if she doesn't know." You muttered the words to Rich, your side turned into his body in an attempt to keep your daughter from reading your lips because she had that phase going on currently. But to the others it looked even more personal especially when Rich laughed his hand coming up to brush an eyelash from your cheek.
Bob’s fingers curled into his palms.
Natasha leaned forward, eyes wide, the gossip train beginning again.
"Oh my God, did he just—"
"Yup," Bradley confirmed, popping the ‘p.’ There was a furrowed crease between his brows, especially because he’d been on the receiving end of you ranting about how close Rich tried to be with you. So to see you not even stop him was curious to say the least.
Natasha tilted his head at Bob.
"So ya gonna stand up or…?"
Before Bob could respond, Jasmine made a dramatic gagging sound, her tiny hands clinging into Bob's sweats as you tried not to fully push yourself away from Rich. He was a nice guy, truly, and perhaps you were allowing him to get away with more than you would like. But he also was your daughter’s best friend’s dad—and he was the one taking her to daycare, so letting him think you didn’t absolutely hate his guts was the only plan you currently had.
Sliding your cup onto the counter you ignored your daughters grumbling and the way Rich’s eyes kept watching you as you moved towards the fridge.
"Stop flirting with my Mommy Dick." Jasmine called with a glare as she reached to now hold Bob's hand playing with his fingers. Rich raised an eyebrow as he turned back towards the little girl a furrow creasing his brows.
"Rich," He called correcting her but she rolled her eyes turning back towards Bob.
"He thinks I care." She whispered, however it was loud enough for Rich because she wasn't really trying to whisper and Bob did everything in his power not to laugh at her bluntness.
"Jaz what have I said about sassing Rich, he's being so kind and taking you to daycare so I can spend the day sweating away trying to turn this apartment into a home." You called inside the fridge dragging a lunch pail of a lunch you didn't expect Jasmine to eat, especially with the way her stomach had been acting but just in case. Passing it off to Rich you glanced towards Jasmine who had her nose turned upward in defiance.
"Is Vince waitin' in the car with Barb?" You asked when you knew you wouldn't get your daughter to apologize.
Rich was still staring at you, his arms crossed and his body pressed closer than you had expected so when you turned back to face him you nearly jumped out of your skin.
Laughing nervously, you tried not to feel too bad back away quickly and knelt down in front of Jasmine (Nat and Bradley both watching as if it were their favorite reality tv show). Rich hummed in agreement, saying that they were just waiting in the car as you tried not to groan.
"Fuck, ‘m making you wait I’m sorry, come on, baby, let go of Bob so I can get a kiss before you leave me. Please be good, don’t yell at Ms. Jessel, don’t kick the older boys off the slide, and please for the love of everything good, don’t get into any fights."
Bob’s heart skipped at the brief brush of your fingers against his as you tried to pry Jasmine’s hand from his. She only laughed, hugging his arm tighter.
God she could be such a lovable pain in the ass.
Trying not to manhandle her out of his arm you just leaned forward and kissed her forehead, nose, and cheek before standing again and guiding her towards Rich, who was already at the door.
Jasmine, letting out a dramatic sigh as she finally let go of Bob, ignored the hand Rich offered, glaring at him instead as she strutted out like a four-year-old CEO.
"God, I’m such a mess," you muttered, repeating the words as you rubbed your eyes watching as Roch waved and closed the door behind him.
You turned back to find the three still staring like they’d just watched a soap opera play out in your living room.
Bradley was the first to burst out laughing. His loud and obnoxious tone echoing off your walls. "If I didn’t know any better—" He started, calling you by your nickname, "—I’d say you should take an hour to relax before we even start today."
Natasha folded her arms, grinning mischievously more or less at Bob, as you started towards the dryer room again in need of something to cover your now cold arms—now that you would most likely not be running around the apartment like a headless chicken.
"Or maybe we should let Floyd here help her ‘relax’ instead, seems like he’s got the patience for it."
Bradley giggled like a school girl, pointing between Bob and the door. "I think he’s about two seconds away from volunteering to do every school drop-off for the rest of the year."
"Shut up," Bob mumbled, cheeks heating as he adjusted his glasses, praying that you wouldn't be able to hear them from the dryer room.
