I. do. not. give. a. single. fuck. if. my. writing. makes. you. uncomfortable. WRITING is nothing worse than you'll find on twitter. My writing nsfw wise will not be in any shape or form about Keonho or Seonghyeon until they are both 18. The older three are adults and therefore it is not wrong of me to write about them. Just because I write it does not mean I want it. I write for other people's enjoyment and should not have to explain myself. Yall baby cortis and other idols way too much. I will not write about any minors. Anyone 18 or older can and will be written about, and I have seen other people much younger than me speaking sexually about all of cortis. It is not any different when I do it. I do not find any of Cortis sexually attractive, I am too old for that. If you do not like it, block me and be on your merry way. Signed, Jelly.
the concept of being born in 1997 (GROWN ASS AGE MIND YOU) and writing smut about ppl born in 2008 (FRESHLY LEGAL ADULTS IN NORTH AMERICA) who arenât even considered legal adults in their own country and then saying some bs like « ohhh they are 18 itâs fine » thatâs so fucking odd bro. if weird ass ppl request for u to write smut abt ppl who arenât even legal in their own country, be the bigger fucking person and say no?? if u actually start writing cortis smut for the fun of it you are genuinely so disgusting. you are a grown ass fucking person writing smut abt teens bro. is that not odd to you? because itâs so fucking odd. each day people get worse and worse on here. 1997 tf. « nsfw account for cortis » guys genuinely wtf is wrong w you đ
this is so fucking embarrassingâŠthe fact ur doing ts at ur big ass age talking ab a 20 and two basically freshly turned 18 year oldsâŠand planning to make more when the second the minors turn legal???u know what ur doing is wrong and thatâs why u felt the need to make the postđđđ letâs just not babes
Mind u juhoon and Martin would have been SENIORS in high school right now ur so weird for writing smut abt FRESHLY 18 year olds at ur grown age. Please retire from tumblr thank you
NAVIGATIONౚৠ.⊠ĘË series masterlist. crts masterlist.âą
âââââ idol! juhoon ⚯ fem idol!reader Ë. á”á” SMAU + WRITTEN ongoing
synopsis⚟ Y/N, the 6th member, Illit canât stop thinking about Juhoon from Cortis after seeing him at an award show. With her mischievous teammates scheming behind the scenes, she tries all sorts of quirky, subtle ways to catch his attentionâcute mishaps, accidental ârun-ins,â and hopelessly over-the-top gesturesâbut Juhoon, a fresh debutant laser-focused on his career, remains oblivious.
F. â fluff, A. â angst, â. â headcannons đ„. â favs
zhao yufan;
martin edwards;
kim juhoon;
áŽáŽÊÊÊáŽáŽê± àŹłàŒ.° idol!juhoon x fem idol!reader | SMAU | F. A.
âł Y/N, the 6th member, Illit canât stop thinking about Juhoon from Cortis after seeing him at an award show. With her mischievous teammates scheming behind the scenes, she tries all sorts of quirky, subtle ways to catch his attentionâcute mishaps, accidental ârun-ins,â and hopelessly over-the-top gesturesâbut Junhoon, a fresh debutant laser-focused on his career, remains oblivious.
REQUEST: "As someone who just had to deal with everyone and their mother this July 4th, please a lifeguard!reader x bob floyd where hangman tells him the best way to get readers attention is to pretend to need to be saved in the water, but he gets caught in a riptide and actually needs to be saved."
WORD COUNT: 5.1K
WARNINGS: Some minor spelling mistakes, near drowing scenerio, death experience, second-hand embarresment
The beach was a goddamn war zone.
Fourth of July in San Diego brought out the full spectrum of humanityâKids shrieking, volleyballs thudding, grills smoking, music blasting from half-buried speakers, and not a single soul seemed aware of personal space. All layered under the chaotic 4th of July celebrations.
Bob wasnât miserable. Not really. But he was overstimulated. The past few days had been nothing but crowd control on base, everyone and their mother trying to squeeze onto Navy property for a better view of the firework shows the navy base provided building up to 4th of July. The break hadnât come soon enough, and now even his downtime was noisy.
Bob Floyd sat quietly under the patchy shade of a half-bent umbrella, legs stretched out in the warm sand, doing his best to stay invisible.
His arms were already tinged pink despite the SPF 50 Phoenix had tossed at him that morning. A bottle of orange Gatorade rested against his collarbone, condensation dripping slowly down to the faded navy of his swim trunks. Every now and then, someone would kick sand too close or yell across his line of sight, and heâd fight the urge to flinch. It was all just a little too loud, a little too bright, and definitely not what heâd imagined when Fanboy had promised âa chill beach day.â
Behind him, Phoenix was lying flat on a towel with her sunglasses on and earbuds in, perfectly still like sheâd entered a deep meditation or disassociation. Payback and Coyote were arguing over grill technique, Hangman was circling a pair of sunbathing tourists like a smug golden retriever, and the speaker someone brought was blaring an aggressively patriotic country song for the third time.
âYou gonna touch the water at some point, or are you just watching today?â
Bob didnât bother turning his head. Fanboy stood a few feet away with his shorts dripping seawater and seaweed tangled around one ankle. He was grinning like he already knew the answer.
Bobâs lips quirked. âThink Iâll stay dry a while longer.â
âSuit yourself,â Fanboy laughed before flopping back into the water like a seal.
Bob tried to focus on the horizon, on the break of the waves and the shimmer of salt spray catching in the sunâbut his eyes kept drifting.
His eyes shifted just a few degrees to the left. Subtle. Like muscle memory.
There you were.
Perched on your lifeguard stand, maybe twelve yards away. High above the noise. A figure of calm authority in a sea of chaos. Bob had noticed you the moment theyâd set up camp. Not because you were flashyâthere were a dozen girls on this beach with louder bikinis and louder laughsâbut because you were still.
Focused.
The red of your uniform popped against your sun-bronzed skin, the white cross on your chest clear and unmistakable. Your sunglasses masked your expression, but your head moved with quiet purpose, tracking the waves, the swimmers, the kids daring each other to wade too far out.
You didnât slouch. Didnât fidget. You radiated a kind of presence that didnât need to shout to be heard.
Bob had seen a lot of people pretend to be in charge. You were.
He tried not to stare. Emphasis on tried.
âKeep starinâ like that and you might start droolinâ, Floyd.â
Hangmanâs voice landed beside him like a beach ball to the face. Rooster flopped down on the towel next to him, already too tanned, already too smug.
Bob didnât respond at first. Just unscrewed his drink cap and took a slow sip.
âYou should just talk to her,â Rooster said, watching him stare. âYouâve been eyeinâ that poor lifeguard like she owes you money or somethinâ sweet.â
Bob didnât even blink. âI don't even know what you're talking about.â
âBuddy. Youâve barely blinked since we got here, and it ainât the sun making your eyes water.â
âSheâs working,â Bob said simply.
âSo?â
âSo Iâm not going to bother someone whoâs doing their job.â
Hangman let out a slow, easy chuckle. âTechnically, weâre workinâ too... Ainât stoppinâ me from appreciatinâ the view.â He tipped his chin up and flashed a grin toward a group of girls walking past, tossing them a lazy cocky wave.
Rooster rolled his eyes at Bob's words, like it physically pained him to hear that. âYouâre too noble for your own good, Floyd.â
âThank you.â
âNot a compliment.â
They sat in silence for a beat. The kind of silence only Rooster could make feel aggressively loud.
Bob shifted again, brushing sand from his fingers, and glanced back toward the lifeguard stand. You hadnât moved. But then, just as if the universe wanted to spite him, you stood.
It was nothing dramaticâjust a smooth descent from the chair. But Bobâs gaze tracked the motion instinctively, noting how easily you landed in the sand, how you adjusted your sunglasses and made your way toward a pair of teenagers tossing a football too close to the edge of the water.
You walked like someone who didnât need to raise their voice to get a point across. The boys straightened almost immediately when you reached them, nodding along to whatever you said. Then you smiledâbrief, professionalâand turned back toward the tower.
Bob felt the corner of his mouth twitch. Just barely.
âJesus,â Rooster muttered, following his gaze. âI bet she does CrossFit. Or krav maga. Or both.â
âProbably,â Bob said as he fixed his askew glasses.
âSo you gonna say something to her today or what?â
Bob leaned back on his elbows, letting his head tip slightly toward the sky. He closed his eyes against the glare. âEventually.â
Rooster huffed. âYouâre killing me with this slow-motion stuffâ
âShe doesnât even know I exist.â
âShe looked over here a few times.â
âSheâs scanning the whole beach. Itâs her job.â
âShe lingered.â
Bob opened one eye. âShe lingers with everyone.â
âSounds like youâve been watching pretty closely,â Rooster shot back, grinning behind his aviator sunglasses.
Bob didnât answer. He didnât need to. His silence was enough to fuel Hangmanâs satisfaction.
âTell you what,â Rooster added, laying back on his towel. âWhen you finally make your moveâif you make your moveâIâll personally buy you dinner wherever she agrees to go.â
âIâm not bribable.â
âYou absolutely are.â
Phoenixâs voice cut through the conversation from a few feet away, dry as the sand under their feet. âIf I have to listen to one more minute of you two dissecting this manâs love life, Iâm swimming out and not coming back.â
âCan I have your aviation memorabilia if you donât return?â Payback asked, somewhere nearby.
âNo,â she deadpanned.
Bob exhaled a quiet breath through his nose, letting the sounds of the beach wash back over him. The wind picked up just enough to rustle the umbrella, bringing with it the scent of salt and sunscreen. In the distance, laughter echoed from a group of kids running through the shallows. The sky was bright, cloudless. A near-perfect summer day.
He looked toward the lifeguard stand one more time. You were back in your seat now, hands loosely on your knees, gaze back on the water.
Still. Calm. Commanding.
And entirely out of reach.
Roosterâs comment still hung in the air, but Bob didnât bite.
He didnât have to. The others could laugh and nudge all they wantedâhe was used to it by nowâbut none of it changed the fact that he wouldn't do anything more than drifting his eyes to the lifegaurd on duty.
To you.
Bob looked back toward the lifeguard stand, but you werenât sitting anymore.
You were standing beside it now, down on the sand, pacing a slow line near the base with your rescue buoy slung loosely in one hand. Every few steps, you paused to glance at the water, squinting slightly, mouth set in thought. Something had shifted in the tideâBob could tell by the way your eyes lingered on the riptide flag, or how you looked out toward the swimmers with just a little more tension in your posture.
Even off the tower, you still moved like someone who carried responsibility in their shoulders. Like someone who took their job seriously enough to not just watchâbut study.
Bob admired that.
He told himself it was admiration, anyway.
Until you bent down beside the cooler parked in the shade of your stand. You cracked it open, grabbed a water bottle, and unscrewed the cap in one smooth motion.
Bob didnât mean to stare. Not really.
But you grabbed the bottle and tipped it without hesitation, sending a rush of water cascading over your chest. The cold hit sun-warmed skin and you arched into it slightly, a soft gasp left your mouth, barely audible from this distance, but Bob felt it anyway.
The red fabric of your suit darkened immediately, clinging tighter, shaping to the lines of you in a way that made Bobâs breath catch. The water kept falling, sliding between the swell of your breasts and down your stomach, glinting like melted glass before soaking into the waistband of your suit.
You ran a hand through your damp hair, shaking it out with a toss so smooth it looked rehearsedâslow, effortless, hypnotic.
Bobâs mouth went dry.
You drank the rest of the bottle like you hadnât just set his whole nervous system off, wiped your mouth with the back of your hand, then casually climbed back up the tower like nothing had happened.
Which, of course, nothing had happened.
Except Bobâs brain had apparently short-circuited somewhere in the last twenty seconds.
He wasnât some kid. Heâd seen plenty. But there was something about the way you movedâcasual, unbothered, entirely unawareâthat had heat curling low in his stomach in a way that surprised him.
âYou good, Bob?â Phoenix asked from behind her sunglasses, not even looking at him.
He cleared his throat softly. âPeachy.â
She snorted but didnât push.
He forced himself to look away for a moment, staring instead at the shifting tide, the flecks of foam catching sunlight. He tried to ground himself. Youâre just watching the beach. Like she is. Just paying attention. Thatâs all.
But when he glanced backâhe couldnât help itâyou were climbing the steps of the lifeguard tower again, skin still glistening, posture straight, sunglasses back on.
And maybe it was the heat, or the salt, or the way Jakeâs dumb voice echoed in his head like a devil on his shoulderâbut suddenly, Bob felt like maybe the sun wasnât the only thing getting to him.
He leaned back on his elbows again, gaze now fixed somewhere just to the right of your tower. Respectful. Responsible.
But still close enough to watch you, if you moved.
Still close enough to wonder what you sounded like when you werenât giving orders or scanning for trouble. If you ever laughed. If your voice was soft when no one was drowning. If you looked that steady when it was just you and one other person and nothing else to focus on.
Yeah. He was in trouble.
By early afternoon, the heat was enough to make Bob feel like he was baking from the inside out. His skin stung in places sunscreen had missed, and the beach had only gotten louderâmore kids, more smoke from the grills, more sand kicked in places sand should never be.
And still, he hadnât moved.
Not from under the half-bent umbrella, not from the quiet stretch of towel he'd staked out with the vague hope of disappearing into it.
Wellâheâd moved a little. Enough to tilt his head when you did. Just enough to watch the line of your shoulders when you paced, the flex of your thighs as you crouched to help a crying kid with a scraped knee, the practiced ease with which you handled chaos like it didnât touch you.
Bob admired that. Respected it. Tried not to want anything else.
But apparently, subtlety wasnât flying with his squad today.
âOkay, thatâs it,â Rooster groaned, flopping down dramatically on the towel next to him. âIâve watched you mentally fuck her. This is getting painful, man.â
Bob blinked at Rooster, completely in disbelief. âWhat? What the hell are you talking about?â he blurted, voice going a little high with how flustered he was.
âYou know,â Coyote said from behind a pair of reflective sunglasses. âYou definitely know.â
âJust ask her if she wants a soda or something,â Fanboy added helpfully. âWorst case scenario, she says no and continues to exist.â
âIâm notââ Bob started, but stopped. It wasnât worth it. They werenât wrong, just loud about it.
âThatâs weak,â Payback chimed in, flipping a burger nearby. âWhat you need is an entry point. Something natural. Organic.â
âLike what?â Bob asked dryly. âTripping over her lifeguard stand?â
And thatâs when Hangman perked up.
He sat up straighter, a dangerous gleam in his eye, sun glinting off his dog tags as he grinned like heâd just cracked the code to the universe.
âI got it,â he said, with a finger raised for dramatic effect. âFake. A. Drowning.â
Bob blinked. âWhat.â
Hangman was already fully committed. âThink about it. You go out, start flailing around a little, she sees you, Baywatches her way in to save your life. Boom. Lifesaving contact. Eye contact. Skin contact. Mouth-to-mouth might be required.â He wiggled his eyebrows and winked.
Rooster snorted. âItâs disturbingly on-brand that you thought of this.â
Phoenix sat up, her face a picture of horror. âYou people are idiots.â
But the others were too far gone.
âI mean, itâs kind of genius,â Fanboy said, already on board. âThe drama of it. The storytelling.â
âSheâll never forget you,â Payback added, flipping a burger with flair. âCould be romantic. Tragic. Bit of shirt clinging, maybe some wheezing⊠very damsel in distress.â
Bob just stared at them, slack-jawed.
âIâm not faking a drowning,â he said flatly.
âWhy not?â Rooster asked, genuinely baffled.
âBecause itâs insane,â Bob replied with wide eyes. âAnd it would probably scare her. And sheâd definitely hate me after.â
âBut what if it goes well?â Hangman grinned. âWhat if youâre her first real save of the summer?â
Phoenix scoffed. âYeah. Because nothing says 'date me' like a full-blown safety violation.â
Bob ran a hand over his face. âThis is so stupid.â
âIt is,â Phoenix agreed. âWhich is why youâre not doing it.â
And for a moment, that settled it.
