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lnmp89

Dec 11, 2025

hauntedhowlett-writes

SEEING YOU

PAIRING: bob floyd x female reader

RATING: mature

WORD COUNT: 4.4K

SUMMARY:

A follow-up to hearing you, where Bob and the air traffic controller have their first date.

AUTHOR’S NOTE:

thank you so much for all the love on hearing you. all the feedback has inspired this second part (and likely a third since this ends on a bit of a cliffhanger sorry).

TAGS/WARNINGS:

post-top gun: maverick, beware of the liberties i’ve taken with bob’s character, not a stand alone fic, sexually suggestive language, no use of y/n, meddlesome jake “hangman” seresin and natasha “phoenix” trace, radio flirting, insecure bob floyd, relationship building, kissing, first date, fluff, not beta read

Bob is sitting in the mess hall after morning drills, smearing cream cheese on his bagel, when Natasha drops her tray on the table across from him and takes a seat. She’s got a shit eating grin on her face, looking very much like the cat that caught the canary.

“You look tired, Bob,” she says, pointedly raising her eyebrows. “Long night?”

“Don’t—“

“Tell me everything,” she interrupts, shoveling a forkful of eggs into her mouth. Some of it spills back onto her plate. Bob wrinkles his nose.

“All I did was drive her home. Nothing else happened,” he insists.

He swallows nervously. He’s never been a good liar.

“You got a little—,” he points to his chin. She doesn’t take the bait.

Natasha’s eyes narrow, assessing him. He remains strong, holding her gaze, refusing to look away. His palms start to sweat and he tries to surreptitiously wipe them on his flight suit.

“You’re a terrible liar, Floyd,” she finally says.

“I know.” He sighs, tipping his head back. “Okay, look. We kissed and some…other stuff…happened,” he looks down at the table, “Then she gave me her number and told me to call her today.”

“Some other—Robert Michael Floyd, you dirty dog.” She leans back, crossing her arms and shaking her head, an amused smile lifting the corners of her mouth. “Who would have thought you had it in you?”

“I’m not a monk, Nat,” he grumbles.

“Are you going to call her?” She asks, ignoring his irritation.

Warmth prickles Bob’s neck and he slides a finger beneath the collar of his shirt. “I don’t know. What if she was just saying that to be nice?”

“Baby on Board, tell me you’re not thinkin’ about lettin’ her get away,” Jake interrupts, straddling the bench beside Bob.

“Where did you even come from?” Bob asks, frowning at the man.

Jake waves his hand dismissively. “I’ve been around,” he replies. He grabs Bob by the shoulder, shaking him slightly. “Listen to me, Bobby. You gotta call her. Sooner rather than later. Otherwise, you’ll miss your chance.”

“I don’t—“

“Ah,” Jake holds up a hand, silencing Bob’s protests, “if you’re not goin’ to do it, then give me her number.” He wiggles his eyebrows suggestively. “I’ll show her a good time.”

“Fuck no,” Bob snaps.

Natasha’s eyes widen and she shares a look with Jake. “Is he allowed to say that?” She asks. Bob narrows his eyes at her.

“See? That right there tells me you’re already in deep,” Jake says, poking Bob in the chest. Hard. Bob rubs the spot with his palm as Jake adds, “So man up and call her. Take her out. Practice making lots of little Bobs.”

Bob nearly chokes on his own spit. Natasha laughs so hard that she snorts. Jake, meanwhile, looks entirely too pleased with himself.

“Okay, fine, I’ll call her,” he says, batting Jake’s hand away from him. “Can we stop talking about this now?”

The conversation moves on, with Jake and Natasha discussing the flight maneuvers from the early morning drills they ran. Bob stays quiet, his mind drifting to thoughts of you.

Are you awake yet? Did you sleep well? Are you thinking about him as much as he’s been thinking about you?

He drops his head to the table with a groan. Natasha kicks him in the shin. And Jake—

Well, Jake just laughs like this is funniest goddamn thing he’s ever seen.