“Don’t worry, Bobby, we’re absolutely gonna help you shoot your shot." Bradley’s grin sharpened as he leaned farther into the couch his knees sticking out. Bob felt like he was in a horror movie at that moment just slowly turning around to stare at the way Bradley and Natasha were wearing matching smirks.
"Oh, this is gonna be so much fun."
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It was only noon when your phone started ringing for the first time that day. Noon was the sort of hour that allowed a sort of lazy permission into your bones—the best time for a nap on your days off, the apartment (still new) smelled faintly of coffee and sawdust because you’d been currently building Jaz’s bed for the better part of the morning.
You usually didn’t get calls around this time, especially since Jaz was in daycare, so the ringtone cutting through the low thump of a power drill felt wrong—like an alarm that woke you from a deep sleep. It bounced off the plaster and the half-painted walls while you were knee-deep in a stack of pine slats and a pile of screws.
Bob was across from you, measuring twice and cursing once. You’d desperately, the entire time, been trying to keep your own thoughts PG with the way he looked helping you construct your daughter’s bed.
Forearms on display, sweat prickling his forehead, and the breath sounds escaping him.
God you’d lost count of the amount of times you’d wanted to jump his bones.
Natasha who had declared, louder than necessary, that Bob was “the absolute best builder, no contest”, was at the sink, loading a blender into the dishwasher, rubbing her hands clean.
Bradley and Reuben (whom he and Mickey—two you’d also just met, arrived a few hours ago, claiming they wanted to help—they just wanted to see Bob fumbling over his words around you) crouched in the living room, Ikea instructions spread between them like a small, folded map; they were arguing in muffled tones about Allen keys. And Mickey, bless him, had managed to wrap himself up in the throw rug and was making animal noises that might be described as ‘dramatic.’
You tilted back on your heels and called out, half expecting someone to shout “Unknown caller!” in reply.
“Hey—Nat? Mickey? Who—?”
The phone kept ringing. One, two, three times the melody continued to ring out. Then there was a thunk and a muffled groan before “Ms. Jessel’s calling!” left Mickey’s lips as he yelped, freeing one arm and holding the phone up like a trophy (he’d somehow managed to roll in the rug and grab the phone off the coffee table).
You could have named yourself the Flash with how quickly you’d launched yourself up, shin slamming into raw metal and a flash of white pain clouding your vision.
Tools clinked around Bob as his eyebrows drew together; he wiped his hands on the back of his pants and followed after you, like he knew how important this call might be and wanted to be there to comfort you in anyway.
You almost did a faceplant over that goddamn headless Barbie that nobody would pick up—a modern-day landmine—but you snatched the phone from Mickey’s awaiting hand and accepted before the fifth ring had time to finish.
Adrenaline made your fingers clumsy; the world spinning slightly as you tried to catch your breath. Damn you really needed to work out more, especially if only jogging into your living room made you dizzy.
“Hello?” Your voice started out unsteady, unsure, “Yes, Ms. Jessel, this is me. Who else—who the fuck else would answer my phone?” The edges of the words were sharp, already annoyed with the tone of the older woman.
She was quiet for a breath that stretched too long. And when she spoke again, it was careful, like she was stepping around something precious. You caught fragments, a word that sounded like “fight,” then another you couldn’t quite place, then “hospital,” and it was all your heart needed to jolt out of sync.
“What?” The single syllable came out like a punch to your chest.
The shift in your tone pulled the room into silence. Natasha paused mid-deep in the silverware drawer, Mickey froze from dusting himself off, Bradley and Reuben stopped scanning pictograms, while Bob’s head tilted as if he could try and listen with his eyes, being a few feet away.
“What the fuck?” You began again and than the rest poured out of you in a white-hot rush. “What the fuck do you mean she’s in the hospital? What the fuck? Is this a joke? What hospital? Who hit my kid? My daughter is four years old. Who the fuck put my girl in the hospital? How could you let this happen? What hospital—tell me what fucking hospital—who—”
Words continued to spill out of you like a knocked over carton of milk. You didn’t let Ms. Jessel get a sentence in; each syllable from the other end was a match and you were pouring fuel over it. You didn’t even realize you’d started moving, jamming one foot into a cowgirl boot while the other tried to keep yourself balanced. Your phone bounced between shoulder and ear as you tugged, trying to wrestle on a jacket, and doing your absolute best to not to trip on the chaotic evidence of a life mid-renovation: a coil of extension cord, a half-open paint can, crayons rolling under the sofa.