Until Rooster raised a brow and said, âUnless⊠youâre chicken.â
Bob looked at him. Rooster made a soft bawk bawk sound. Fanboy joined in. Hangman outright cackled. Coyote laughed so hard he had to lay back down.
Bob glared, cheeks already warm from more than just the sun.
âIâm not chicken.â
âThen go prove it,â Rooster said.
Bob stared at the ocean. The tide looked calm enough. No red flags. Lifeguards were alert. You were in your tower again, arms crossed, face unreadable behind your sunglasses.
He sighed. âFine. Iâll go for a swim.â
The hooting and hollering behind him made him immediately regret it.
âI didnât say I was going to fake a drowning,â he clarified, already standing up and brushing the sand off his legs.
âYeah, yeah,â Hangman smirked. âSure you didnât, sweetheart.â
Bob ignored him, stepped out of the umbrellaâs shade, and padded toward the water. The sand was hot under his feet, the waves lapping in rhythmic, lazy curls.
The moment the cold water lapped at his calves, Bob exhaled slowly, letting the heat of the day roll off him in waves. Okay. Just a swim. That was all. Wade in, float around, get his blood moving. Maybe catch your attention for half a secondânot that heâd do anything with it.
He pushed out past the frothy shallows, the ocean sucking at his ankles like a teasing hand. The water climbed to his thighs, his waist, then chest. The sun was still hot on the back of his neck, the sky painfully blue overhead. Somewhere behind him, his friends were probably still laughing. He didnât look back.
He kept moving.
But three strokes in, something shifted beneath him.
The water wasnât angryânot visiblyâbut there was a pull now. A low, insistent drag at his legs, like the tide had thickened, gotten teeth. It wasnât obvious at first. Just a nudge. A suggestion.
Still, he felt it. A pulse of unease in his gut.
He adjusted his swim, cutting a diagonal toward the shore to stay safe, but the sea had other plans. The resistance grew with every kick. It was subtleâdeceptive. Like the ocean was pretending to be calm just long enough to lure him further out.
His legs strained. His heart ticked up.
He stopped swimming and treaded water, blinking into the salt spray as he turned his head.
The beach was smaller now.
Farther than he remembered. The umbrella was a blur. The squad just blobs of movement and color, laughter carried faint and broken on the wind.
He tried again. Kicked harder. Pulled his arms through the water in tight, practiced strokes. Nothing fancy. Just focused. Efficient.
But the current was tireless.
It didnât shove. It took. Gradually. Patiently. Dragging him sideways and back, each kick answered with resistance.
His breath hitched.
His thighs were starting to burn. His hands felt slippery. He swallowed and tasted saltâsharp, bitter, invasive.
Donât panic. He knew better than that. Panicking wasted air. Wasted energy.
Still, his chest tightenedâtight enough that he felt it in his ears. A warning pulse. His lungs were starting to fight him, breath coming faster now, less full.
He raised one arm. Casual. A wave. Just in case.
He could still fix this. He could absolutely fix this.
Right?
Then he saw your head turn. The tilt of your sunglasses. The way you rose like a snap of instinct, your figure suddenly moving down the stand like a red flash across the chaos of the beach.
Bob tried to call outâbut a swell slapped his mouth, and he choked.
Salt water filled his nose, burned his throat. His eyes stung. He sputtered, coughed, went under for half a second, then kicked up again, gaspingâarms scrambling for something to push against that wasnât there.
He wasnât panicking.
Not exactly.
But his muscles were starting to betray him. Coordination fraying at the edges. His heartbeat roared in his ears, faster now, not rhythmic. Scared.
And that pullâgod, that pullâit wasnât letting up.
It didnât care who he was. Naval aviator. Strong swimmer. Good guy.
The ocean didnât give a damn.
Bob tried to kick again but the fatigue hit all at once. A burn up the back of his calves, a tremble in his core. His limbs slowed. Too slow.
He waved again.
Not casual this time.
Desperate.
And you were moving.
Fast.
Your buoy was already in hand as you hit the sand, legs pumping, red suit flashing like a warning light. He saw the focus snap into your movementsâthe kind of controlled urgency that meant youâd seen this before. You were in the water in seconds, cutting through the waves like a knife.
Bob barely had time to be mortified before you reached him.
Your hand found his shoulder, firm and sure. âIâve got you.â
His heart leapt up into his throat. âIâm okay,â he choked out, instantly embarrassed.
âYouâre caught in a lateral pull,â you said calmly, already maneuvering him with practiced ease. âDonât fight it. Just float. Iâve got you.â
And somehowâhe did.
Somehow, despite the chaos, the noise, the burning shame of it allâhe let go. Let himself float.
Your voice was cool steelâno judgment, no panic, just action. Somehow, he let go. Let you lead. Let his limbs go limp.
But thenâŠ
A memory flashed. Hangmanâs voice. Fake a drowning, bro. Sheâll have to give you mouth-to-mouth. Bam. Baywatch meet-cute.
Bob wanted to strangle him.
And yet.
Yet.
His pride was already in shambles, his friends were watching from shore, and he was currently being towed like a soggy piece of driftwood by the most stunning person heâd ever seen. His brain short-circuited. Whatâs one more bad decision?
So he let his head tilt back.
Eyelids fluttered closed.
And he went limp.
Deadweight.
You paused. Just barely. Just enough to shift your grip.
âHey,â you said, voice sharp now, testing.
No answer.
You tapped his cheek once. âHeyâcome on.â
He remained limp. Committed. His jaw slackened slightly. His breathing stayed shallow. He hoped you couldnât feel the way his heart was jackhammering in his chest.
âSeriously?â you muttered.
Then your hand slipped behind his neck. He felt itâbarelyâa soft cradle, careful and sure. His body was mostly out of the water now, dragged efficiently toward shore like youâd done it a hundred times. His feet scraped sand. His heart thumped harder.
He could hear voices in the distanceâRooster shouting something, Phoenix groaning, someone definitely laughing.
âOkay,â you said under your breath, not to him, but to yourself. âHere we go.â
Your hand pressed gently against his jaw, turning his face. Thenâ
Then your mouth brushed his.
Not a kiss. Not really.
Just the faintest contact. Professional. Controlled. The start of a breath.
And thatâs when Bob panicked.
His eyes snapped open. He gaspedâtoo sharp, too suddenâchoking slightly on his own dramatic timing.
You flinched back instantly.
âOh my god,â you breathed, eyes narrowing behind your sunglasses. âAre you serious right now?â
Bob coughed. âIânoâwaitâitâs notââ
You stared at him like heâd just confessed to a felony.
He flailed upright, coughing into his elbow, mortified down to the bone. âI didnâtâI wasnâtââ
âYou faked passing out,â you said flatly. âYou faked drowning.â
âI didnât mean forâ" He sputtered, looked away, salt water still dripping from his eyelashes. âIt was... a bad idea.â Bob reached up to fix his wet glasses awkwardly.
A beat passed.
You stood over him, soaked and furious and stunning, hands planted on your hips. Thenâslowlyâyou sighed.
âYouâre lucky I didnât break your ribs doing compressions,â you muttered. âNext time you want to flirt, just wave or something.â
He blinked.
You turned on your heel, muttering something about men and stupidity as you stomped back toward your tower.
Bob sat there in the wet sand, lungs burning, face on fire, still breathless.
From the shore, Hangman was howling with laughter.
And Bob?
Bob knew he deserved it.
But he also knew your mouth had just touched his.
And maybe that was worth drowning in a little shame for.
âOh my god.â Rooster was doubled over, clutching his stomach, red-faced with laughter. âYou actually did it!â
âHe Sandlot-ed himself!â Fanboy gasped between wheezes. âDude! That was textbook! She went in for the save and everythingâmouth to mouth and all!â
âNot mouth to mouth,â Bob muttered, dragging a hand down his soaked face. His hair was plastered to his forehead, salt water dripping from his chin. âIt wasnâtââ
âDid her lips touch yours?â Coyote grinned.
Bob paused. ââŠKinda.â He blushed.
âThen it counts,â Hangman declared, slapping him hard on the back, nearly sending him face-first into the sand again. âThatâs a goddamn win, Floyd. She touched you. Voluntarily. Iâm gonna have that engraved on a plaque,â He continued. "Guess you've been promoted from Baby On Board."
âYouâre a menace,â Phoenix said, glaring at all of them. âYou encouraged this. You enabled this.â
âAnd I regret nothing,â Hangman said smugly, laying back down on his towel like a man whoâd just orchestrated a tactical strike. âThat was the most romantic near-death experience Iâve ever seen.â
Bob sank down onto his towel with a groan, burying his burning face in his hands. âSheâs gonna think Iâm a freak.â
âPlease,â Rooster scoffed. âIf anything, you just made her day more interesting. Lifeguards live for that kind of drama.â
âShe looked mad,â Bob mumbled.
âShe looked hot,â Payback countered. âAnd youâdumb as it wasâyou got her attention. Respectfully.â
âShe was so calm about it, too,â Fanboy added.
Bob sighed and flopped backward into the sand, arms sprawled out at his sides. His shirt clung to his chest like plastic wrap. âI want to melt into the earth.â
âYou wonât have to,â Hangman said cheerfully. âYouâll float next time. Sheâll save you again.â
Phoenix lobbed a handful of sand at him. âDonât give him ideas.â
Later That Afternoon.
Hours passed.
The sun drifted lower in the sky, stretching golden light over the water. The crowd had thinned a little, the music quieter now, but Bob hadnât relaxed. Not really. He hadnât moved much since the incident, still lying half in the shade with his heart doing weird little kicks every time he looked toward the tower.
You hadnât approached him. No scolding. No smug remark. Just⊠returned to your post like nothing had happened. Like it was all just part of the job.
But he kept looking.
Couldnât help it.
The image of youâsoaked, sharp-eyed, furious in your red suitâwas burned into the back of his mind. So was the weight of your hand on his shoulder. The way your fingers curled around his neck. The briefest touch of your lips.
He peeked again.
And this timeâyou were looking back.
Straight at him.
For a split second, Bob froze.
Then you reached up slowly, one hand on the edge of your sunglasses⊠and slid them off.
Your eyes met his. Clear. Unamused. But not unkind.
And Bobâpoor, sweet, emotionally sunburned Bobâpanicked.
He lifted one hand and gave the tiniest, most awkward little wave. Like heâd forgotten how fingers worked. His ears were pink. His eyes wide. The gesture was more apology than greeting.
You stared for a beat.
ThenâGod bless youâyou huffed a small laugh.
And you waved back.
Small. Subtle. Just two fingers.
Then you shook your head once, bemused, and slipped your sunglasses back on.
Bob dropped his hand like heâd been shot and turned bright red all over again.
Behind him, Rooster muttered, âShe waved.â
And Fanboy whispered, awed, âHeâs in.â
The sun dipped low over the Pacific, brushing the water in streaks of peach and molten gold. Shadows stretched long across the beach as grills were packed away and towels shaken off. The air cooled, tinged with smoke and sea breeze and the distant scent of coconut sunscreen.
Bob still hadnât moved.
The squad had mellowed out, scattered in loose clumps across the sand, laughter fading into drowsy conversation as the sky dimmed. A few had already claimed spots to watch the fireworks, beer in hand, sand between their toes.
Bob sat quietly, fingers curled around a lukewarm bottle of Gatorade, watching the lifeguard tower like it was a cathedral.
And thenâyou moved.
Down the steps.
This time not in a rush, not scanning for swimmers or trouble. Just⊠descending. Like any normal person at the end of a long shift.
Your rescue buoy hung loosely in one hand. Your hair was a little damp still, pulled up into a lazy knot. The red uniform had been swapped for a soft, sun-faded hoodie and shorts that showed off the arcs of your tan lines.
You walked straight toward him.
Bobâs chest tightened.
You slowed just a few feet away. The sand shifted under your feet as you came to a stop, one hand resting on your hip.
âYou couldâve just said hi, you know,â you said.
He blinked. âHi,â he said automatically. Then grimaced. âI'm so sorry ma'am.â
You stared at him for a long beat. Then you smiledâslow and crooked, the kind that wasnât fully confident either.
âI mean it,â you said, voice softer now. âYou really didnât have to fake a near-death experience to get my attention.â
Bob laughed. Kind of. Mostly choked on it. âThat wasnât the plan. I just... got caught. Then remembered something really stupid Hangman said.â He mumbled out quickly, compeletely flustered with the situation he found himself in.
You raised a brow. âLet me guess... Mouth-to-mouth?â
âYeah.â He groaned, raising up a hand to fix his already perfectly sat glasses. âGod. I swear Iâm not usually that dumb.â
âI figured,â you said, taking a step closer, kicking gently at the sand between you. Then tucking your hands into the front pocket of your hoodie and looking out toward the water.
The tide had slowed now, lazy and glittering under the last light of day. The sky was darker by the second.
And thenâ
BOOM.
A firework cracked overhead, sudden and golden.
Bob flinched instinctively, then tilted his head up just in time to catch the slow bloom of light cascading down in trails.
You both turned toward the horizon, shoulders just inches apart.
Another one followed. Then another. Reds, blues, silversâloud and shimmering, reflected in your eyes.
The world lit up around you. Your face glowed in flashes of color. You didnât speak, just watched. Quiet. Present.
Bobâs heart thudded.
You turned slightly toward him, your arm brushing his for the briefest second. Not by accident.
âHey,â you said, glancing at him sideways, voice barely above the boom of the sky. âYou okay?â
He nodded, but it came slow. âYeah.â
âYou donât look it.â
He let out a soft breath and shrugged, mouth curving up shyly. âThink Iâm still recovering from the humiliation.â
Your smile softened. âWell... Iâve seen worse. At least you didnât cry or puke.â
âIâve got dignity,â he muttered, aiming for a jokeâbut the heat in his face killed the delivery.
âI noticed.â You looked at him thenâreally looked. âEven before the stunt.â
Bobâs throat felt too tight. His voice was quieter now, unsure. âYou⊠noticed me?â He was glad it was dark out now, or else you would've seen his flushed face.
You smiled again, this time with a touch of something warmer behind it. âItâs kind of hard to miss the guy whoâs been staring at me for six hours straight.â
His ears went pink. âI wasnâtâI meanââ
âRelax,â you said with a laugh. âIt was⊠kind of sweet.â
Kind of sweet. Kind of adorable. Kind of disarming.
âIt also helps that youâre cute,â you said, smiling shyly.
Bobâs lips curled, slow and soft, like the words had settled somewhere warm in his chest.
Another firework exploded above, painting your face in flickers of gold and blush-pink. You turned back toward the horizon, your hair stirring slightly in the breeze.
Bob looked at youâreally looked.
And this time, he didnât look away.
He shifted slightly closer, just enough that his knee brushed yours in the sand. You didnât move away.
âI, uh⊠Iâm Bob, by the way,â he said, voice soft but steady.
You turned to him with a smile that tugged the corners of your mouth like youâd been waiting for that.
âI know,â you said, nodding once. âI asked around.â
Bobâs eyes widened. âYou⊠did?â
âMm-hmm.â You looked at the sky again. âI figured if you ever got brave enough to talk to me, I should be ready.â
Bob couldnât help itâhe laughed, breathless, bright, all tension breaking.
The sky burst with light.
And beside him, under the gold-and-silver glow of the Fourth of July sky, you leaned just a little closer.
Neither of you said anything after that.
You didnât have to.
The last of the fireworks crackled above, a shimmering white bloom that flickered, lingered, then faded into the smoke-hazed sky. Only the soft crash of waves remained now, washing over the shore like a slow exhale.
The world felt quieter in the afterglow.
You were still sitting next to him, close enough that your legs brushed every so often, casually but deliberately. Neither of you had moved since the final blast. There was something in the airâthick and golden, a weight behind the silence that made Bob's heart race louder than the fireworks ever had.
He glanced at you.