Your phone rings while you’re making lunch. The caller ID shows an unknown number and you mentally cross your fingers, hoping that it’s Bob.

You haven’t been able to stop thinking about him since last night. In fact, you spent a good ten minutes jumping around your living room and pumping your fists in excitement before finally collapsing in your bed without even bothering to wash your face.

Taking a deep breath, you swipe your thumb across the screen to answer.

“Hello?”

“Hey—Hi. Uh, this is Bob?” His familiar voice says, more of a question than a statement. You hold back your giggle.

“You don’t sound so sure,” you tease. He chuckles and the sound makes your stomach flip.

“It’s Bob,” he says, a little more confidently. “How are you?”

“I’m good. Making some lunch. How about you?”

“Just finished a debrief. Had a few minutes to myself, figured I’d make good on my promise to call you.”

“I’m glad you did,” you tell him, voice soft. You bite your lip. “I’ve been thinking about last night.”

“Yeah?” He asks, voice dropping low. “Me, too.”

You press your lips together. A moment of silence stretches between you — not awkward, but heated, like you both know what the other is thinking about. It makes your face feel warm.

“I’d…like to see you again,” Bob says. Then, in a rush, “If—you know—if that’s something—“

“I’d like that,” you tell him. He lets out what sounds like a relieved sigh.

“Can I take you to dinner?”

You smile, giddiness bubbling in your chest. “Dinner sounds good.”

“Do you have any food allergies?”

Leave it to Bob Floyd to ask about food allergies when trying to secure a date.

It’s painfully endearing.

“I don’t,” you answer.

“Thoughts on seafood?”

“Positive.”

“Okay. I know a place,” he says.

“You take all your girls there?” You ask. He laughs.

“Just you,” he replies, voice full of sincerity that makes butterflies flutter in your stomach. “How about Friday night? I can pick you up at seven.”

“Friday sounds good. Pretty sure I’m working your squad’s drills that morning.”

“Guess that’ll be my lucky day. Hearing you in the morning and seeing you at night.”

“Bob Floyd,” you say slowly. “Are you flirting with me?”

“Depends,” he replies. You can hear the smile in his voice as he asks, “Is it working?”

“Guess you’ll find out on Friday, huh?”

He laughs, low and warm. “I guess I gotta be patient.”

“Exactly.”

Another silence, one that finds you smiling so wide your cheeks start to ache. Bob clears his throat.

“I better go,” he says. “I’ll see you soon.”

“Bye, Bob.”

You hang up and gently set your phone down on the counter before walking through your kitchen to your living room. You snatch one of the throw pillows from your couch and bury your face in it, letting out a high pitched scream that’s muffled in the cotton and polyester filling.

It’s Friday morning and the sun is just starting to rise when members of the Dagger Squad exit the ready room, heading for the line of gleaming Super Hornets lined up on the tarmac. Bob falls into step with Natasha, helmet tucked under his arm. She looks at him out of the corner of her eye.

“You look happy this morning,” she says.

“Is that not allowed?” He asks.

“No, no, by all means.” She holds up her hands. “It’s a good look on you, Floyd.”

Bob climbs the ladder to the cockpit first, followed by Natasha. She powers up the main systems, screens flicking to life. While she runs through her scan, he checks the comms.

“Tower, Dagger Zero Three. Backseat radio check,” he says, keeping his tone professional. He holds his breath, waiting for a response.

Your voice comes through his headset a moment later, smooth and steady, that familiar early morning raspiness making his pulse spike. “Dagger Zero Three backseater, Tower. Loud and clear,” you tell him.

He smiles beneath the mask and begins powering up his displays with practiced ease. “Copy that, Tower.” He pauses and, unable to resist, adds a quiet, “Hey.”

“Hey, yourself,” you reply, your tone laced with a smile he wishes he could see.