“And don’t even tell me you can’t give me the name of the kid who hit my kid because of some rights or whatever.” Your voice fraying into a shout that made even Bradley shutter. “I’m gonna find those parents and—” The sentence sputtered; you didn’t finish the violent promise because the next one took over. “What hospital where is she—”
Ms. Jessel, finally allowed a breath, managed two words: “Children’s—ER.”
The room went from crowded wood and human bodies to a tiny, echoing space inside your skull. You shouted another profanity, wishing the worst on the poor woman as you jammed the screen off with the pad of your thumb, more because you needed silence. For a second you just stood there, chest piston-sharp, trying to form a coherent thought, as you rubbed your eyes.
Someone made a noise behind you—a soft sound that could’ve been sympathy or fear. You shoved your phone into your boot, keys into your hand, and turned, a storm of movement and apologies filtering past your tongue.
“I’m so sorry, I gotta go pick up Jaz from the hospital,” You sighed, head already forming a headache as you turned towards the group of people who’d only come to help. “I don’t know anything as of now, Ms. Jessel wouldn’t loosen her lips, but, just—some kid hit her hard enough to the point they had to take her in. If you want to stay, eat, finish the bookshelf, whatever you’d like, please be my guest. But I gotta go, if you need to go, thats totally fine, I just gotta go.”
You tried to massage the rawness out of your throat, to make the edges gentler so you wouldn’t blow up on them for no reason. But that didn’t stop your hands from trembling as you shoved yourself out the door. Not bothering to lock it knowing Bradley had a key and that he would lock up for you.
They all watched you for a beat that felt too long and brittle. Like their brains were trying to catch up to the sputtering mess you’d become.
Bradley was the first to look over at Bob, whose face was unreadable for a second.
“You gonna go or what?” Bradley asked, voice low as if knowing that if he went after you, you’d definitely bite his head off—but he also knew that you shouldn’t be alone. And as angry as you might be, you’d never bite Bob’s head off (and he also really didn’t want you to drive pissed off by yourself).
Bob was moving before he could get an answer out.
At the car you tried to breathe like a normal person. Head down on the steering wheel, counting to ten and down to one and then to ten again. Your hands were clutching the sides of the steering wheel not even bothering to care about how your fingers were pulling lightly on your hair painfully.
And than a beat later, the passenger door opened and a warm shape slid in beside you. You blinked up, mascara speckled and stupid—you hadn’t even noticed tears were falling down your cheeks, to find Bob buckling his seatbelt with the same methodical calm he used to put the planks together on your daughters bed. His scent of faint sawdust and coffee filtered though the small space making your heart flutter slightly, even with the fear and confusion fitting your mind.
“So, we going or what?” He asked quietly, and there was none of the careful distance you sometimes saw in men who didn’t know what to do with other people’s panic, there was only a steady, low offering.
You wanted to say no. You wanted to tell him to go back inside and be with his friends (even though they were all in your apartment) and that you could do this—you’d done it before, been there for her despite her tendencies, you could and would have smashed every bureaucracy to get back to your kid back—but the truth was small and simple and immediate. You hadn’t eaten breakfast. You were furious and thin as glass. You needed someone who would not hand you tissues and platitudes, someone who would climb in the car and not ask for anything in return.
“Figured you’d need some emotional support,” Bob added, softer now, with a smile that didn’t try to fix you as much as to keep you from breaking. God he was so considerate.
You let out a breath that could have been a laugh or a sob.
“Yeah, you have no idea.”
“Want me drive?” He offered his head tilting towards the way you were gripping the steering wheel like it was a lifeline.
You shook your head quickly, the movement abrupt and causing an ache to form in the crook of your neck. “No. I just need to get there.” Your hands found the wheel again, grip hard and precise.
And while the city rushed past in a blur of late-morning light and impatient horns, one thought kept cycling through your mind like a stuck record: you just prayed she was okay.
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You carried her, bruised face laid gently on the side of your shoulder. She wasn't asleep, her eyes were opened just a crack as she watched Bob follow behind them. He looked so sorrowful, saddened at the state that Jasmine was in and it broke the little girls heart. Reaching forward she offered her hand to him, and Bob took it giving her a small smile as he squeezed it.
You tilted slightly to jam your key into the lock before using the toe of your boots to nudge it open, the coolness of the dark room inviting the trio of y'all as you stepped aside to let Bob in (him letting go of Jasmine's hand—despite her grumble) before locking the door behind you.