You were watching the sky, face tilted up, jawline glowing faintly in the moonlight. You looked peaceful. And tired. And somehow more real nowâless untouchable.
Bob swallowed, then looked away quickly, suddenly too aware of how close you were.
And thenâyou looked at him.
Slow. Intentionally.
âStill with me, Bob?â
He blinked, startled by the gentleness in your voice. âY-yeah,â he said, barely above a whisper.
You looked at him, steady and unhurried. âSo⊠are you gonna kiss me?â The words came quiet, almost teasing, but something earnest shimmered underneath. âOr do I need to pretend Iâm drowning next time, just to even the score?â
For one terrifying, golden, perfect second, everything stopped.
Then he leaned in.
Slow. Hesitant. His heart galloping, unsure if he was misreading it allâbut something about the way you watched him made it impossible to retreat.
You met him halfway.
The kiss wasnât practiced. It wasnât planned. It was a little off-center and a little too soft, like both of you were afraid of scaring the other away.
But it was real.
Warm lips. Salt on skin. The faint trace of sunscreen and heat and Gatorade and want.
He pulled back firstâbarelyâjust enough to hover, eyes still closed.
You smiled against his mouth.
And then, just to make sure it wasnât all in his head, you pressed one more kissâshorter this time, sweet and certainâright at the corner of his mouth, before murmuring.
SUMMARY: Youâve loved Bob Floyd since before either of you knew what love was. Now, with a toddler in your arms, a baby on the way, and a Navy career pulling you in opposite directions, youâre learning what it really means to build a life across time zonesâand hold on to each other through it all. Soft reunions, stolen moments, found family, and the quiet kind of love that stays.
WORD COUNT: 6.5K
WARNINGS: Pregnancy, parenting struggles, long distance relationship stress, mild emotional distress. not proofreade, did a whole lot of writting without knowing where I wanted it to go with it so bare with me
Youâve known Bob Floyd for as long as you can remember.
He lived in the little gray house next door â the one with the creaky swing set and the patch of lawn his mom could never keep alive. ou met the way kids often doâtugged along behind your moms because they were the kind of women who believed in neighborly cookouts and holiday potlucks, the kind who'd swap recipes and stories over sizzling grills while you two chased each other barefoot through sprinklers and smoky air.
He was the quiet boy with glasses that kept slipping down his nose, a buzz cut that made his head look perpetually surprised, and scraped-up knees from racing his bike down the cul-de-sac like it was an Olympic event. You werenât much louderâsoft-spoken, wide-eyed, often half-hiding behind your momâs leg or the hem of your favorite overallsâbut somehow, the two of you always found each other in the noise. Youâd sit cross-legged on the porch sharing popsicles or wander through sprinkler mist like tiny explorers, not saying much, but never quite apart.
You didnât declare him your best friend. You just were. The kind of kids who ended up in all the same photos, shoulder to shoulder, blinking into the sun. And he never mindedânot the quiet, not the way you always hovered nearby, not even the way you both grew up without ever really growing apart.
You were inseparableâtwo halves of a quiet, unspoken language. Your parents joked you were practically siblings. But even then, something about the way Bob looked at youâcareful, soft, like you were something rare he didnât want to startleâwas different.
You carved your initials into the same tree at the end of sixth grade. You made a dumb joke about it being your âfriendship monument,â and Bob had smiled so wide you swore the sun got caught in his glasses. It wasnât love. Not then. But it felt like something that mattered. Like someday, it might be.
By the time high school rolled around, things started to shift.
You still walked to school together. Still shared secrets and late-night phone calls and summer movies where he let you rest your head on his shoulder without saying a word. But Bob had grown into his body, grown to be 6'0, and developed a very unfair jawline. You noticed.
Worse, he started acting weird.
There were moments â tiny, fleeting â where everything felt different.
The time you caught him staring just a little too long when you laughed.
The way his hand hovered near yours for a second too long during study sessions.
The time you cried after your first heartbreak, and he held you like it physically hurt him not to fix it.
He never said anything. He was never that bold. But you felt it.
And slowly, your feelings started to mirror his.
You realized you were in love with him one night in your junior year, sitting on his roof after a school dance you hadnât gone to. He was in sweats and a hoodie, leaning back on his elbows, talking softly about how the stars were already dead by the time we see their light. And your heart just⊠knew.
You turned to look at him and thought, Oh. Itâs always been you.
You kissed him the next week.
It was lateâpast ten, a school nightâand you were in your room, both pretending to study but mostly just laying across your bed with textbooks open and music playing low from your speaker. He was flipping through your notes, teasing you for your doodles in the margins, and you were trying not to stare at the way his mouth curled when he smiled.
At some point, you both got quiet. Not in a heavy, serious wayâjust the kind of quiet that settles in when two people are entirely at ease.
You looked up from your notebook to say something, and he was already looking at you.
And it just⊠happened.
Not dramatic, not planned. Just a kiss that felt like exhaling. Like opening a door you hadnât realized was always unlocked.
He looked at you like he wasnât sure he was allowed to want this, and you leaned in like youâd always known it would end this way.
It was soft. A little clumsy. But real. And warm. And safe. He froze. Then kissed you back like he was afraid heâd wake up from it. Like he didnât know what to do with his hands (he didnât â they kind of just hovered like he was buffering). And when you pulled back, breathless, he whispered shyly, âIâve been waiting for that since the third grade.â
You were his first everything after that. His first real kiss. First hand held beneath bleachers, hearts pounding against linked palms. First person he ever trusted with the quieter, more fragile parts of himselfâthe ones he kept hidden even from his parents. You learned him slowly, like a language, and he let you. Word by word, moment by moment. He never made it easy, but he never made you guess, either. Not when it really mattered.
So when Bob told you, senior year, that he wanted to join the Navy, he said it like a secret he didnât want to keep. Like he was handing it to you gently, scared it might crack open everything youâd built together.
You didnât flinch.
âYouâre gonna fly, huh?â you asked, nudging his arm with your shoulder. The two of you were stretched out across the hood of his truck, parked at the edge of that old service road no one else ever bothered with. The sky was clear. Stars above like a map you didnât know how to read.
âIf they let me,â he said, barely louder than the crickets. âI just⊠I feel like Iâd be good at it. I want to do something that matters.â
âYou already do,â you said, like it was the simplest truth. And it was. âBut if thatâs where youâre meant to go, then go. JustâŠâ Your voice caught. You turned your head so he wouldnât see. âWrite me, okay? A lot.â
He was quiet for a second. Then he leaned in, warm and steady, and kissed your cheek. His lips lingered like he didnât want to pull away.
âEvery chance I get,â he whispered.
And he meant it. Every letter, every email, every slow Sunday phone callâhe kept that promise like it was sacred.
Boot camp was hard. So was flight school. The distance wore on you in places you didnât know could acheâquiet places, like the space between heartbeats, or the seconds between texts that didnât come fast enough. Some nights, the silence felt louder than any goodbye ever had.
But Bob never made you doubt him.
Even when he was thousands of miles away, when his world became early mornings and aching muscles and orders barked through staticâhe made time for you. He sent hand-written letters whenever he could, the envelopes soft at the edges from travel, always filled with little sketches in the marginsâbirds he saw on base, clouds shaped like hearts, doodles of you in your overalls with hearts around your head. He told you everything. How tired he was. How badly the food sucked. How homesick he was for your laugh, your cooking, the way your fingers combed through his hair when he couldnât sleep.
You FaceTimed at odd hours, each call a small lifeline. Sometimes the connection cut in and out, freezing his face mid-smile or distorting your voice until you both started laughing. Sometimes you just sat in silence, watching each other exist, breathing in sync. You whispered I love yous across time zones and bad Wi-Fi, clinging to the sound of his voice like oxygen.
And every time he came home on leave, he held you like the world had stopped spinning without you in it.
There were reunions on front porches, airport gates, parking lotsâmessy and breathless, tears caught in your lashes before he even made it all the way into your arms. Heâd bury his face in your neck, whisper something like, âGod, I missed you,â and youâd feel the truth of it in your bones.
Time moved. Seasons changed. You wrote letters and made playlists and sent care packages with little notes tucked between socks and granola bars. He flew. He grew. And through it all, you remainedâeach otherâs constant.
He proposed on your fifth anniversary, in your old backyard, standing beneath the tree where your initials were still carved into the barkâfaded, but there. You didnât know he had a ring. You didnât even know heâd planned anything. But he reached for your hands with a look youâd known since childhood, the one that said youâre home, and dropped to one knee like heâd been waiting his whole life for this one moment.
âI canât picture my life without you in it, Y/N,â he said, voice shaking just enough to make your heart stutter. âYouâve been my best friend, my reason, my everything. Will you marry me?â
You were crying before he finished. Laughing, too, because of course. Of course it was always going to be him.
You said yes with your whole heartâbefore he could even finish the question.
And he smiled like he had that day you carved your names into the tree, like the sun was caught in his glasses again. Like everything had finally come full circle.
Marriage with Bob wasnât flashy or loud â it was steady. The kind of love that didnât need an audience, because it had roots too deep to be shaken.
It was built on years of shared glances and slow-burn devotion. On a friendship that grew into something sacred, something safe. A thousand little rituals became your language: the way heâd tuck handwritten love notes into your coat pocket before every deployment â folded three times, always sealed with your initials and a tiny heart. The way youâd greet him on the front porch after months away with his favorite meal already warming on the stove, lights low, arms open like a home heâd never left.
It was forehead kisses before sunrise and tangled limbs long past midnight. The soft rhythm of his hand rubbing slow circles on your back when you were sick or sore or simply worn thin. The way you cradled his face in your palms when the weight of the world â of the cockpit, of the distance, of the danger â grew too heavy on his shoulders.
With Bob, love was in the quiet.
It was in the way he memorized your coffee order by heart and always made it just right â even groggy, even rushed. The way he looked at you like you were still the girl next door in grass-stained jeans, even when you were pregnant and barefoot in the kitchen, hair a mess and eyes tired.
There were no grand declarations. No over-the-top gestures.
Just a million tiny choices, every day.
And the unshakable truth that he was yours â and you were his â in every way that mattered.
When Arvin came along â your sleepy-eyed boy. Another airplane-obsessed little one, a perfect miniature of his father right down to the dark blue eyes and thoughtful silences â Bob stepped into fatherhood with the same quiet reverence he brought to everything he loved.
He was gentle from the very first breath, holding your newborn son like he might break if he exhaled too hard. He whispered lullabies into soft baby curls at 3 a.m., slow and low, even when his voice cracked from sleep. He changed diapers without complaint, one hand always resting lightly on Arvin's tiny chest, like he couldnât quite believe he was real.
He read bedtime stories in silly voices â sometimes dramatically bad British accents, sometimes with the gravitas of a Shakespearean actor reading The Very Hungry Caterpillar. Arvin would giggle and clap and demand âagain,â and Bob would oblige every time, without fail, even when his eyes were rimmed with exhaustion from a long day on base.
He taught Arvin how to fold paper planes with surgical precision, adjusting wings and creases like it was an art form. He'd cheer when they soared, groan dramatically when they crash-landed, and patiently help him try again. You once caught them both lying on the floor for an hour, surrounded by a fleet of multicolored paper aircraft, Bob explaining lift and drag in a voice just above a whisper.
And when he thought you werenât listening â when the house was quiet, the baby limp with sleep in his arms â youâd hear him murmur into the soft crook of Arvin's neck, âI love you so much, buddy. So, so much.â As if he was pouring every ounce of feeling into those five words, like they were sacred.
And now?
Now you're sitting alone in your house in Lemoore, the glow of the tablet screen casting pale light over your tired face. Your hand rests instinctively over the small swell of your belly â life growing again, a quiet miracle you wish he could feel beneath his own palm.
And on the screen, thereâs Bob.
He looks tired. So do you.
But when your eyes meet, everything else stills â like the world exhales around you.
The video calls never feel long enough though.
No matter how much you try to pretend they do.
You were overjoyed for Bob when he first told you heâd been recruited for a special mission at TOPGUN. His voice had held that rare spark â the kind of excitement that only came when he talked about flying. It was supposed to be a temporary assignment, just a few weeks of intense training and high-stakes simulations.
But those weeks stretched into months.
Then the higher-ups asked him to stay longer â first through the summer, then into the fall. Every extension came with the same promise: just a little while more. And each time, you swallowed your disappointment and smiled, because you were proud. Because this was Bob's dream â and you had always known that loving him meant loving the sky that called him away.
Eventually, those few weeks turned into more than a year. From the start of your pregnancy to now.
You try to fill the space between your words, the ones you donât know how to say, by smiling extra bright, by asking him about the weather or how his new flight simulator is working. You talk about anything, anything to make the minutes stretch a little longer â but they never do.
Bobâs face glows softly on your tablet screen, the dim light from his room casting shadows across his features, making him look younger, more vulnerable than he does when heâs in uniform. His hair is still mussed from the helmet, the lines around his eyes deepened from exhaustion, but thereâs a softness there too, something just for you.
You watch as his gaze drifts to Arvin in the background. The boy is jabbering about airplanes and apples, or maybe itâs just a string of nonsense words heâs gotten attached to, youâre not sure. Bob watches him like heâs a miracle â like the sound of his sonâs voice is enough to keep him tethered to this world.
Youâre only half-listening, your gaze on Bobâs face, on his smile as he watches Arvin, but your hand rests lightly over the small curve of your stomach, the weight of it both grounding and quieting you in a way you canât explain.
And then Bob notices.
He always does.
âIs he sleeping okay now?â His voice is quiet, tentative, like the question itself is a thread heâs afraid will snap if he pulls too hard. He leans in slightly, like he can close the distance with just the weight of his eyes. His gaze flickers to the side â to Arvin, to the room, anywhere but you, and then back to you, searching.
You nod, though it feels like a lie. âMostly. Still wakes up crying for you sometimes.â
You watch as his expression shifts, as the words hang between you, thick with the distance neither of you wants to acknowledge.
Bob swallows hard, the movement of his throat so subtle, but you catch it. You always catch it. His jaw tightens just enough that you can see it, the silent, invisible tension that coils within him. Itâs like heâs holding his breath, waiting for something he canât put into words.
âAnd you?â he asks, his voice barely above a whisper. His eyes hold yours, steady and searching, and thereâs a tenderness there â a rawness that almost makes you want to look away.
You hesitate, your chest aching, the weight of his question heavy in the space between you. You know what he wants to hear. You know it. You want to say, Iâm good. Iâm fine. Weâre managing. You want to, but the words feel hollow.
Instead, you stay quiet. And somehow, that speaks louder than anything else.
Bob leans forward, his face coming into focus on the screen as his eyes soften â a small, fleeting thing, like a crack in a dam that might let the flood rush through. You see the way his brow furrows, the flicker of frustration that crosses his face, like he wants to reach through the screen and pull you into his arms.
âI hate this,â he says, his voice barely audible, as though saying it aloud would make the ache too real. âI hate not being there. Not⊠with you.â
Your heart aches at the softness of his words, the vulnerability in them. The quiet way he admits it, like itâs a secret heâs been carrying too long. You force a smile, but itâs thin, worn, fragile.
âI hate it too, Bobby.â Your voice trembles just enough for him to hear it, but you donât let yourself say anything more.
The call flickers. The feed stutters once, twice, like the connection itself is reluctant to let go. And then, just like that, the screen goes black, and all youâre left with is the empty space around you. The silence stretches, suffocating in its weight.
You sit there on the edge of your bed, the cold light of the screen still lingering in your peripheral vision, the hum of the air conditioner too loud in the stillness of the room.
But thereâs only the ache.
A quiet, persistent ache that pulses behind your ribs, that lingers even after the call has ended, and the miles between you stretch too far to bridge.
And you wonder, for the thousandth time, if this will always be the way of it â these small, stolen moments that never feel long enough.