“Tower, Dagger Zero Three. Radio check,” Natasha cuts in. Then, pointedly, “Stop distracting my WSO.”

“Dagger Zero Three, Tower. Loud and clear,” you reply with a hint of amusement.

“Dagger Zero Three, ready for start-up.”

“Dagger Zero Three, Tower. Cleared for engine start.”

The jet rumbles to life, a low whine building to a steady roar. Bob scans the backseat displays, making any necessary adjustments.

“All systems are green,” he says. Natasha gives a responding nod that he can’t see but knows she does out of habit.

“Dagger Zero Three, Tower. Taxi via Alpha two, hold short of runway two nine.”

“Wilco, Tower. Taxi via Alpha two,” Natasha responds, easing the throttle. The jet begins to move, rolling slowly. She switches to intercom.

“‘Hey’,” she says, deepening her voice in a poor impression of him. “That’s the best you could come up with?”

“Shut up,” he grumbles, but there’s no heat to his words.

“You’ve got it bad,” she teases. She keys into the radio. “Tower, Dagger Zero Three. Holding short of runway two-nine, ready for departure.”

“Dagger Zero Three, Tower. Hold for landing traffic,” you reply, unaware of the conversation happening in the cockpit.

Thank god, Bob thinks.

“Copy, holding.” Natasha changes stations again. “So, where are you taking her?”

“None of your business,” Bob replies.

“Harsh,” she says.

“I’m not giving you the chance to crash my date.”

“I would never!”

“Dagger Zero Three, Tower. Winds 300 at 5. Cleared for take off, runway two-nine. Maintain runway heading. Departure on two-five-five decimal four,” you instruct. “And Bob?”

“Yeah?” He asks.

“See you tonight. Don’t be late.”

Bob pulls into a parking spot at your apartment complex and cuts the truck’s engine. He’s a little early by about ten minutes but if he spent any longer pacing the length of his room and debating whether to change his shirt for the third time he’s pretty sure he would have ended up being late.

Instead, he channeled his pre-date nervous energy into picking out a small bouquet of spray roses from the store, the stems wrapped in brown butcher paper tied with twine. He grabs the bouquet from the passenger seat before getting out and making his way up to your apartment.

He knocks twice on your door. He can hear your footsteps as you approach and the click of the lock being turned before the door opens and there you are, smile bright and real and just for him. You’re wearing a dress that hugs you in all the right places and his mouth goes dry, words sticking to his tongue.

“Wow,” he finally manages. “You look—I mean—“

“What’s the matter, lieutenant?” You ask, eyes sparkling. “Cat got your tongue?”

“No, that was last weekend,” he says without thinking. His eyes go wide. “Wait—“

You laugh, pulling him into your apartment by his shirt sleeve and closing the door behind him. Leaning in close enough that your chest brushes his, you kiss him on the cheek. The scent of you lingers, sweet and sugary.

“Careful, Bob. Keep talking like that and we won’t make it to dinner,” you say with a wink. His face grows hot and he swallows nervously. You glance down at the bouquet close to being crushed in his hand, your face lighting up. “Are those for me?”

“Oh, yeah.” He holds the flowers out for you to take, watches you bring them up to your face and inhale deeply, eyes fluttering shut. “I wasn’t sure what—what kind of flowers you might like. Figured roses might be safe.”

“They’re beautiful,” you assure him. “Thank you.”

He trails after you into the kitchen, hands in his pockets, unsure of what to do with them now that he’s not holding onto the flowers. You pull out a glass vase from a cabinet and set it in the sink to fill with water.

He leans against the counter, watching you unwrap the bouquet and reach for a set of kitchen shears from the knife block on the counter, using them to trim the stems over a trashcan tucked against the wall. You set the flowers into the vase, arranging them to your liking.

“Peonies,” you murmur, breaking the silence. You step back to admire your work.

Bob blinks. “What?”

“My favorite flower,” you explain, glancing at him. Your lips curl into a teasing smile. “For future reference.”