You hadn't expected him to stay the entire time, but seeing as he hadn't left your side you figured offering him a warm drink and a towel to dry his wet hair would suffice.
Bob followed you, closely, his hand making sure that you wouldn’t fall over in the dark apartment.
Bradley and the others had left the apartment cleaned, they’d actually finished up building everything.
You couldn’t help the tears the streamed steadily down your cheeks. You were gonna make them cookies, cupcakes, individual cakes, and bring them to them. You might even make them all pies as well.
It was still silent, as you entered her room and shuffled Jasmine into her newly made bed. She hummed head hitting the pillow gently as she snuggled into the warm blanket.
You tried not to coo as you reached down to kiss her forehead.
The two, Bob and you, exited the room, leaving the door a crack as you let out a shaky breath.
“Are you okay?” Bob was quiet, gentle, as he leaned slightly into your frame. You wanted to hug him so badly, just a hug right now would probably make everything better.
“I’ll be okay.” You mumbled back as you turned to try and give him a smile, “It’s her I’m worried about.” You added and Bob nodded, his hand coming out to guide you into the kitchen.
It was silent again between the two of you, Bob leaning against the counter as he crossed his arms.
Reaching into a cabinet, you grabbed a soft towel, before stepping towards Bob. Motioning for him to move slightly, you pushed yourself onto the counter, sitting comfortably before beckoning him to approach you again.
Bob flushed softly and you tried not to smile at him, opening your legs just slightly so he could step forward more.
Using the towel you began to dry his hair, using extra care to be careful of his glasses as you tried to not notice the way he was watching you so carefully.
It was so intimate, so close, and you’d tried to not make it weird. But holding his head, gently patting the dampness away, and staring into those soft blue eyes, it was a good thing you were sitting because you could have melted into the floorboards at any moment.
After finishing the drying, you tucked his now damp hair behind his ears and set the towel down beside you.
Bob whispered a ‘thank you’ as he leaned slightly closer his hands resting on the counter right beside your hips, fingers rubbing the skin that was bare, your shorts riding up slightly.
He was careful, gentle, slow and polite as he leaned in. You watched him, his eyes flickering down to your lips before into your eyes as if to tell whether or not you felt the same way.
The moment your lips met it felt like there was a fire that exploded in your chest, the warm engrossing you as you arched into him chasing the feeling.
"Gotta be quiet, wouldn't want little Miss Sunshine to walk in on us, huh?" His whisper sent chills down your spine, the prickling sensation making you bite your lip to stop a smirk as you leaned in again.
Bob's hand gently raised, fingers ghosting across your cheekbone bringing your chin in farther so he could kiss you again deeper as his warm body searched out for yours.
You'd almost gotten lost in him if it wasn't for the sound of your daughter.
"I would like a brother please." Was all she commented, waddling past with her nightgown halfway off from how she'd been sleeping as she walked in between the two of you grabbing her step stool and getting herself a glass of water. It was so domestic, just the way she didn’t even react fiddling with her strawberry shortcake mug.
You tried not to laugh, your lips pursed together as you pushed some distance between the two of you. Bob was flushed his glasses slightly fogged as he rubbed the back of his neck.
Jasmine filled her mug of water, stepped down and didn't even glance back at the either of you before she started back towards her room.
"I wanna name him too, so hurry up."
And then she was gone like a little thief in the night and Bob did his best to try and quiet the giggles that escaped him, reaching forward to play with the hem of your sleep shorts.
"What do you think, shouldn’t we hurry up?" His smirk was wicked as he pulled your waist forward capturing your lips again swallowing the giggle you let out.
big hands cupping your face and trying to suck your entire soul out with lieutenant bob floyd // post-top gun: maverick, kissing, fluff, just a sleepy late night with our sleeper build bob floyd. (this is more a ramble so sorry if it feels rushed or anything/not edited)
the sun had gone down hours ago, settling itself below the horizon, safe and sound.
exactly how you wished you were right now—safe and sound, snug and tight underneath the warmth of your comforter. the compression, the coziness, just the relaxation of being in your own home, in your own bed, in the arms of the man that you loved. you couldn’t wait anymore, you were just about as close as passing out with your head resting against the steering wheel.