A few days later â North Island, San Diego
You didnât argue when Bob told you he was flying you out. You shouldâve â you had your own command to report to, your own stack of overdue emails and unfinished reports â but the exhaustion had sunk too deep into your bones. It was the kind of tired that sleep couldnât fix. So when he said, âPlease, just come out here. I need you here,â in that low, quiet voice that always made something in your chest loosen, you didnât even try to fight it.
Because the truth was, you needed him too.
Now, standing just inside the hangar, the scent of oil and sunbaked concrete mixing with the faint salt of the sea air, you shift Arvin higher on your hip. Heâs dozing against your shoulder, warm and heavy and clutching your collar in one sticky little fist, the remnants of a cherry lollipop smudged near his mouth. His soft breaths tickle your neck, and you press your cheek gently to his hair, breathing him in.
Your flight jacket is unzipped halfway, the soft curve of your belly peeking beneath the edge of your shirt. The baby stirs â a slow, fluttering kick â and your hand moves instinctively to rest there. Protective. Quiet. A silent hello.
You feel exposed, somehow. Not from the eyes of others, but from the sheer openness of being here, in his world again â the place where he comes alive in ways he tries not to show you over a screen. Thereâs no buffer now. No distance to soften the weight of how much youâve missed him.
And then, like the thought conjures him â you see him.
Bob steps out from between two aircraft, still half in his flight suit, sleeves tied around his waist, sweat-damp curls falling messily over his forehead. His helmet dangles from one hand, the other runs through his hair in a gesture youâve seen a thousand times. Nervous. Hopeful. Tired.
He spots you instantly.
His whole face softens.
You donât wave. He doesnât smile. Itâs quieter than that.
He crosses the hangar in long, purposeful strides â not rushing, but close. His gaze never leaves yours. And when he reaches you, he sets his helmet down without looking, cupping your face with one warm, calloused hand.
You let your eyes close. Just for a second.
âYou came,â he murmurs, like he doesnât quite believe it.
You nod, the lump in your throat making words impossible for a moment. âOf course I did.â
Bob leans in and presses a kiss to your forehead, slow and deliberate, lingering there like heâs trying to breathe you in. When he pulls back, his eyes flicker down â to your belly, to Arvin still asleep on your shoulder â and something flickers across his face.
Wonder. Gratitude. Love.
âHi, baby,â he says softly, reaching out to run a thumb across the swell of your stomach, his touch reverent. Then his hand moves gently to Arvin's back, rubbing slow circles as he leans in. âHey, little man. Miss me?â
Arvin's head lolls as he turns, blinking up at him. âDaddy,â he mumbles, drowsy but smiling.
Bob cradles him to his chest with practiced ease, like no time has passed at all. You watch as his fingers press gently against Arvin's back â counting, you think. Checking. Making sure heâs real.
And then he looks at you.
Really looks.
At your face, your tired eyes, your jacket stretched a little tighter over your middle than last time. His gaze lingers there, gentle and awed, and when it lifts again, thereâs something raw in it.
âGod, I missed you,â he says, his voice thick.
You reach up to fix his glasses from sliding down his nose, your fingers lingering. âI missed you more.â
He kisses you then â soft, sweet, a little breathless. The kind of kiss that feels like a beginning and a homecoming all at once.
And for the first time in weeks, maybe months, your world feels whole again.
Later That Night â Bobâs Quarters
The quarters are dimly lit, save for the warm glow of the overhead light above the small kitchen nook. The base housing isnât big â just one long room split by a thin curtain and a kitchenette that hums faintly with the old fridge. But itâs clean. Lived-in now.
Youâre curled up on Bobâs neatly made bunk, legs tucked to the side, with Arvin asleep on your chest â his little fingers curled in the collar of your shirt. Bob is across from you on the floor, back against the side of the bed, legs stretched out. His glasses have slid halfway down his nose as he finishes washing and drying a single baby bottle like itâs mission critical.
âI didnât realize how much I missed this,â he says, voice soft enough not to wake Arvin. âYou. Him. The burp cloths.â
You grin, brushing a hand through Arvinâs soft hair. âYou say that now. Wait until he starts screaming at 2 a.m. because he canât find his stuffy.â
Bob looks up at you, warm amusement in his eyes. âThen Iâll be glad Iâve still got my hearing protection from the cockpit.â
He stands and walks over, kneeling beside the bed so heâs eye-level with the two of you. He kisses Arvinâs temple, then your forehead. âThank you for coming. I know this wasnât easy.â
Before you can answerâ
The door bursts open.
âHey Floyd, you leâ what the fuck.â
Itâs Hangman. Behind him, Rooster, Coyote, Payback, Fanboy and two fresh faced recruits stand frozen in the doorway like they just walked into the wrong house. Phoenix lingers in the back with her arms crossed, clearly not surprised â but enjoying the boys reaction.
She was the only member of the dagger squad who knew of her WSOâs little family.
Everyone stares.
You stare.
Arvin stirs and lets out a soft grunt, then burrows deeper into your chest.
Bob doesnât move. His hand stays on your knee, protective but not ashamed. âHey, uh⊠guys.â
Hangman points, blinking. âWhat the hell is going on here?â
Rooster looks like his brain just blue-screened. âAre we in the right place?â
Phoenix smirks. âYep.â
Bob clears his throat. âThis is my wife. And thatâs our son, Arvin.â
Fanboy mouths the word son and glances at Payback, who just raises his eyebrows and gives a low whistle.
One of the recruits awkwardly raises a hand like heâs in school. âSir⊠you have a baby?â
Bob straightens a little. âYes. And heâs sleeping. So... maybe keep it down?â
The room falls comically silent.
You press your lips together to keep from laughing. Bob's shoulders are tense, but heâs trying not to show it.
Then, Hangman recovers. He steps inside, looks around the room, and crosses his arms. âYou mean to tell me quiet little Baby On Board has a whole-ass family he didnât tell us about?â
Phoenix pipes up from the back. âTold you he had game.â
âI didnât think you meant married with a baby game,â Rooster mutters, walking in more cautiously.
Fanboy edges over to the sleeping Arvin and crouches. âMan. Look at this little guy. Heâs got Bobâs nose.â
Payback leans against the wall. âYou been hiding this because you didnât want us to babysit or what?â
Bob relaxes â just a little. âDidnât think it was relevant to the mission.â
Hangman raises both hands. âOh, no. No, no, Bob. This is the mission now. We are absolutely going to teach this kid how to dogfight.â
Rooster rolls his eyes. âHe looks barely two.â
âPlenty of time to train,â Hangman says seriously.
You glance at Bob. His ears are red, but heâs smiling now â the slow, warm kind he only gives you when heâs too full of love to say anything else.
And somehow, in this tiny room filled with too many people and not enough space, it feels like home.
The fresh faced recruits are the first to bail.
The shorter one, nervous as a rabbit, nudges his partner. âUh, Sir⊠weâll, uh, just come back⊠later?â His eyes dart from Arvinâs chubby cheeks to Bobâs unreadable face and back again.
The taller recruit nods too fast. âCongrats, Lieutenant Floyd. Maâam. Your baby is, uh⊠looks a lot like Lieutenant Floyd.â
They both retreat like they stumbled into sacred ground. The door shuts softly behind them.
Now itâs just the squad.
And they are settled in.
Rooster is sitting on the floor beside the bed with his back against the wall, chin in his hand as he stares at Arvin like the babyâs a new aircraft schematic. Fanboy has claimed a random pillow and is lying flat on the floor in front of the bunk like heâs cloud-watching. Paybackâs perched on the tiny kitchen stool. Phoenix leans against the counter with a small smile, and HangmanâŠ
Hangman is holding up one of Arvinâs tiny onesies like itâs a national treasure.
âDo you see how small this is?â he says dramatically, voice hushed like theyâre in a museum. âThis could fit on my forearm. I could wear it as a sock.â
Youâre trying not to laugh too loud â Arvin sleeping peacefully, cheek smushed against your chest.
âWhereâd you get this one?â Fanboy asks, pointing to the onesie in question. âThe blue with the little jets?â
âOh, that was from my sister,â you say. âShe said if Bobâs gonna fly jets, Arvin should wear them.â
âDamn right,â says Coyote.
âHow old is he?â Rooster asks.
âFifteen months,â you reply.
Rooster smiles, amused. âAnd how long did Bob keep this from us?â
Bob, still standing at the foot of the bed, crosses his arms â but not in annoyance. In quiet defense. Heâs close, just within reach, like his bodyâs trying to shield the three of you from the attention.
âIt wasnât on purpose,â he says, voice low. âWeâve just been⊠figuring things out. He was born not long before I got deployed. Didnât want to make it complicated.â
Fanboy whistles. âMan. You were flying with us every day, then going home to FaceTime with this little dude?â
Bob nods.
âThatâs baller,â Rooster mutters.
Hangman squints at you, suddenly serious. âSo wait, how long have you two been together?â
You shift Arvin slightly to cradle him better. âSince high school." You smiled sheepishly, "Married three years."
âShe helped me study during training,â Bob adds, quieter now, almost shy.
Phoenix perks up. âYou helped Bob Floyd study?â
âI did,â you say, grinning.
âDid you know,â Phoenix says, turning to the group, âthis man cried when he saw Arvinâs ultrasound photo?â
Bob glares at her. âThat was classified.â He coughs awkwardly.
The room erupts into gentle laughter. Even Arvin stirs and lets out a sleepy little sigh, like he approves.
âAlright, alright,â you say, holding up a hand. âAny more questions before we pass around a sign-up sheet for bedtime stories?â
Rooster raises a finger. âDoes Arvin like planes?â
Bob answers this time, stepping closer and crouching beside the bed. âHe calls them âbrrr-brrrs.ââ
You nod, smiling. âHe has a toy F/A-18 that he crashes into everything. Including our dog.â
âWait,â Fanboy says, eyes wide. âYou have a dog too?â
Hangman sits down on the other side of the bed now, hands behind his head, grinning. âOkay. New rule. We all hang out here every Friday. You bring the baby. Iâll bring drinks.â
Bob finally chuckles. âAnd what if we say no?â
âYou wonât,â Phoenix says.
Bob raises an eyebrow.
âI mean,â she adds, âyou tolerate us with remarkable patience.â
He doesnât answer â just reaches over to brush a curl off Arvinâs forehead, his eyes soft and so full of quiet pride it nearly chokes you.
You meet his gaze and smile, mouthing, thank you.
He nods, mouthing back, Always.
Outside, the base is silent. Inside, itâs warm. Loud. Full.
And for the first time in months, Bob lets himself sink into the chaos, just a little â because this is the kind of noise that means youâre home.
After an hour the daggers finally leave you two alone.
The room is finally quiet again.
The door clicked shut ten minutes ago, leaving only the soft hum of the fridge and the rhythm of Arvinâs little breaths against your chest. You can still hear Hangmanâs laugh echoing faintly in the hallway, followed by a muffled, âIâm just saying, if the kidâs already saying âbrrr-brrr,â heâs halfway to a call sign.â
You smile to yourself.
Bob locks the door behind them, then turns off the kitchen light, leaving the room in the low amber glow of a bedside lamp. He exhales as he leans back against the counter, watching you with a soft kind of awe â like he still canât quite believe youâre really here.
âSorry about the ambush,â he says quietly.
You shake your head. âDonât be. They were sweet.â
He nods, walking over slowly, careful not to wake Arvin. âI think they were more excited about his onesies than I was when I got my flight suit.â
You laugh under your breath. âThat tracks.â
He crouches beside the bed again, resting a hand lightly on your leg. âYou okay?â
âYeah.â You meet his eyes, and your voice softens. âIâm just⊠really glad we came.â
You shift, carefully sliding Arvin off your chest and onto the middle of the bed. He fusses for a second, then settles again, thumb in his mouth. Bob moves instinctively, pulling the small blanket up over him, tucking it just right.
Then he stands and, without a word, unzips his hoodie and slips into bed beside you, careful not to jostle either of you too much. He lies on his side, one arm under his head, the other resting lightly across your hip.
You shift to face him, your noses close, the space between you quiet and full.
For a long moment, neither of you says anything. You just breathe. The kind of silence that doesnât need to be filled.
Then Bob speaks â his voice a soft thread in the dark.
âHow long can you stay?â
You trace a line along the collar of his shirt with one finger. âA few days. I told my boss I needed personal leave.â You glance up. âThey didnât ask questions.â
Bobâs mouth lifts slightly. âRemind me to send them a thank-you card.â
You smile, but your voice is quieter now. âWeâve missed you. A lot.â
âI know.â His fingers brush your side gently. âIâve missed you more than I can say.â
You reach for his hand and lace your fingers through his. âI donât want this to feel like a visit. I want it to feel like a pause, you know? Like weâre not counting down already.â
Bobâs eyes search yours â slow, full of something fragile. âThen letâs not count,â he says. âLetâs just⊠be here.â
You nod.
He shifts a little closer, his forehead resting lightly against yours. âI was thinking,â he says, âwe could take Arvin down to the beach in the morning. Just us. Before it gets crowded.â
You smile. âHeâll eat half the sand, you know that, right?â
âIâll pack extra wipes,â he murmurs, and you both laugh quietly.
âAnd maybe,â he adds, hesitating, âwe could find time for just us. Even if itâs just an hour. You and me. No schedules. Just⊠catching up.â
You reach up and trace the edge of his jaw, your thumb brushing the stubble there. âIâd like that.â
His eyes flicker â tired, but glowing. âWeâve been so many places apart,â he says softly. âI want to start building the places weâve been⊠together.â
You blink once, hard, then lean forward to press your lips gently to his.
Itâs not a kiss full of heat or hunger â itâs full of knowing. Of being known. A kiss that says: Iâm here. I still choose you. Every time.
When you pull back, your voice is barely a whisper.
âSo whatâs the plan tomorrow?â
Bob exhales slowly. âBeach in the morning. Maybe breakfast after that. Arvinâs nap around noon.â He pauses, then smiles. âAnd if heâs down long enough, I thought maybe I could read to you for a while. The baby books, I mean. Iâve been practicing.â
You laugh softly. âIâd love that.â
He kisses your temple, then your cheek. âAnd Iâll make dinner. Nothing fancy, butââ
âYouâre cooking?â you tease, eyebrows raised.
âIâve improved since the incident with the instant rice,â he says solemnly.
âHave you?â
âWell⊠slightly supervised cooking.â
You laugh again, and then settle closer, your head resting beneath his chin, one arm across his chest. His fingers trace gentle circles against your back.
Bob exhales, his voice the last thing you hear before sleep starts to pull you under.
âI wish I could freeze this,â he whispers. âJust⊠hold it all still.â
You press your lips to his collarbone. âYou donât have to. Weâre here now.â
Bob's gaze drifts to your belly.
âShe been kicking a lot today?â he asks looking down at you , voice soft. God, you loved when he looked at you with his dark blue eyes through his glasses.
You nod, bitting your lip. âLike sheâs doing laps in there.â
A small, crooked smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. He reaches out, hesitates, then places his palm gently over the curve of your belly.
âI keep picturing her,â he says, almost like heâs afraid to say it out loud. âNot just what sheâll look like â though I think sheâll have your face â but like⊠the little things. Her laugh. The sound of her feet on the floor. Her asking questions I donât know how to answer.â
You watch him quietly, your heart aching in that full, overwhelming way only he can make it ache.
âSheâs gonna be loud,â you say with a smile. âLouder than Arvin, maybe.â
Bob huffs a soft laugh.
A beat passes. Then, in a quieter voice:
âStill want to name her Aubrey?â
You nod. âDo you?â
He swallows. âYeah. I, uh⊠I was listening to the song the night you told me. And I just⊠I donât know. It stuck.â
You can hear the song in your head now â Aubrey by Breadâ soft and sad and full of things left unspoken. A strange choice for a babyâs name, maybe. But also perfect. Gentle. Old-fashioned. Honest.
âI love it,â you whisper.