He straightens, nodding once; the picture of military precision. “Noted.”

You brush past him, close enough that he can feel your warmth where your shoulders almost touch, and head towards an open door at the start of the hallway.

“I’ll be ready in just a minute,” you say over your shoulder. “Make yourself comfortable.”

Bob lingers in the kitchen, looking around. There’s a few coffee cups drying on a mat by the sink and a wooden bowl of apples on the counter. A blue and white striped hand towel hangs from the oven door and a collection of magnets on the fridge that tell a story about places you’ve been.

He wanders toward the living room. Your leather couch is pushed up against the wall, opposite the television, and a low coffee table sits in between. A neat stack of magazines and a haphazard pile of mail take up most of the table, along with a half burned candle that smells like lemon and fresh laundry. The bookshelf in the corner is packed with books — mostly fiction with a few work-related tomes shoved onto the lower shelves. A framed photo catches his eye.

You’re standing on a flight deck at sunset in your work uniform, surrounded by a group of aviators still in their gear. He’s surprised when he realizes it’s Natasha in the photo beside you, her arm around your shoulders and your head tipped against her helmet, the word PHOENIX emblazoned over the visor.

“Find anything interesting?” You ask. He holds up the framed picture and a soft smile spreads across your face. “That’s from when we were both stationed in Norfolk.”

“I didn’t know you knew each other before our assignment,” he says.

“I got new orders to Pensacola a few months before she went to TOPGUN,” you explain. “We kept in touch.”

Bob looks at the photo again, studying the matching grins on your faces. “You two look like trouble,” he says with a small smile.

“I wouldn’t call us trouble,” you counter. “I’d call us fun.”

He sets the frame back on the shelf. “I’ll have to cross-examine Natasha about that,” he says.

“Go ahead,” you challenge him. “Our stories are air tight. She’ll never breathe a word about the midnight skinny dipping incident.”

Bob’s head snaps towards you. “The what?” He asks, but you’re already walking away, your laughter carrying across the room.

You grab your purse from the hook by the door and look at him expectantly. “You ready to go?”

“Yeah,” he says. He catches up in a few long strides, reaching past you to open the door. “But don’t think you’re getting out of sharing that story that easily.”

“Sorry to disappoint you, Floyd,” you sigh, a hint of mischief in your tone. “But that one is going with me to the grave.”

Bob’s restaurant choice is a little seafood place across the bridge that overlooks the Pacific, large windows thrown open to let in the salty ocean breeze. Each table is covered with a pristine white tablecloth and topped with bud vases filled with fresh cut flowers. Little votive candles flicker between the place settings.

The hostess shows you to a table near the windows and Bob steps ahead to pull your chair out for you, waiting patiently for you to get comfortable before taking his seat across from you.

He looks good in the low light, the candle’s flickering flame making shadows dance across his handsome face, highlighting the sharp line of his jaw. His navy blue dress shirt is open at the collar, giving you a glimpse of the white t-shirt underneath, and the sleeves are neatly rolled up to his elbows. You can’t help but let your gaze linger on his forearms — strong, tan, and distracting.

“This place is nice,” you tell him, perusing the heavy cardstock menu. “Good choice, Floyd.”

You glance up at him just in time to catch the flush that creeps up his neck and colors his cheeks. He clears his throat, eyes darting to yours before dropping back to the menu as he says, “I wanted to pick something a little nicer. You deserve that.”

The sincerity in his voice catches you off-guard, leaving you a little breathless. You lean back in your seat, studying him.

“You’re full of surprises, aren’t you?”

He looks up and his lips twitch in a shy smile. “Hopefully in a good way.”

“In a very good way,” you confirm.

A waiter comes by and takes your drink orders with a friendly smile before slipping away. A hush settles between you once you’re alone again. You study him over the rim of your glass as you take a sip.

“You know,” he says, breaking the silence, “we kind of have Jake to thank for this.”