you’d gotten off your closing shift about twenty minutes ago (the twenty minute commute feeling a lot longer than it truly was) your shoulders, tight with exhaustion, hurt more than you cared to admit. it was like you'd been doing hard labor the entire day. and it had been a very very long day.
you had only been scheduled to work the morning shift (7am-3pm), but because your coworker had called off—something about having food positioning or something, you'd had the brilliant (dumbest you’d ever had) idea of being nice and letting your manager know that you didn’t mind staying and picking her shift up(3pm-10pm). it was the least you could do, you were already here, what was another 8hr shift?
you should have kept your mouth shut, claimed that you had made plans and let your manager figure something else out, anything, because why were you feeling extra nice?
absolutely never again.
pulling into your apartment complex, you shut the engine off. you'd been so tired that you hadn't even turned the radio on, the rubbling of the engine being almost too overstimulating. grabbing your bag, keys, and phone you desperately ignored the thought of crawling into the backseat and passing out. bob would probably send a search party out for you if you didn't head in soon.
he'd been the one to advise you against taking the shift, saying you’d definitely regret it. but you—as stubborn as ever, waved the thought away saying that it couldn't be that bad. oh how wrong you were.
shutting the door softly behind you, you fiddled with your passcode, sending bob a quick text that you'd be up in a few minutes (something the both of you did whenever either of you got home). he replied back, almost immediately.
bobby 💛 10:44pm
Putting some leftovers in the microwave for ya right now, hurry up I missed you.
bobby 💛 10:44pm
Hurry.
bobby 💛 10:44pm
Hurry.
bobby 💛 10:45pm
Hurry.
bobby 💛 10:45pm
Hey hurry.
bobby 💛 10:45pm
Oh also Doris's been out there for more than an hour, should remind her that her show'll be on soon.
bobby 💛 10:46pm
Hurry.
you couldn't help the tired smile that pulled at the corner of your mouth. even with the exhaustion reeling in your bones, bob always found a way to make you feel all warm inside. he was always thinking about everyone, so caring, he could always make you smile so hard despite your mood.
god you loved him so much.
the walk was just about silent, besides the few more buzzing of bob sending a few more 'hurry's'. you nodded in acknowledgment towards the security guard as he passed you, he must have been checking out the daily noise complaint from the young couple who lived right above your apartment. called doris's name (softly reminding her that her show would be on), when you saw her outside her door, watering her fake plants.
she gave a gummy smile, thanking you as she always did, nodding and shuffling herself back into her apartment.
then you were in front of yours—the door across from doris. you blindly fumbled for your keys, forgetting that bob would have already unlocked it for you, so you struggled for a few moments (locking it and then unlocking and then locking it again) before just resting your head against the door and giving up.
"bobby." you mumbled though the door, voice strained and eyes closed. with a small huff in annoyance you tried to keep yourself from swaying, leaning against the door frame. you could hear his soft laugh, that heart warming sound, shuffling inside before he unlocked it (again) slowly opening the door because he knew you'd be leaning against it. your eyes were still closed, as you leaned back just slightly so that you wouldn't face plant.
bob was smiling, his lips lifted in amusement at the sight of you. his eyes taking in your tired and exhausted features. even tired you looked absolutely breathtaking to him. he could never get tired of staring at you.
reaching forward he led you into the apartment, trying not to laugh to hard when you practically just folded into him—arms dropping your bag with a 'thump' and wrapping them around his neck.
he smelt so good, hair still damp from the shower he'd taken, a mix of sandalwood and eucalyptus. he smelt like home, like this was who you saw yourself coming home to every night for the rest of your life. your body reacted before your mind, rolling onto your toes as you leaned your face into the crock of his neck wanting nothing more than to just fall asleep right then and there in his arms. what you would give to live in his arms forever and ever.