He glances up at you, relieved. âGood. 'Cause I already made a playlist.â
You laugh softly, resting your forehead against his. âOf course you did.â
âSheâs gonna have good music taste,â he mumbles. âIâll start her early. Bread, Simon & Garfunkel, Fleetwood MacâŠâ
âYouâre making a dad playlist.â
His ears turn red. âIs that bad?â
âNo,â you whisper. âItâs perfect.â
He brushes his thumb lightly over the swell of your stomach, then looks down at Arvin, still nestled against you. âI just want them to feel safe. Always. Like⊠like no matter what, Iâll be here.â
âYou will be,â you say.
Bob doesnât say anything for a long moment. Just breathes. Then finally, voice barely audible:
âI still donât feel like Iâm enough for this. For you. For them.â
You tilt your head, resting a hand on his cheek. âYouâre already more than enough. Every single day.â
He closes his eyes at that. Nods.
And then, so quietly you almost miss it:
âI hope she has your laugh.â
You smile, feeling the baby shift inside you, almost like she heard him. Like sheâs saying Iâm here, too.
Sleep comes for you slowly, like the tideâgentle, inevitable, pulling you under in waves.
Your eyes flutter, heavy-lidded, and the warmth of Bob beside you lulls you deeper into it. His fingers are still tracing quiet circles on your back, and his breathing has settled into that soft, steady rhythm youâve always found comfort in. Arvin is tucked between you, his tiny body curled toward yours, mouth slack around his thumb, breaths even and small.
Bob shifts, just slightly, and you feel his hand slide from your back to the swell of your belly, his palm resting there with the kind of reverence that says:Â I know you're in there, and I love you already.
The weight of his arm wraps around you protectively. Not tight. Just there. Grounding. Like a tether you didnât know you needed until now.
And thenâhis hand stretches further, carefully, reaching across you until his fingertips find Arvinâs small shoulder, barely brushing. It's the lightest touch, but it holds all the weight in the world. A father holding his whole world in the span of two palms.
Youâre somewhere between awake and dreaming when you feel his breath against your temple.
âI love you,â he whispers.
You donât respondâcanât, reallyâbut your body shifts instinctively, curling toward him just a little more. He presses a soft kiss to your forehead, then one to the top of Arvinâs head. His hand never leaves your belly.
Outside, the night is still. The fridge hums. Somewhere in the distance, a car passes, but it doesnât reach you here.
Bob stays awake for a little while longer, just watching you sleep. He lets his gaze linger on the rise and fall of your chest, the gentle rhythm of the babyâs kicks beneath his palm, and the tiny hand of his son curled near your collarbone.
His chest tightens in that familiar wayâlove too big for his ribcage, like it might break him open. But it's the good kind of ache. The kind heâd carry gladly for the rest of his life.
Eventually, his eyes grow heavy. He shifts just a little closer, curls his body around yours and Arvinâs like a shield, and lets his forehead rest against your shoulder.
And finally, with his whole family safe in his arms, he exhalesâŠ
âŠand sleeps
SUMMARY: You just needed a stretch and some peace. What you got instead was Bob Floyd, flushed and flustered in the gym doorway â trying very hard not to stare while youâre bent in ways that definitely arenât regulation.
Heâs polite. Youâre not. Letâs see how long he lasts.
WORD COUNT: 1.8K
WARNINGS: midly suggestive, implied desire but no explicit action, not proofread
The San Diego base was quieter than usual for a Thursday morning. A rare hush settled over the hangars and halls, broken only by the distant echo of boots or the low hum of morning briefings. Most of the squad was buried in mission prep or sleeping off last nightâs long debriefs, but you needed something elseâsomething slower, quieter.
The last mission hadnât just drained your fuel tankâit had wrung your entire body out. High-G turns, endless adrenaline, and the constant demand for perfection had sunk deep into your muscles, coiling tension through your spine and shoulders like wire. Tight muscles, restless nights. The relentless pressure isnât just in your mind â itâs etched into your bones and tendons. You canât ignore it anymore. You promised yourself to carve out time for something gentle, something that would help untangle the knots beneath your skin.
So here you were, early in the base gym.
The gym was cool and still, the scent of rubber matting, old sweat, and faint lemon cleaner clinging to the air. You wore a fitted tank and black compression shorts that moved with you, clinging to every shift of muscle as you flowed from one stretch to the next. Your music buzzed softly in your earsâ Juno by Sabrina Carpenter.
You settled into the mat, palms pressing flat into the textured surface, hips lifting into a deliberate downward dog. Your calves stretched tight, hamstrings tingling in protest. You exhaled through your nose, long and slow. Letting the tension go.
The mission still lingers in your mind like static, but here in this quiet space, you find a moment of peace.
And thatâs when you felt itâthat flicker. Like eyes on your skin.
You didnât look at first. You just smirked, staying in the pose a beat too long, letting the subtle arch of your body speak for you. Then you rose, fluid and deliberate, rolling up from your hips and catching him in your periphery.
Bob Floyd.
He stood in the doorway, leaning casually against the frame with a puzzled look on his face. His lips parted, like heâd meant to say something but forgot what. The overhead lights cast a soft glow across his face, and even from here, you could see the way his jaw worked, the tick of restraint in his posture.
His eyes trailed your movements, but not crudely. More like reverence. Like watching you move made something inside him ache.
He hadnât meant to find you hereâheâd been wandering the base looking for a spare charger, radio dead and unreadable. But now that heâd found you like this, stretching and flushed and glowing with exertion, something inside him locked into place. He couldnât look away.
You lift your head just enough to meet his gaze. A slow, mischievous smirk curls your lips. You held the next pose, extended puppy, a fraction longer than necessary, the muscles in your arms flexing as you do. Then, smoothly, you straighten your legs and rise, stretching out.
Bobâs heart hammered hard against his ribs as he stood there. Heâd watched you stretch beforeâon the flight line, at briefingsâbut never like this. Never with such vulnerability.
To be honest, Bob had thought you were cute for weeks. More than cute, really. There was something about the way you carried yourself that held his attention, quickened his pulse, and sent his thoughts wandering down roads heâd never dared travel. But heâd kept it professional, kept his distance.
This is a mission. We're teammates.
That mantra kept him grounded. Yet here, watching you, all that resolve wavered. The tension inside him wasnât just from the mission or the charger hunt â it was something deeper, tangled up in the way you made his heart ache with every glance, every small smile.
Bob had been tryingâreally tryingâto keep things professional. You were his teammate. Skilled, sharp-tongued, dangerously charming. But for weeks now, heâd been hyper-aware of you in every room. How you laughed with the others. How youâd brush past him with a nod and a smile that lingered too long in his chest.
He told himself it was just admiration. Respect. Camaraderie.
But watching you now, flexed and breathing through the last remnants of the mission, the thoughts in his head werenât particularly professional.
His gaze flicked to your lips, then back to your eyes where that teasing smirk curled just enough to promise trouble. He wanted to reach out, to tell you how long heâd been holding this inâhow every quiet moment without you felt like a dull ache. But the words stuck, caught in the tight knot of nerves and something elseâsomething electric.
âDidnât know you were into yoga, Floyd,â you teased, voice low and smooth like warm honey, headphones still resting lightly in your ears.
Bob swallowed hard, the heat rising in his cheeks. He raised a hand to fix his already perfectly say glasses. Trying to look casual but failing. âSorry,â he mumbled, voice rougher than intended. âI didnât mean to⊠I was justâuhâlooking for a charger and, well..â
He trailed off, eyes darting everywhere but on you.
You turned, pulling out one headphone and raising a brow. âYou didnât mean to stare?â
His neck flushed pink. âThat too,â he admitted, scratching the back of his neck.
You raised an eyebrow, smirk softening into something almost gentle. âItâs fine. Honestly, you caught me at a good time.â
He blinked, surprise flickering in his eyes. âReally?â
You gave a lazy shrug, stretching your arms overhead again, and Bobâs eyesâwell, he tried not to, but they dragged down the exposed line of your waist and back again. âYeah,â you said. âThe missionâs been rough. My shoulders are wrecked. I was gonna ask Phoenix to help me stretch, but sheâs buried in logs.â
Bob nodded, already halfway to understanding where this was going.
âSoâŠâ you said, letting the word hang between you.
His eyes darkened just a little, a flicker of something bolder lurking beneath the shy veneer. âMe?â he repeated, like a question and a challenge wrapped into one.
You shrugged with a innocent smile, âYouâre more gentleman-like than the others...I figured maybe you could show me some stretches or, I donât know, help me loosen up.â
Bob felt a heat rise to his cheeks, a shy grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. âYeah, I could do that,â he said quietly. âWhenever you want.â Bob sent you a shy nod.
The awkwardness between you softened, replaced by something hopeful â a fragile connection built on trust, tension, and the promise of something more.
You slide back onto the mat, your voice low, casual. âAlright, Floyd. Show me what youâve got.â
Bob kneels beside you, careful at first â always careful â but his hands donât tremble like they used to around you.
He sat beside you, close enough that you could feel the shift in the air around him. He smelled like jet fuel and clean laundry, with a faint trace of aftershave that made your stomach flutter.
He places one palm gently against your thigh, just above the knee, guiding your leg into a stretch. The contact is firm, respectful, but his fingers linger just a moment too long.
His other hand hovers near your ankle, unsure if itâs okay to touch. You glance at him, one brow raised, the corner of your mouth twitching in amusement.
âItâs fine,â you murmur, watching him through half-lidded eyes. âYou can touch. I wonât break.â
His breath catches audibly, but he nods. Swallows. Then adjusts your leg with slow precision, eyes never leaving the way your body bends under his touch. Heâs doing his best to stay focused, to pretend this is clinical, just functional.
Itâs not.
You shift slightly, arching into the stretch, and his hand brushes higher on your thigh. You feel the heat between you like a live wire â the proximity, the quiet tension wrapped up in every shallow breath he takes.
âYou good?â he asks, voice a little too soft, a little too close to your ear.
You nod, slow. âYeah. You're doing fine, Lieutenant.â
The way you say it â low and just a little sultry â sends a flush up his neck. He clears his throat but doesnât move away.
His hand is still on your thigh. Yours brushes his wrist, intentionally or not, and the contact makes both of you pause.
Itâs nothing.
Itâs everything.
Your eyes meet â his are wide, unsure, but dark now, holding something restrained. Yours are steadier. Curious. Testing.
The moment stretches just a little too long. You could say something. So could he. But neither of you do.
Bob shifted his grip higher, slowly â the heel of his palm now cupping the inside of your thigh. Not indecent. Not overt. But close. Closer than it shouldâve been.
You caught his eyes again. They were darker now. His lips parted like he wanted to say something, but he didnât. Instead, he looked back down, refocusing on the stretch, like that would keep his thoughts in check. It didnât.
âYouâre more flexible than I expected,â he said softly.
You laughed, a low, husky sound that wrapped around him like smoke. âYouâve been paying attention?â
âMaybe,â he admitted, voice quieter now.
Your hand brushed his wrist again as you shifted slightly â a small movement, intentional only in the way it broke his rhythm. You felt the way he froze for half a second. The way his fingers flexed against your leg.
The air between you thickened. Not from words. From the silence. From the way his gaze dropped to your mouth and didnât move for just a moment too long.
You sat up slowly, the motion dragging your body across his field of view. You didnât rush. You knew what you were doing. Your shoulder brushed his chest as you rose, close enough to catch the scent of him â clean soap, fabric softener, and something faintly metallic from the flight deck.
âThanks,â you said, casually wiping sweat from your collarbone with a towel. âThat helped more than I expected.â
Bobâs voice caught in his throat. His eyes followed the line of your neck before he blinked hard and looked away. âYeah⊠sure. Anytime.â
You stood over him now, and he was still on his knees, looking up â flushed, a little stunned, like youâd taken the wind out of him without laying a finger on his chest.
You leaned in just enough to let your voice land right at the shell of his ear. âI might hold you to that.â
He didnât answer, didnât move. Just swallowed hard, eyes darting everywhere but yours as you headed toward the exit. Bob stares at you like heâs still trying to recover from what just happened â or almost did. He opens his mouth, but nothing comes out. You grab your towel, sling it over your shoulder.
âIâll see you later, Floyd.â
And just like that, youâre gone â leaving him kneeling there, flustered, heart racing, wondering if he imagined how long youâd looked at him, or how soft your touch had been.
He sat there for a beat too long, eyes fixed on the space youâd just occupied, heart pounding like heâd just pulled 9 Gs.
He ran a hand down his face, exhaling slow.
âJesus Christ,â he mutters under his breath, like a prayer and a curse at the same time. And the scent of you still lingered on his fingers.
SUMMARY: It all kicks off on the set of Thunderbolts, where you and Lewis Pullman are supposed to be focused on superhero anticsâbut the real sparks are flying off-camera. Between inside jokes, stolen glances, and the worldâs most chaotic BuzzFeed thirst tweets interview, you and Lewis canât help but blur the line between âjust actingâ and something way more real. Fans notice the chemistry, your castmates tease, and suddenly every look and touch feels like a secret youâre both dying to tell. By the time youâre reading wild tweets about each other on camera, itâs pretty clear: youâre both in way deeper than you planned.
WORD COUNT: 4K
WARNINGS: rushed fic bare with me, the ending isnt that proofread. I thought of the idea and just wrote whatvever. verrryy sugestive and sexual content (no full smut though), horny people thirsty tweets. mature language, public/ online sexualization.
It all began on the set of Thunderboltsâa charged and chaotic place, alive with the hum of lights, the grind of long hours, and the quiet thrill of creating something bigger than yourselves. The kind of place where reality blurred just enough to let something unexpected sneak in.
You and Lewis had both been cast in major roles, names slotted neatly into call sheets and schedules, costumes and scripts handed over like destiny on paper. But from the very beginning, there was something more. Something unspoken. An undercurrent. The kind of chemistry that didnât need rehearsal. It was there in the first shared glance across the set, the way your scenes together always felt just a little more electricâlike the world paused to watch.
At first, it was easy to pretend it was just the job. Just friendly banter between takesâtrading war stories from past shoots, laughing over the ridiculousness of tight superhero suits and late-night rewrites, finding comfort in the shared absurdity of your upcoming press tours.
But slowly, quietly, that banter began to soften into something sweeter. The kind of moments that didnât call attention to themselves but lingered all the same. You started seeking each other out in the in-between spaces: in the hush between scenes, in the quiet hum of early mornings on set, in the golden lull of twilight when the crew was packing up.
Lewis was quiet, in that way that made you want to lean in just a little closer to catch every word. Thoughtful. Steady. He didnât waste wordsâbut when he spoke, you listened. And when he looked at you, really looked, it was like being seen for the first time in a way that made your heart forget how to beat normally.
There were stolen coffees, fingers brushing accidentally over sugar packets, shared headphones playing old songs on low volume. There were private jokes whispered with eyes instead of words, small touches that lingered just a second too long. Neither of you said it out loud, not at first, but something had shifted. Grown. Bloomed in the shadow of bright lights and booming action scenes.
The rest of the cast noticed, of course. Teasing smirks. Nudges in the ribs. The kind of glances people give when they see a secret blooming in plain sight. But still, you and Lewis kept it quiet, choosing the quiet over the loud, the sacred over the spectacle. Letting it unfold slowly, naturally, like the story you hadnât known you were telling.
By the time filming wrapped, everything felt different. Not just because the work was done, but because somewhere in the midst of explosions and call times, you had found something rare. Someone real. The press tour was a blur of flashing cameras, endless flights, rehearsed anecdotesâbut through it all, he was your constant. A hand at your back. A look across a crowded room that said, Iâve got you.
Even though you never confirmed anything publicly, fans noticed. They always do. The way you glanced at him when you laughed, how he waited for you to finish your sentences, the soft way your hands would find each otherâs just off camera. Social media lit up with speculation. âPullman/Y/Nâ trended more times than you could count. Edits, fanfiction, endless gifs of you leaning into each other mid-interview like gravity couldnât help itself.