You set your glass down, your brows pinching together in confusion. “What do you mean?”

“I uh…I was nervous. About calling you,” he admits, rubbing the back of his neck. “I was talking about it with Nat and he just showed up out of nowhere. He told me if I didn’t call you, he’d ask for your number himself.”

“That sounds like Jake. The man doesn’t know when to quit,” you reply with a quiet laugh. You rest your elbows on the table, lacing your fingers together. “Why were you nervous?”

“I don’t—I’m not—,” he frowns, glancing out the window, a muscle in his jaw ticking as he searches for the words. “I guess I just have this fear of being…disappointing.”

You reach a hand across the table toward him, settling it over his. “Bob, I don’t think you could disappoint me even if you tried.”

He looks down at your joined hands and gives a quiet, almost self-deprecating laugh. “You don’t know that,” he murmurs. “I’m not like Jake or Rooster or—or Javy. I’m not the kind of guy that leaves an impression.”

“That’s not true,” you argue. “First of all, you got selected for TOPGUN. You don’t get to be the best the Navy has to offer by just…blending in.” You hold your hand up, ticking off your fingers as you make your points. “Second, Maverick chose you for the uranium mission. Do you understand how impressive that is?”

You pause, eyes softening as you look at him across the table. “And third…I’ll have you know that you left quite an impression on me.”

“Really?” He asks, eyes wide like he can’t believe what you’re saying.

“Mhm,” you hum, a small smile turning up the corners of your lips. “I’d known Natasha had been assigned a backseater, but I didn’t know who you were yet.” You tilt your head thoughtfully. “Your voice stood out. You’ve got a quiet confidence — none of that typical aviator ego or cockiness I’m used to hearing on my radio.” You give him an unimpressed look as you add, “And trust me, I’ve heard it all.”

He laughs, tension easing from his shoulders. “I bet.”

“I just remember thinking, ‘This guy knows what he’s doing’,” you continue, “and that Natasha was lucky to have you at her six.”

Bob looks like he’s about to say something when the waiter returns with your drinks and takes your orders. Rather than picking up where you left off, the conversation shifts instead to easier topics, like family and school.

You learn that Bob was raised on a ranch in Texas, the middle child and only son. He comes from a long line of servicemen but broke tradition by choosing the Navy over the Army. He’s closest with his younger sister, who lives in Washington with her husband and two kids and works for an architecture firm. His older sister by four years still lives in Texas and is a stay-at-home mom to three kids while her husband is an Army intelligence specialist.

He shows you a family photo on his phone, a line of adults smiling behind the five kids, all wearing matching flannels. There’s an older man standing beside Bob that you presume is his dad and you’re struck by how similar they look.

“‘The Fantastic Floyds’,” he says with a warm smile. “It’s what my sisters named the family group chat.”

“Looks pretty fantastic to me,” you reply.

You discuss your college years. You both earned bachelor’s degrees at traditional universities, though Bob joined the NROTC so that he could graduate as a commissioned officer and move on to flight school. You explain that while you knew you wanted to go into air traffic control, your parents insisted that you get a degree first.

“My dad is a big statistics guy,” you tell him, twirling your pasta onto your fork, “and air traffic control doesn’t have very good ones.”

“It seems stressful,” Bob comments, taking a bite of his salmon. You shrug.

“It can be. But I enjoy it.”

By the time dinner is over, there’s no way you have room for dessert but Bob convinces you to split an order of creme brûlée.

“I have a pretty big sweet tooth,” he confesses. “I keep a stash of candy in my locker at the hangar.”

“Does anyone ever try to steal it?” You ask.

He nods. “Mickey’s the worst. He and Jake will team up and one of them will distract me while the other steals the bag.”

Your objections to dessert disappear when the waiter brings the plate out and you see the perfectly carmelized top of the creme brûlée, the dollop of fresh whipped cream, and the artfully arranged raspberries that look like they belong in a magazine. Bob holds the spoon out to you.