“hi,”
bob whispered the word out, arms wrapping protectively around your waist. he leaned into the hug, dragging your hips towards his, the tips of his ears flushing (something that always happened when you touched him). he absolutely loved it when you hugged him like he'd disappear, the way your warm arms would wrap around him, the way you breathed him in, it was pure bliss. and he didn't know how he'd gotten so lucky.
fingers treading underneath the hem of your shirt, he tried to tug you even closer. your chest was squished slightly against his, but you didn't pull away—he was too enticing to hold onto.
your breath hitched just barely when his fingers ran gently across your exposed skin. it hadn't been in a way to tease you, bob just loved feeling his hands running across your skin, it brought him comfort, to feel the warmth of your skin pressed against his, to know that you were finally in his arms again. the two of you hadn't seen each other in hours—way too long for bob's liking (and yours).
bob used the side of his foot to slide your bag into the corner before closing the door and locking. he pulled away just barely, head tilting down as he waited for you to open your eyes. as much as he loved holding you and keeping that feeling of your face in the crook of his neck, he wanted to see your eyes.
with a moment of silence, you raised your tired head up to gave him a slow tired blink, wanting nothing more than to crawl back into him.
bob watched you, eyes flickering across your face as he watched you try to stay awake and he just couldn’t help himself. he probably should have just led you inside, arms gently leading you into the kitchen so you could something and then motion towards the bed, but he just couldn't help himself. he absolutely loved holding your face, especially when you were tired because he could use his big warm hands to caress every inch. like you were the most precious thing in the universe and he wanted nothing more than to just hold you.
so he ignored the way his mind disagreed with his heart and reached up, his other hand remaining on your hip. his palm gripped your chin gently, and you let out a sigh that you hadn't realized you'd been holding. bob watched your eyes, the way they closed again and the way the side of your face leaning into his palm, like you wanted nothing more than to feel him hold you, before continuing across your face and brushing your skin gingerly. he could watch you all day and night long, just feeling the way you folded into him—it was his favorite thing in the entire world.
then bob inched forward, like a starved man. his pinky grazing the spot between your jaw and ear and he lured you forward. like a siren enticing you with a song. his glasses knocked into you slightly when he tilted his head to get a deeper angle and who were you to deny him. you felt him leaning forward even with your eyes closed, already forgetting about the exhaustion that withered at your bones. you forgot how tired you were, just leaning into him. like two pairs of a puzzle piece.
your back arched, hips knocking gently into his as you chased his mouth, like he’d disappear. tightening your arms, you leaned farther onto your toes keeping your arms firmly placed around his neck.
bob always kissed like he’d never get to kiss you again, as if you would ever make him stop kissing you. mouth devouring you like his last meal, tongue prodding and begging to intermingle. if you could spend the rest of your days doing anything, you wouldn't even hesitate to choose to kiss him.
bob hummed into your mouth, gripping your jaw to pull you farther into his mouth. he didn't even care about the way his lungs began to scream at him. he didn't want to pull away he wanted to consume you in that moment. he leaned forward again to deepen the kiss, dragging you jaw forward and gently leading you shoulders into the wall behind you.
when air truly became the biggest cockblock, he pulled away just slightly, leaning forward to kiss your lips one more time before leaning his head against yours. he was flushed, much like you, but so flushed in a way that made your knees weak, as if he hadn't just tried to literally suck the life right out of you moments before. you were out of breath, a smile itching on your lips as you leaned your head against the wall behind you.
you watched him, arms now loosely resting against his shoulders as he stared at you. his lips were plump, most likely going to be bruised tomorrow, his eyes were dilated, glasses fogged. he looked so hot, so breathtaking that you couldn't help yourself.
you leaned up again, kissing him one, twice, and then a third time earning a breathy chuckle from bob. he stared at you like you were the only thing in the world, like he'd never get tired of just staring at you.
“let’s go’n get you something to eat and then bed.” he whispered, wrapping his arms around you again as he kissed the top of your head.
you hummed in agreement, leaning into his side of wondering how you’d gotten so lucky.
i saw this vid of david n i instantly imagined kissing bob floyd like this, so your welcome everyone for the thought.
if you would like to send me any asks, any thirsts, requests, just pretty much anything, please read through these rules and things you should know beforehand. thank you!
rules!
before anything please remember that i do have a life outside of tumblr. i’m a senior in university so i swear i'm not ignoring any messages or requests, i'm just either offline trying to get my work done or i’m just super busy at the moment.
please don't send me a request that has already been sent to another writer. it's very disrespectful to both parties. also please always check if my account is open for requests beforehand. otherwise, your request will be left unanswered until i open it again.
if requests are closed, i don’t mind you sending thirsts, thoughts or anything for me to expand on. i'm always happy to chat about anything! (fanfic or just anything in general).
i write smut, angst, fluff and pretty much anything. but i will always put warnings at the top. your media consumption is your own responsibility (this goes for minors engaging with +18! content)
also most of my writing is mostly geared towards fem!reader because i am one, and i am just a self insert luvr (this is fanfiction).