Thatâs why you were brought inâbecause your managers knew exactly what the fans were dying for: more of you and Lewis, more of that chemistry the fans canât stop talking about.
The bright studio lights cast a warm glow over the BuzzFeed Celeb set, illuminating the colorful backdrop and making the directorâs chairs you sat in look more inviting than nerve-wracking. The energy was light, playful, and buzzing with anticipation. You both settled into the chairs, the kind made for casual interviews but perfectly suited for the kind of banter about to unfold.
Lewis cleared his throat, fingers brushing nervously over his collar again. Youâd learned to read these little ticks, the signs that told you he was more shy than confident, more thoughtful than outspoken.
He glanced at the camera, then at you, flashing a small, genuine smile. âHey, everyone. Iâm Lewis Pullman, and Iâm here withâŠâ He looked your way, his smile widening just a little. ââŠY/N.â
Your heart skipped at the sound of your name from his lips in front of the camera, and you returned the grin easily. âAnd today, weâre doing something a little differentâweâre reading thirst tweets about ourselves with buzzfeed.â You gave Lewis a playful, worried look. âBrace yourselves.â
Lewis chuckled softly, the nervous edge still there. âIâve heard these can get wild. Like⊠real wild.â
âIâm worried for you,â you teased, nudging him gently. âYouâre likeâthe white boy of the month or whatever that even means.â You shrugged, letting your voice trail uncertainly as you tried to understand the phrase yourself.
Lewis caught your eyes, lips twitching into that shy, almost imperceptible smile only you had seen before.
The host handed you a small bucket filled with folded tweets. You pulled one out and scanned it aloud, a teasing grin spreading across your face.
âIf you ever do a reading thirst tweets video with Lewis Pullman I just want him to know that he can run me over with a bull and spit on my face while I cowgirl him and Iâd still thank him for coming to my TED talk.â
Lewis blinked, surprise flashing in his eyes. âThatâs⊠intense.â His voice dropped low, amused and incredulous. âThatâs so incredibly specific.â Then he raised his eyebrows, looking straight into the camera. âI mean, if we can make that happen?â
You shrugged and crumpled the tiny piece of paper with a laugh. âHeyâ the fans know what they want.â
Lewis nodded playfully before picking up the next tweet.
âY/N is so hot Iâd let her choke me, no joke.â
Lewis blinked at the tweet, then read it aloud in the most deadpan, mildly horrified tone imaginableâlike the words themselves had personally offended him.
âLegally, I donât think I can do that,â you teased, flashing him a small smile. âBut if you pay me enough?...Anything's possible.â You trailed off, laughing.
Lewis gave you a sidelong glance, lips twitching despite himself. âNoted,â he muttered, âGuess Iâll check my savings account.â He said low enough for only you to hear.
The air between you shiftedâno longer light, exactly, but heavier in the best kind of way. Charged.
You tilted your head at him. âBig spender, huh?â
Lewis didnât back down. âWouldnât waste it.â
The moment stretchedâjust long enough to make the production assistant behind the camera clear their throat a little too pointedly.
"I'd jump on the chance to fuck Lewis Pullman and Danny Ramirez #threesome #atdifferenttimes #eitheror #idc"
You could barely keep it together, giggling your way through the hashtags as you read the tweet aloud. âOkayâwow,â you laughed, eyes wide. âThat was... thorough.â
Lewis raised his eyebrows, rubbing at the stubble along his chin like he was buying time. âShout out to Danny,â he said with a tight smile.
Lewis leaned forward just a little, elbows on his knees as he tapped the last tweet paper against his palm. âIâm texting this to Dan later,â he added, eyes still on you. Lewis reached for the next tweet. âOkay, moving on.â
"i never thought i'd find a evangelical youth pastor hot, but I do."
Lewis gave a tight-lipped smile as he folded the paper carefully. "Short and simple," He tipped his head to the camera with a shy smile. "Aww Lew," You teased.
"That one was quite nice when you forgot Owen is the devil incarnate," You added before grabbing another tweet, keeping the momentum.
"Y/N L/N I just wanna let you know that I'm free this Sunday to go on a date just let me know if you're free this Sunday, cause I'm free and would like to take you out on a date."
You couldnât help the amused hum that slipped past your lips. The tweet was bold, sureâbut the real irony? You already had a date that Sunday. A very intentional, very planned-out one. With Lewis.
He'd been going on about it for daysâsomething about an early breakfast at that cozy spot in West L.A. heâd driven past last week, followed by a low-key picnic in Brentwood. Thoughtful. Quiet. Just the two of you.
You leaned back slightly, letting your shoulder brush his. âWell,â you murmured, eyes skimming the tweet again. âI actually do have plans this Sunday⊠but, you know,â you added, dragging the words just enough to leave room for mischief, âplans can change.â
From your peripheral vision, you caught the shift in Lewisâs posture. A small tilt of his head. His smile didnât waver, but there was something different behind it nowâtight around the edges. âNot these plans,â he said quietly, almost more to himself than to the camera.
You turned to look at him fully, lifting a brow. âOh really?â you teased, voice low.
Lewis didnât answer right away. Instead, his hand found the small of your backâsteady, warm, and just out of frame. Barely there, but unmistakable to you.
âReally,â he murmured, not quite smiling now.
There was a pauseâcharged and fleetingâbefore you looked back at the screen, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear to hide the smirk pulling at your lips. âGuess Iâm booked then.â
"I want Lewis Pullman to explore my hole until he finds another dimension and sends me to it."
You barely made it through the tweet without bursting into laughter. You pressed a hand to your chest, breath hitching in between giggles. âOh my God. Whoâwho writes this?â
Lewis let out a low whistle, already laughing beside you. âThatâs not even thirst. Thatâs an entire spiritual journey.â
Still laughing, you instinctively reached out to steady yourself, resting your hand on his knee. âI mean, at least theyâre imaginative?â
He looked down at your hand on his legâhis lips curled into a slow, knowing smile. âYea. Very... Marvel,â he said, eyes still on you. âQuantum theory. Multiverse. Iâm just trying to do my part for science.â
You giggled again, this time leaning slightly closer. âYeah, youâre a real humanitarian.â
Lewis gestured with his hands, miming a portal opening. âYou donât accidentally fall into another dimension. You gotta go deep.â
Your laugh broke into a snort, and you felt his hand casually settle on top of yours, still resting on his knee. Not tight, not forcefulâjust resting. Warm. Comfortable. A beat too long to be innocent.
You raised your eyebrows at him, a tiny smirk tugging at your lips. "You know deep right?" You asked, leaning toward him.
He just blinked at you, mock-innocent before leaning back in his chair. âI mean. The fans demand exploration.â
You gave his hand a quick squeeze, your thumb brushing against the inside of his wrist before you slowly slid your hand back to your lapâfingertips grazing his thigh just a little too deliberately.
Lewis cleared his throat and adjusted slightly in his seat.
You smiled, grabbing another tweet with exaggerated casualness. âThese are so creative.â
âI think Iâm learning a lot about physics today,â he muttered, eyes not quite meeting yours.
You bit back a grin. This interview was going downhill fastâin the best possible way.
You pick up the next card, eyebrows already raised at the way Lewis is watching youâarms crossed, eyes low-lidded with that quietly amused look heâs worn all interview.
"I watch films Y/N L/N is in because she reminds me where my ovaries are when she smirks."
Your mouth drops open slightly as you read it, then curls into a slow grin.
âWow,â you say, blinking at the camera. âI mean, I always thought my work spoke to the soul, butâovaries?â You glance over at Lewis, who still hasnât said a word. Heâs just watching you, expression unreadable⊠but thereâs a flicker of something in his eyes.
You smirkâjust a littleâand cross your legs. âIâm happy to be of service,â you continue, âIâm all about that mind and body connection.â
Still no comment from Lewis. But thenâyou catch it.
A slight twitch at the corner of his mouth. The most subtle smirk. Just for you.
You stare at him, one brow arching like youâre challenging him to say something. Anything.
He doesnât.
But he doesnât need to.
That look? Says plenty.
You turn back to the camera, smoothing the card against your thigh. âThat oneâs going on my wall,â you deadpan, lips twitching.
"Religion? Lewis Pullman with a nipple piercing"
You felt a jolt of heat coil low in your stomach, instinctively pressing your thighs together as your mind ran wild with the image the tweet conjured. God. That visual alone could start a cult.
Without missing a beat, you tilted your head toward the camera with a wicked little grin. âMe too, girl. Me too,â you said, your voice laced with desire.
You didnât need to look at Lewis to know he was glancing at youâhis shy chuckle was telling enough. But you kept your gaze forward, pretending to stay composed, even as the temperature between you seemed to shift.
The next tweet was already waiting, but neither of you reached for it right away. The moment lingeredânot loud, not overt, just there. Quiet and unspoken. The kind of moment youâd learned to let live between you.
Finally, you leaned forward, fingers brushing the rim of the bucket. âReady for another?â you asked, not quite looking at him.
Lewisâs voice was soft when he answered. âYeah,â he said. âIâm ready.â
"Lewis Pullman defintely exudes big dick energy and to make it even better im 99% sure he's actually big, I'm weak just thinking about it."
Lewis laughed at the tweet, that soft, genuine laugh that always seemed to catch you off guard. You watched him as he reactedâhis hands moving just as much as his mouth. They flailed a little at first, then found rhythm: palms up like he was weighing the words, then a quick motion to his chest as if to say me? really?
âWhy the 1%?â he asked, eyes wide with mock disbelief before chuckling again. âFlattery is the way to my heart, so Iâm really trying to justââ he gestured, swooping one hand over his head, ââtake these and bow so the compliments just fly right over me.â
He looked at you then, still mid-gesture, his expression somewhere between amused and adorably flusteredâlike heâd just realized how ridiculous he sounded and hoped you didnât mind.
"I can't confirm nor deny but.." You smiled at the camera, "You're on the right track."
You pulled the next paper from the bowl and glanced at itâthen instantly pressed it to your chest, biting back a laugh.
Lewis raised an eyebrow, already smiling. âWhat? That bad?â
You peeked over the edge of the card at him, eyes wide and mischievous. âItâs not bad. Itâs⊠bold.â
He leaned in a little, intrigued. âNow you have to read it.â
You cleared your throat with theatrical flair, trying not to blush. ââY/N L/N is a living, breathing, wet dream.ââ
Lewis froze mid-smile, blinking as a flush crept up his neck. âWow,â he said slowly, then gave a snicker.
You turned toward him, grinning. âYou okay over there?â
âI mean,â he said, recovering with a soft chuckle, âshould I be worried?â He shifted slightly, his hand settling gently but firmly on the small of your backâa casual move, but grounding. Protective. Like he wanted whoever wrote that tweet to know exactly where you stood.
You felt the warmth of his touch through the fabric of your shirt and nearly forgot how to breathe.
âI think Iâve been objectified,â you said, mock-offended.
He leaned in closer, voice lower now, just for you. âYou think youâve been objectified?â
Lewis glanced toward the camera, shaking his head with a shy smile, then muttered, âIt's better in person.â
Lewis quickly picked up the next card, a mischievous glint in his eye. âAlright, letâs see what weâve got here.â He cleared his throat and read, trying to keep a straight face:
âIâm ashamed that I want Lewis Pullman 7 inches in these guts, but it is what it is.â
Lewis turned bright red in an instant, his hand flying to his mouth like that might somehow undo what heâd just heard. âOh my God,â he muttered, voice cracking with laughter.
You bit your lip, adding slyly under your breath. âHowâd they know?â you teased, leaning a little closer, voice dropping just enough to suggest you werenât entirely innocent.
Lewisâs laugh caught in his throat, and before you could react, he reached out and rested his hand lightly on your lower back. âOkay, okayââ
You grinned and fanned yourself dramatically. âItâs getting hot in here?â
Lewis shook his head, still smiling, then looked back at the camera and said with mock seriousness, âAlright, I think thatâs our cue to wrap this up.â
You looked into the camera, eyes wide and innocent. âThank you so much for having us buzzed. This has been a very professional, very wholesome experience.â
"This was really fun... and slightly disturbing... and... uh... occasionally arousing" Lewis added with a faint smile.
As the cameras cut, Lewis kept his hand on your back for a beat longer, a quiet reminder that, no matter what was said out loud, you were his.
INT. HOTEL SUITE â LATE NIGHT
The door closed behind you with a soft snick, muffling the outside world until all that remained was the hush of the hotel suite and the quiet press of presence between you. The air was still laced with leftover laughterâthose buzzy, breathless remnants of the BuzzFeed shootâbut now, in the silence, it felt different. Heavier. Like something just beneath the surface was waiting to surface.
You tossed your jacket over the chair by the small dining table, pacing toward the window. The city shimmered beneath you, all glass and gold reflections. You didnât even pretend to busy yourselfâyou just stood there for a moment, arms loosely crossed, feeling his gaze settle on your back like a second skin.
Lewis was behind you, slower to move, still standing by the door. Watching. He always watched you like thatânot performative, never possessive. Just aware. Like he was memorizing. Like he didnât want to blink.
âThe whole world is after my boyfriend,â you said softly, half-laughing as you looked out at the skyline. âThe seven inches one?â
You heard him exhale, that huff of breath that was more bashful than amused.
âThat tweetâs going to haunt me,â he muttered, a smile in his voice.
You turned toward him just enough to meet his eyes over your shoulder. âYou were very red.â
He shrugged a little, stepping deeper into the room. âYou didnât help.â
You grinned. âI was just doing my part.â
That made him laugh againâa quiet, warm sound that rolled out of him like it had weight. He walked past you, settling into the corner of the bed like it was muscle memory. He leaned back on his palms, eyes still locked on yours.
You followed, slow and careful, and sat beside him. Close enough to feel the body heat radiating off his side, but not touching. Not yet.
For a moment, neither of you spoke.
The silence wasnât awkwardâit was expectant. Filled to the brim with the unsaid.
You glanced at him, your voice quieter now. âI think the âwet dreamâ one broke you a little.â
Lewis tilted his head toward you, his smile soft but shadowed. âNo,â he said honestly. âThat one was just⊠accurate.â
You laughed at firstâuntil you realized he wasnât joking.
He was looking at you differently now.
His posture hadnât changed, but something had. His eyes had gone darker, more focused, more present. He wasnât teasing anymore.
The laughter caught in your throat.
He reached out, slow as dusk, and gently took a loose strand of your hair between two fingers. Brushed it back behind your ear with a softness that nearly unraveled you.
âYou donât even know,â he murmured, almost to himself.
Your voice was barely there. âDonât know what?â
His fingers lingered for a breath too long at your jaw. âHow hard it was not to touch you every time you leaned in today,â he said, his voice hushed and cracked open at the edges. âI kept thinkingâjust one second longer. Just⊠a little closer.â
Your throat went dry. âAnd now?â
He swallowed, his thumb brushing along the edge of your cheek, reverent. âNow youâre right here. And I still feel like if I touch you, youâll vanish.â
You turned fully toward him thenâslowly, deliberately. Meeting him in the thick silence.
âIâm not going anywhere,â you whispered.
He looked at you for a long momentâhis eyes searching, serious, full of restraintâbut you could see it unraveling at the seams. That need he always tucked away so neatly was starting to spill out. It was in the tremble of his breath, the press of his knuckles against the mattress to keep himself grounded.
His eyes dropped to your mouth.
The air shifted again.
Slower this time. Charged. Heavy with intention.
He reached for your handâquietly, carefullyâand laced his fingers through yours like he was asking permission to keep you. His palm was warm. Rough at the edges. Familiar.
And then, finally, he leaned in.
Not with force.
But with care.
His lips met yours like a question. Like a promise wrapped in silence.
The kiss was slow. Not tentative, but unhurriedâlike he wanted to savor every part of it, every second that had led here. His hand cupped your jaw, thumb brushing against your cheek as if memorizing the texture of your skin.
You sighed into him, melting forward until your chest brushed his. One of your hands slid along his neck, into the soft hair at his nape, tugging gentlyâjust enough to make him exhale into your mouth.