“You do the honors.”

You gently tap the sugary top with the back of the spoon until it splinters into smaller pieces. You dig your spoon into one of the cracks, loading it up with some custard and a bit of topping before lifting it to your lips for a bite.

“Oh my god,” you moan. “That’s delicious.”

Bob clears his throat, shifting in his seat. “G-Glad you like it.”

“Here,” you gather another bite on the spoon, holding it out toward him, “you try it.”

He leans forward, lips wrapping around the spoon. His eyes meet yours in a look that’s brief but undeniably charged, your breath hitching.

“It’s good,” he says, sitting back. His eyes don’t leave yours. “Real good.”

When the plate is practically licked clean and Bob has settled the bill, the two of you begin to slowly make your way back to his truck.

The boardwalk outside the restaurant is bustling with activity and light from the businesses lining the strip illuminate the sidewalk. Couples and families and groups of friends pass by but it feels like you’re in your own little bubble, all your attention zeroed in on the man beside you. The walk is quiet but comfortable and when your hand brushes his, he laces his fingers with yours. His hand is warm, his grip steady.

You fit together, you think. It makes you smile and your stomach flutters.

“What are you thinking about?” He asks, looking over at you. Your smile widens.

“Just about what a great time I had,” you reply honestly. That pretty blush you’ve come to love makes another appearance, coloring the high points of his cheeks as he returns your smile.

“I had a great time, too.”

You’ve reached the truck and he opens the passenger door for you but before you can get in, he tugs you gently back towards him. He wraps his arms around your waist, holding you close, and you rest your hands on his shoulders.

He lifts his head and his eyes meet yours, the look in them dark and heady. His thumb brushes along your waist and you feel like every one of your nerves lights up in response. For a moment, neither of you moves but then he leans in and kisses you.

The kiss is slow but charged, full of longing that’s been building steadily since he knocked on your door.

Hell, since the first time you heard him over the radio, if you’re being honest.

He lifts one of his hands and cradles your cheek, tipping your face, changing the angle. The kiss deepens, his tongue swiping across your lower lip and you open for him eagerly. It feels like everything fades away and you’re left with just the pounding of your heart, the rush of blood in your ears, and the heat of his mouth.

You pull away first, grinning like an idiot. Bob’s own smile mirrors yours, wide and bright. His lips are spit slick and kiss bitten; his glasses are a little foggy and oh there is a long list of things you want to do with — and for and to — this man that makes you squeeze your thighs together in anticipation.

“You wanna—should we—,” he starts, swallowing around the words, a little breathless. You kiss him again and he groans, hands squeezing your hips.

“Let’s get out of here,” you tell him. He nods his head quickly.

“Good—yeah—let’s do that.”

You get yourself situated in the passenger’s seat and he runs around to the driver’s side. The truck rumbles to life and he puts his arm on the back of your, turning to look over his shoulder as he backs out of the parking spot.

Jesus Christ, you think. That shouldn’t be so hot but the way he palms the steering wheel with one hand is making your brain feel fuzzy and stomach clench.

Bob reaches over and rests his hand just above your knee, fingers tapping against your bare skin to the beat of an old rock song playing quietly on the radio. You want nothing more than for him to slide his hand higher, dip beneath the hem of your dress and find the edge of your underwear and—

“Quit it,” he says, voice low and rough. He squeezes your thigh once. You tip your head against the headrest and turn to look at him.

“Hm?”

“I know what you’re thinkin’—“ the hint of a southern accent creeps out, making you feel even warmer — “but we’re doin’ it right this time.”

“Oh yeah? What’s that look like?” You ask.

“Somewhere that’s not the truck,” he explains, glancing over at you. The confidence in his voice falters as he adds, “If that’s—you know, if that’s something you—“

You lean over the console to nip at his ear.

“Trust me, Bob,” you murmur. “There’s nothing I want more.”