if you are unsure about anything, just ask!
nos!
all though i do write for pretty much anything there are a few things i personally do not fw.
i won’t write certain kinks such as daddy kinks, piss kinks, cheating, some degradation/humiliation, self-harm, or mainly non-con scenarios. i also don’t write for real people, but i am definitely happy to talk about them it mentioned in like an ask.
i also am NOT a shipper (i don’t mind shipping i just don’t generallypartake in it) so please don’t request (i.e. bob x yelena) them. this is an x reader only account.
i don’t write like age gaps either, like even if its an ‘okay’ age gap, i just don’t dabble in that sorryyyy.
and lastly please don’t take it personal if i deny a request. if there is something i’m not comfortable writing for i’m obviously not gonna write it.
──── who i write for… bob floyd, bradley bradshaw, jake seresin, natasha trace, mickey garcia, reuben fitch, javy machado. (feel free to request any other characters—however if i’m not familiar/comfortable with writing for them, please respect my choice to not write for them).
ROBERT ‘BOB’ FLOYD / BOB
oneshots
cherry pie. being a single mom was hard, but being a single mom with a match making daughter—that is even harder. (bradshaw!fem!reader)
mrs. floyd. it wasn’t that you were bob’s secret wife, it was just that no one asked him if he had a wife, and why would bob want to share you with anyone.
and they were roommates. bob is your best friend, you love him (a little more you cared to admit) but if you had to share one more night listening to his beautiful moans on the other side of the wall, you were gonna jump his bones. (+18)(COMING SOON)
drinking games. bob wasn’t a drinker, but perhaps sometimes he can let loose. (+18)(COMING SOON)
tears. (summary coming soon)(+18)(COMING SOON)
drabbles
kissing with big handed bob floyd
bob floyd eating like his life depends on it (+18)(COMING SOON)
BRADLEY BRADSHAW / ROOSTER
drabbles
thigh riding/dry humping with bradley (+18)(COMING SOON)
JAKE SERESIN / HANGMAN
oneshots
cowboy hat rule. the title, just imagine getting to ride that pretty boy. (+18)(COMING SOON)
NATASHA TRACE / PHOENIX
oneshots
leave me alone. nat broke up with you because she was scared of losing you. but now you’re back in town, and she can’t stop thinking about you. (+18)(COMING SOON)
──── who i write for… bob reynolds/the sentry/the void, joaquin torres/the falcon, bucky barnes/the winter soldier, john walker/us agent, pietro maximoff/quicksilver, carol danvers/captain marvel, peter parker/spiderman (feel free to request any other characters—however if i’m not familiar/comfortable with writing for them, please respect my choice to not write for them).
BOB REYNOLDS / THE SENTRY
oneshots
the group project. (college au!)(summary pending…)(COMING SOON)
dandelions. bob has been visiting a flower shop more frequently than normal and the thunderbolts take notice. (COMING SOON)
JOAQUIN TORRES / THE FALCON
oneshots
love me not. joaquin has been in love with you for as long as he can remember, why don't you see that? (he isn't making it obvious).// multiple parts(?) (COMING SOON)
BUCKY BARNES / THE WINTER SOLDIER
oneshots
the kitty whisperer. alpine has taken a liking to you. bucky is curious. (COMING SOON).
──── who i write for… clark kent/superman, micheal holt/mr. terrific, jimmy olsen, kara zor-el/supergirl, adrian chase/the vigilante, wally west/ kid flash, barry allen/the flash, dick grayson/nightwing, jason todd/red hood. (feel free to request any other characters—however if i’m not familiar/comfortable with writing for them, please respect my choice to not write for them).
CLARK KENT / SUPERMAN
oneshots
1 out of 5. the four times you questioned if your golden retriever coworker, clark kent is superman and the fifth time you figured it out. (COMING SOON).
ADRIAN CHASE / THE VIGILANTE
oneshots
we’re not dating? adrian has been in love with you for years(and you just the same). the two of you have grown up together, best friends since childhood. you spend all of your time together, you sleep together, you do everything and anything a couple would do. the only problem; adrian is convinced he’s asked you out—spoiler he didn’t. (+18)(COMING SOON).
WALLY WEST / KID FLASH
series/longer fics
garden of eden. (x wayne!fem!reader)(summary pending…)(COMING SOON).