The kiss deepened. Grew more sure. Not rushedânever rushedâbut hungrier now. More grounded. Like he was finally letting himself feel.
You broke the kiss only when you absolutely had to breathe. And even then, you didnât pull away. Your forehead rested against his, both of you breathless, eyes still closed.
His voice was a rasp. âThat okay?â
You nodded. âMore than okay.â
You kissed again.
Slower this time. Messier. Hands exploring in the safest, softest ways. Touches that werenât about lust, but familiarity. Knowing. Want wrapped in tenderness.
You shifted onto his lap, your knees straddling his thighs as you sank into him. His arms curled around your waist, holding you there, grounding you like he never wanted to let go.
You shifted your weightâslowly grinding your hips forward, just onceâand felt it: the heavy curve of his buckle pressed perfectly between your thighs. The cool metal kissed through your skirt and into the warmth building at your center, and the friction dragged a quiet gasp from your lips before you could help it.
Lewisâs hand clamped down on your waist.
His voice dropped. âJesus.â
You did it againâslow, deliberate, hips rocking just enough to drag across the leather and brass. The contrast of rough denim, warm skin, cold metalâit hit all at once, and your head dropped against his shoulder with a breathy sound that made his grip on you tighten.
âIs that okay?â you asked, feigning innocence, your breath ghosting over his neck.
He groaned softly. âYouâre gonna be the death of me.â
You smiled, mouth curving against his skin. âYou keep saying that.â
His hands slid down to your thighs, grounding you as you moved againârocking gently, finding a rhythm that had nothing to do with teasing anymore. You werenât trying to provoke. You were trying to feel. Him. This.
Every shift dragged that damn belt buckle against you again, that sharp, sinful press of sensation that made you shudder against his chest.
Lewisâs breath hitched, his hand threading up into your hair as you kissed along his jaw. Not rushed. Just heat. Building. Slow and quiet and steady.
When your hips rolled againâjust a little harder this timeâhe muttered your name like a confession.
His grip tightened, his breath shaky.
âDonât,â he said, almost instantly. âDonât stop.â
And so you didnât.
You let yourself move like the moment asked you toâslow and aching, your body aligned perfectly with the heat and weight of his. His hands never roamed far. They stayed at your waist, your back, your thighsâlike he was trying to memorize the shape of restraint.
You kissed him again, and again, and againâuntil your lips were swollen and your breath was shaky and the edge between playful and serious had completely vanished..
Outside, the city kept shimmering, but in here, time had softened. You and Lewis, hearts pressed close, letting the night carry you forwardâtogether.
SUMMARY: You show up to the squad beach day in a bikini that has no business looking that good. Bob's mid-throw when he sees you and straight-up forgets how physics works. The football hits Hangman. Bob's glasses are askew. He spends the afternoon avoiding eye contactâuntil you ask him to help tie the strings on your top. He nearly combusts.
WORD COUNT: 2.8K
WARNINGS: Mild sexual suggestiveness, slight jealousy, not fully proofread
The sun burned high in a cloudless sky, the kind of early summer afternoon that demanded salt-stained towels, coolers packed with beer, and the roar of jet engines swapped for the low crash of Pacific waves. The sand was hot enough to sting soles, the air thick with salt and laughter, and the squad had claimed their usual patch of beach like pirates staking territory.
Theyâd gone full feral hours ago. Shirtless and sun-drunk, they played an unholy mix of football and wrestling in the shallows, water flying with every dive and tackle. Laughter mingled with curses. Someone had wedged a speaker into the sand, crackling out classic rock that the ocean nearly drowned.
Bob Floyd kept to the edge.
He was part of itâlaughing, throwing the occasional well-aimed spiralâbut always just outside the center of gravity. That was where he felt most comfortable. The quiet observer. The guy who noticed things.
Like how Phoenix always put lime in her beer.
Or how Rooster looked toward the dunes every time before he served the ball.
Or how you were late.
Heâd noticed your absence right away, and he noticed the way time stretched in its wake.
Heâd just thrown the ballâclean spiral, textbook formâwhen it happened. Not a noise so much as a shift in pressure, like the beach collectively held its breath.
Then a wolf whistle cut through the air. Bob turned toward the dunes.
And physics just⊠stopped.
You were walking across the sand like something the sun had conjuredâshoulders bare, hips swaying just a little, all confidence without trying. You wore a buttercream-yellow bikini that had no business looking that good. The top was small, triangle-cut, tied at the neck and back in soft, delicate bows. The fabric shimmered just slightly, catching hints of gold when you moved. The bottoms sat high on your hips, all legs and sun-warmed skin and just enough curve to short-circuit his entire nervous system. Your hair was up in a messy knot, a few strands slipping down to kiss your collarbone.
It wasnât flashy.
It wasnât loud.
But it was lethal.
Bobâs throat went dry.
He barely registered the football still in flight until a solid thwack broke the trance.
âDamn it, Bob!â Hangman barked, holding the ball where it had smacked into his chest. âYou just tried to take me out!â
Bob blinked, startled. Heat climbed up his neck. âS-sorry. I didnât see.â
âYou didnât see a 6â1â target five feet away?â Hangman narrowed his eyes. âWhat the hell were you looking at?â
Bob didnât answer. Couldnât.
You were laughing with Phoenix now, dropping your bag on the sand. You pulled off your sunglasses, squinting at the sea like it had personally invited you.
Bob adjusted his glasses, only to realize they were already perfectly straight. His palms were damp.
âFloyd,â Rooster muttered as he passed, following Bobâs gaze. âYouâre in so much trouble.â
The game went on without him.
Bob tried to keep upâhe really didâbut his rhythm was off. Every time you walked by, that yellow bikini might as well have been an emergency beacon. You ran toward the water at one point, and he looked away so fast he nearly gave himself whiplash. When he caught you laughing with Coyote, hand on his arm, he had to remind himself to breathe.
It wasnât just attraction.
It was the impact of it. The unfairness.
You didnât try to be the center of attention.
You just were.
Bob stayed near the edge of the towels, arms crossed loosely over his chest, pretending to watch Payback and Fanboy argue over the rules. But his eyes kept drifting toward the shoreline.
To you.
You and Phoenix splashed thigh-deep in the surf, holding hands like kids, laughing like you didnât have a care in the world. Your bikini was damp now, clinging to you in ways that shouldâve been illegal. Bob looked away. Then looked again. Then hated himself for it.
His pulse thudded low in his chest.
This wasnât new. Not really.
What was new was how hard it was getting to hide it.
He wasnât like Rooster or Hangman. He didnât know how to throw charm like a punchline. He didnât know how to match your fire with banter and smirks and knowing looks.
Bob didnât flirt.
He noticed.
He noticed how you leaned a little closer when you teased Rooster. How you rolled your eyes at Hangman but still smiled when you did it. You were always brushing someoneâs arm, always laughing with your whole body. Effortless. Bright. Magnetic.
But with him, it was different.
You werenât flirty. You were⊠kind.
You asked if he was sleeping okay after flight rotations. You remembered which granola bars he liked. Youâd once waited outside the hangar just to ask if his headset gave him a headache like yours did.
You were thoughtful. Sweet.
Safe.
And most of the time, that was fine.
But today? With you in that bikini, all sun-kissed and golden and you, it suddenly wasnât fine anymore.
Because being the one you didnât flirt with? That kind of stung more than being ignored.
He remembered the first time he started falling for you. It wasnât dramatic. Just a quiet night at a diner near base. You sat across from him, hair in a loose braid, sleeves pushed up, picking fries off his plate while scrolling through the jukebox menu.
You picked Fleetwood Mac. He hadnât even known you liked Fleetwood Mac.
Then youâd looked up, half-smiling. Youâve got this way about you? You know that?â
He didnât remember what he said back.
But he remembered the way it made him feel. Like he mattered. Like you saw him.
Heâd been falling ever since. Slow. Steady. Quiet.
Now, as you walked up from the water, skin glowing and towel draped over your shoulders, you caught his gaze from across the beach.
And you smiled.
Not the teasing, flirty kind you gave the others.
This one was small. A little shy. Maybe⊠unsure.
And that? That killed him.
Because deep down, he wanted something real. Messy. Honest. Loud.
Not this.
Not this quiet, hopeful thing he wasnât even sure he was allowed to feel.
He dragged his eyes away, heart pounding. You were laughing again, the bow of your top tied just below your neck, skin glowing in the afternoon light. It was all too much.
He ran a hand through his hair and stared at the cooler, willing his heart to slow down.
It didnât matter how far back he stood.
You still pulled him in.
The rest of the afternoon passed in a blur of sunlight and noise. Bob stayed quiet. Distracted. He helped Fanboy re-line the goal markers with driftwood, joined a half-hearted game of paddleball with Payback and Phoenix, even offered to refill the speaker battery when it started cutting out. Anything to stay busy.
Because if he let himself stop, he knew heâd look at you again.
And he didnât trust what his face would give away.
You didnât chase him. You didnât even seem fazed. You talked with Rooster, lay out on a towel with your sunglasses on, dipped back into the ocean once or twice. You looked like you belonged here. Like you were made for these days. And Bob couldnât help but feel like an outlier againâjust close enough to almost be part of it.
He caught glimpses of you, though. Of course he did.
The towel tugged low on your hips as you reached for sunscreen.
The way you arched your back slightly, fixing your hair after a swim.
The soft crease between your brows when you listened to someone speak.
All of it added up. All of it pressed down on him.
Because he didnât want to just look anymore.
He wanted to know what it felt like to be looked at back.
It wasnât until the sun started its descentâlow and lazy in the sky, casting long shadows across the sandâthat it happened.
You approached him quietly.
He was sitting on a folded beach chair near the coolers, watching a group of seabirds chase each other down the shoreline. Everyone else was packing up, gathering towels, shaking out sand. The music had finally stopped.
He heard you before he saw you. Just the soft pad of your bare feet in the sand.
Then your voice, gentle. âHey, Bob?â
He looked up, cautious. âYeah?â
You stood in front of him, wrapped in your towel but not fully covered. One shoulder was bare, and you shifted your weight nervously between your feet.
You hesitated, then gave a small, almost embarrassed laugh. âSorry, I know this is awkward, but⊠the tie on my top came loose and I canât reach it. Could youâŠ?â
Bob froze.
For a second, he honestly thought heâd misheard you. Or that this was a dream. Or a prank.
But then you turned, slowly, carefully, towel slipping down your back to reveal the small, delicate bow at the center of your shoulder blades. One of the strings dangled loose, fluttering slightly in the breeze.
âI donât want it to fall,â you added, voice quiet now. âAnd I trust you.â
His heart stuttered hard enough to make his fingers twitch.
You trusted him.
He stood slowly, brushing sand off his palms, and stepped up behind you. You tilted your head forward just slightly, hands holding the towel over your chest. Bobâs fingers hovered in the air for a second before touching the strings.
Your skin was warm. Salt-slick. Soft.
He worked slowly, trying not to breathe too hard. The strings were damp and thin, hard to grip with trembling fingers. He looped them once, then again, pulling carefullyânot too tight, not too loose.
His knuckles brushed the curve of your back.
You shivered.
He wasnât sure if it was from the breeze, or him.
âThere,â he said, voice lower than usual. âGot it.â
But he didnât step back.
His hands dropped, but only barelyâstill hovering near the small of your back, as if he wasnât quite ready to let go. You didnât move either. You stayed with your back to him, the towel still clutched against your front, shoulders rising and falling with the slow pull of your breath.
For a second, neither of you said anything.
The beach behind you had gone soft with dusk. The others were further down now, someone laughing loud enough to carry over the tide, but none of it felt close. It was like a bubble had formed around the two of youâquiet, warm, private.
You finally turned.
Not all the wayâjust enough to see him over your shoulder.
Bobâs hands dropped fully now, but he didnât step away.
Your eyes met his, and the look on your face stopped his heart cold. It wasnât teasing, or playful, or casual like all the other ones you'd given the guys all afternoon. This was different.
This one was curious.
Searching.
Your mouth parted slightly, like you were about to say something, but didnât. You just looked at him. Not past him. At him.
Bob swallowed hard. His brain was screaming at him to say something, anythingâbut his body was stuck. He could smell the sunscreen on your skin, feel the last warmth of sun radiating off you. The space between your bodies was minimal, almost nonexistent. Close enough he could count the tiny freckles across your collarbone. Close enough he could see that your lips were just slightly sun-chapped.
Close enough that if he leaned in, just a few inches, he could kiss you.
He didnât.
But he didnât move away either.
You tilted your head just slightly, eyes narrowingânot suspicious, just thoughtful. Like you were trying to figure something out.
âBob,â you said softly. Just his name.
It wasnât a question. It wasnât even a statement. It was something in betweenâlike a touch.
He blinked. âYeah?â
Your voice was quieter this time. "Wanna walk around for a second? Everyone's getting ready to head out but... I think the beach looks especially pretty right now." You smiled.
Bob swallowed hard, but nodded. âYeah. Sure.â
You smiled againâthis time, a little wider. Like youâd just won something. Then you turned and started walking slowly toward the waterline, your towel still tucked under one arm, the sand soft under your feet.
Bob followed, keeping a careful pace beside you.
The beach had quieted in that early-evening way that always felt just a little like a secret. The sun had dropped low, throwing warm gold across the water, the waves calmer now, more rhythm than crash. Most of the squad was up near the cars, voices fading, laughter softer. But here? It was just you and him.
âBob,â you called out, breaking the silence between you and Bob.
He blinked. âYeah?â
Your voice was quieter this time. âWhy were you avoiding me today?â
His heart dropped.
You werenât smiling now. Not even a little. Just looking at him with this open, unsure expression that made his chest ache.
âI thought maybe,â you said, âIâd done something.â
Bob shook his head too fast. âNo. No, you didnât.â
âThen what was it?â
Bob opened his mouth, but nothing came out at first. Because what was he supposed to say? That he couldnât breathe when you walked across the sand like that? That heâd spent the whole afternoon convincing himself not to fall harder than he already had?
That he wanted you to look at him the way you looked at the othersâand then hated himself for wanting it?
âI just needed some space,â he said finally, voice rough. Honest. âI was trying to⊠keep my head on straight.â
You blinked slowly. Your gaze dropped to his mouth, then lifted again. âAnd did it work?â
Bobâs throat went dry. âNot even a little.â
You didnât say anything right away.
Just walked.
Your shoulders brushed once. Neither of you apologized.
âI didnât mean to ignore you,â Bob said after a minute, voice quiet, like he wasnât sure if he should say it at all.
You looked over at him, smiling softly. âYou didnât ignore me. You just⊠didnât look at me.â
He gave a small, guilty laugh. âThat obvious, huh?â
You nudged him gently with your elbow. âYou looked at everyone else. Except me. Which kinda sucks, by the way.â
Bob glanced over, brows raised. âWhy?â
You slowed slightly, then stopped walking. Turned to face him. The ocean curved behind you, golden and soft.
âBecause,â you said, voice teasing now but still low, âI wore the good bikini.â
Bob blinked. âTrust me. I noticed.â
You grinned at that, the kind of grin that pulled at the corners of your mouth and said I knew it. Then you looked at him a little longer, less playful now. âYou looked everywhere but at me. Thatâs usually not a great sign.â
He shook his head. âIt wasnât about you. It was... about me. Trying not to make things weird.â
You tilted your head, brows raised. âWeird how?â
Bob hesitated. âLike⊠I didnât want you to think I was just staring. Or, I donât know. Thinking things I shouldnât.â
A pause. Then your voice went softer. âAnd were you?â
His heart slammed against his ribs. âThinking things I shouldnât?â
You nodded.
He breathed out, almost a laugh. âYeah. All day.â
You bit your lip, smiling like you were trying not to. Then you stepped a little closer. Just enough that your shoulder brushed his again, your fingers grazing his knuckles for a second longer than necessary.
âNext time,â you said, âjust look at me.â
Bob halted, breath caught somewhere between his chest and his throat.
You turned again, starting to walk slowly back up the shore, toward the others, the sun casting a halo of gold behind you. After a few steps, you glanced over your shoulder.
âYou coming, Floyd?â
Bob stopped mid-step, his heart hammering so loud he was sure you could hear it. The sun hung low, a molten orb dipping toward the horizon, painting everything gold and amber and fire. The world narrowed until it was just you and him, the rest of the squad melting away like a distant dream.
Without thinking, without a single word, Bob reached out gently and caught your wrist. You turned to him, surprise flickering in your eyes, soft and vulnerable.
And then he leaned in.
His lips brushed yours â slow, tentative, like he was memorizing the feel of you, the taste of salt and sunscreen and something dangerously sweet.
It was brief. Gentle. A promise, not a demand.
Then Bob pulled back just a little, eyes searching yours, breath catching in his throat. He was a gentleman. He wanted to see your reaction before going any further.
You didnât hesitate.
You closed the gap instantly, pressing your lips to his with a heat that melted away his nerves. Your hands slid up to his shoulders, fingers threading through the damp strands of his hair.
The world tilted.
The sun blazed behind you both, casting long shadows in the sand, but all Bob could see was you. Your lips moving against his, soft and fierce, the kind of kiss that made everything else stop.
Bob groaned low in his throat, fingers tightening on your waist, pulling you flush against him.
The sand was hot beneath your feet, but neither of you noticedâonly the heat building between you. Bobâs glasses now sat askew, one lens catching the dying light, but neither of you cared. You tilted your head, lips parting, breath mingling.
You caught the frame with a grin, fingers brushing over the lens and then lingering, fixing them with a delicate touchâright before your lips meet his again.
You broke the kiss just enough to murmur against his lips, voice low and playful: âYouâre gonna owe me for avoiding me all day.â
Bob smiled sheepishly, his blue eyes darkening with mischief. âThatâs the plan.â
Your fingers traced the line of his jaw, teasing the stubble there. âGood. Because Iâm thinking of making you pay... in more ways than one.â
He laughed softly, breath warm against your mouth. âIâm counting on it.â
The sun slipped behind the horizon, casting the world in shades of fire and promise, as the two of you leaned into the coming night, the ocean whispering secrets and the heat between you ready to ignite.
F. â fluff, A. â angst, đ. â suggestive, âł. â smut (nsfw), â§. â headcannons đ. â fan favs
lewis pullman;
thirst tweets àœŒâ lewis pullman x co-star!reader | one shot | wc 4k | F. đ.
âł It all starts on the Thunderbolts set, where you and Lewis Pullman are supposed to be playing superheroesâbut the real sparks are off-camera. Between inside jokes, lingering looks, and a chaotic BuzzFeed interview, itâs clear youâre blurring the line between acting and something real. Fans notice, castmates tease, and every glance feels like a secret. By the time you're reading flirty tweets on camera, it's obvious: you're both in deeper than expected.
robert floyd;
the shirt between us â bob floyd x pilot!reader | one shot | wc 1.7k | F. đ.
âł Laundry day at the barracks is a disaster waiting to happen. But accidentally ending up in Bob Floydâs shirt? Total chaos. One mix-up leads to teasing, tension, and a late-night moment that says way more than words. Turns out, one shirt can say a lot.
the vitals don't lie â bob floyd x nurse!reader | one shot | wc 2.7k | F.
âł At the San Diego infirmary, a quiet nurse watches Top Gunâs Bob Floydâreserved, gentle, and impossible to ignore. When heâs rushed in after a near-fatal ejection, concern turns personal, and in the hush between heartbeats, something tender begins to take root
care package confessions â bob floyd x pilot!reader | one shot | wc 3.5k | F.
âł A care package goes rogue. A letter meant for home ends up in Bob Floydâs handsâthe one guy it was secretly about. You werenât supposed to fall for him. He wasnât supposed to find out. But now that he knows? Everythingâs changing.
hormones are high â bob floyd x pilot!reader | one shot | wc 2.8K | F. đ. đ.
âł You show up to the squad beach day in a bikini that has no business looking that good. Bob's mid-throw when he sees her and straight-up forgets how physics works. The football hits Hangman. Bob's glasses are askew. He spends the afternoon avoiding eye contactâuntil you ask him to help tie the strings on your top. He nearly combusts.
have you ever tried this one? â bob floyd x pilot!reader | drabble | wc 1.8K | F. đ.
âł You just needed a stretch and some peace. What you got instead was Bob Floyd, flushed and flustered in the gym doorway â trying very hard not to stare while youâre bent in ways that definitely arenât regulation. Heâs polite. Youâre not. Letâs see how long he lasts.
everytime, i choose you pt.2â bob floyd x civilian wife!reader | oneshot | wc 6.5K | F.
âł Youâve loved Bob Floyd since before either of you knew what love was. Now, with a toddler in your arms, a baby on the way, and a Navy career pulling you in opposite directions, youâre learning what it really means to build a life across time zonesâand hold on to each other through it all. Soft reunions, stolen moments, found family, and the quiet kind of love that stays.
4th of july sparks â bob floyd x lifeguard fem!reader | oneshot | wc 5.1K | F.
âł where hangman tells him the best way to get readers attention is to pretend to need to be saved in the water, but he gets caught in a riptide and actually needs to be saved.
SUMMARY: On deployment, a misdelivered care package and a too-honest letter you never meant for anyone else to read land in the hands of the one person it was secretly about: Bob Floyd. You werenât supposed to fall for the quietest guy in the squad, and he definitely wasnât supposed to find out. But when he reads the words meant only for home, everything changesâawkward glances, missed chances, and a slow, soft unraveling into something neither of you expected
The sky above the naval air station was a colorless, cloud-smeared expanse, neither blue nor greyâjust muted, like someone had turned the world down to half-volume. Beneath it, the base bustled on with its endless mechanical rhythm: the metallic stutter of hangar doors, the thump of boots on concrete, the sharp hiss of hydraulics bleeding into the wind.
And in the middle of it all, a quiet anticipation hung in the air like the scent of jet fuelâsubtle, but unmistakable.
Mail day.
On deployment, small things carried a weight far beyond their size. A hot meal. A familiar brand of soap. A joke that actually landed without falling flat. But lettersâletters were gold. They were proof that somewhere beyond the scrubby tarmac and sun-bleached barracks, life moved on without them. That they werenât forgotten.
When Maverickâs voice crackled over the PA system announcing the squadâs mail had arrived, the whole base seemed to shift, like the tide turning.
âMail dropâs in,â Fanboy announced, bursting into the briefing room like a storm of caffeine and good news. He waved a clipboard over his head like it was a winning lottery ticket. âConfirmed: the boxes have arrived.â
âFinally,â you groaned, the tension in your shoulders easing a notch.
Around you, the rest of Dagger squad perked up, eyes brightening like kids promised pizza at lunch.
Rooster leaned back in his chair with a yawn. âThink my aunt sent that giant tub of trail mix again?â
Hangman drawled, leaning forward across the table. âSheâs definitely sending it for me.â
Rooster gave him a deadpan stare.
âNo fighting,â Phoenix mumbled from the wall, eyes half-closed. âSave it for the sky.â
You looked back down at your half-finished checklist, trying not to let your hopes rise too high. Youâd written home several times over the last monthâmostly to your best friend, Em, and your siblingsâbut you hadnât been sure if anything would come back. Still, part of you hoped.
A week before the care packages arrived, sleep was a stranger.
The buzzing overhead lights outside your room hummed low and steady, the cot beneath you felt too stiff, and the earlier simulation rattled more than you cared to admit. Youâd flown wellâyou always flew well. But when Bob spoke over commsâcalm, measured, steadyâyou found your own breath skipping beats.
It wasnât what he said.
It was just him.
Bob Floyd was⊠complicated in the simplest way.
He wasnât loud like Rooster or cocky like Hangman. He didnât swagger into rooms or fill the air just to prove he could. But he carried a quiet presence. Gentle, steadyâlike the hum of a well-tuned engine or the low static of pre-dawn radio waves.
You remembered the first week, when he held the door open for you even though his arms were overloaded with gear. Then, during briefing, when he quietly corrected a flight schematic with a soft, âActually, I think this is reversed,â and nailed it perfectly.
Bob didnât take up space.
He made space.
And that did something inside youâsomething soft and stupid and utterly inconvenient.
You were trying really hard not to fall for the guy who lent pens with a quiet smile, like it was the kindest thing in the world.
And you were failing.
Spectacularly.
So, when your brain refused to quiet down, you did what you always did: you wrote.
The letter started as a joke.
âDear Em,â you wrote, âI think I might be in actual trouble. Not, like, Navy trouble. Emotional trouble. The kind where your stomach flutters and your brain short-circuits and your heart does this horrible lurching thing every time a certain someone says your name."
"Iâm not saying Iâm falling for a naval aviator whose glasses fog up when heâs embarrassedâbut Iâm not not saying it either.â
You went on, describing the squad: how Coyote bullied you into morning runs, how Rooster couldnât cook to save his life, how Payback snored like a jet engine about to take off. You wrote about Bobâs laughârare, quiet, always a little surprisedâand how you lived for the moments when heâd glance up from a mission brief and catch your eye, like it was accidental but not quite.
You cringed as you wrote it but didnât delete the words.
You signed off:Â Anyway. I wonât say anything obviously cause I'm not stupid. But I had to say it somewhere. Just in case.
You folded the letter, sealed it in an envelope, and tucked it into the box youâd set aside for care packages.
You thought itâd be safe on its way home before anyone else saw it.
You were wrong.
Because when the mail finally landed, your box from home wasnât among the pile waiting for pickup.
You scanned the rows of care packages, eyes darting between names and handwritten labels, but there was no sign of yours. No familiar scrawl from home. No hidden treasures wrapped in duct tape and love.
You asked around, casually at first, then with more urgencyââHas anyone seen a box for me?ââbut the answer was always the same: nothing.
What you didnât know was that somewhere else on base, Bob Floyd was sitting with two boxes stacked in front of him.
Two boxes with your name scribbled with hardly legible handwriting on one.
Your family was usually so careful, so meticulous with the labeling, but somewhere in the chaosâa slip of handwriting, maybe a mix-up in the sortingâyour package had gotten swapped.
Bob, quiet and unassuming, hadnât said a word. Maybe he hadnât noticed at first, or maybe he hadnât wanted to make a fuss. After all, two boxes might mean double the snacks, double the comfort. But Bob wasn't that guyâ So he definitely didn't notice.
Bob kept his eyes fixed on the cardboard box that didn't look like it was for him that was in front of him.
He turned it once, then again, squinting at the name scrawled in permanent marker across the side. He couldn't even tell if it was written in English the legibility was so bad.
He hesitated.
The packaging wasnât familiarâno handwriting he recognized, no usual return address from his sister or cousin or the couple old classmates who still sent him the occasional care bundle for morale.
Still, he opened it.Â
The first thing he noticed was the smell: barbecue chips. The second was the envelope, tucked under a bag of off-brand trail mix and a novelty bottle opener shaped like an F-18.
It was handwritten.
Sealed.
He shouldâve known right thenâshouldâve stopped, double-checked the box, handed it off to admin to reroute. But something about the envelope snagged his attention. It wasnât addressed formally. No full name, no rank. Just a single word in neat handwriting:Â Home.
And beneath it, in parentheses:Â to Y/N.
Bob frowned slightly, the crease between his brows softening as he thumbed the edge of the envelope. His fingers brushed the seal.
He didnât open it maliciously. He didnât even intend to open it at all. It just⊠happened. The way you might pull a book from a shelf you didnât remember placing there. Instinctive. Curious. Thoughtless in the moment, but not unkind.
The paper unfolded like a secret.
He read the first line, and his breath caught.
"WHO IS THIS MYSTERY MAN? You have to send me a photo! A guy with glasses? Thatâs totally your type, Y/N. Come on, spill the details!â
He read the line again, and again. Then again.
Across the room, you sat half-listening as Phoenix described, in graphic detail, what would happen to Roosterâs skin if he didnât stop using three-in-one body wash as face cleanser. The squad was in full post-briefing modeâhalf-buzzed on caffeine, half-crashing from mail dayâwhen your eyes skimmed the room and landed, briefly, on Bob.
He looked⊠unreadable. His expression wasnât quite confused, but it wasnât neutral either.
Just distant.
Focused on something from his package.
You didnât think anything of it at first.
Not until much later.
Not until the moment when everything, quietly, and without warning, went sideways.
Bob Floyd didnât mean to read the whole thing.
He really didnât.
But once the words were in front of him, once he realized it wasnât just a small note or a postcardâit was a letterâhis brain stopped working the way it normally did. Quiet, ordered, methodical.
Instead, it just⊠whirred.
And then stalled.
And then, against all better judgment, it drifted forward.
At first, he told himself heâd just skim. Just enough to know where it came from, to figure out how badly he'd messed up, and then stop. That was the plan. That was always the plan.
But the second line knocked the air right out of his lungs.
âHow tall is he? 6'7 or is that reaching it? Does he do that thing where he pushes his glasses up his nose with one finger and mumbles smart things under his breath? I swear if he wears button-downs off-duty, Iâm going to pass out.â
He sat there, frozen in his chair, surrounded by the soft clatter of snack wrappers and paper tearing open and Hangman loudly reading something he swore was a love letter from a high school girlfriend.
Bob didnât hear any of it.
He just stared at the letter, then read the next paragraph. And the next. And then he was too far in. Too deep. He couldnât have stopped even if heâd tried.
Each line felt like peeling away the edge of something that had always been sealed off. A secret voice. A map he wasnât meant to see.
And then came the kicker:
âIf you donât tell me more about what his voice sounds like by your next letter, Iâm flying to the base myself.â
He had to close the letter and fold it twice to stop his hands from shaking. It wasnât just you writing about him anymoreâit was someone else talking about him, based on what youâd said. He didnât know how to process that.
It didnât take a genius to piece it together. He knew himself well enough to recognize the archetype.
He laid in bed later that night, replaying it all: the teasing, the affection, the familiarity with which your friend talked about himâa man sheâd never met. A man youâd clearly talked about before.
That part got him.
Youâd talked about him.
To someone else.
Like he was important enough to mention.
Like he mattered.
And for someone like Bobâwho spent most of his life blending into the edges of rooms and avoiding attentionâthat realization felt like someone had cracked a window in his chest and let in the air.
Bob spent most of the morning thinking about the almonds.
Well, technically, they werenât even his almonds. They were yours. Or, at least, they had been, before the letter. Before the swap. Before his sense of moral order cracked like the seal on your envelope.
Now the bag sat on his deskâsalted, honey roasted, your favorite brand, the one youâd mentioned offhand during a late-night flight brief two weeks ago when you were both too tired to filter what came out of your mouths.
Youâd laughed and said something like, âIf someone mailed me a truckload of these, Iâd probably marry them on the spot.â
At the time, Bob had just nodded, like he wasnât about to remember that sentence word for word until the end of time.
Now, staring at the bag, he felt ridiculous.
What was he supposed to do? Walk up to you like, âHey, I accidentally read your emotionally intimate letter confessing your crush on me, and now Iâm giving you back the snack that came with it?â
Absolutely not.
So instead, he decided on a middle path. Heâd ease into it. A slow reveal. A gentle tip of the hand.
Heâd just⊠start a conversation.
A normal one.
With you. Easy.
When he saw you in the hangar, your hair pulled back and flight suit tied around your waist, squinting into the sun with a wrench in your hand, his heart did something embarrassing in his chest.
You smiled when you saw himâbright and easy, like always.
Bob almost turned around.
Instead, he walked forward, almond bag clenched tightly in his hand like it was a rare diplomatic offering.
âHey,â he said. It came out fine. Fine. Maybe a little high-pitched.
âHey, Bob,â you said, half-laughing like you were surprised. âYouâre up early.â
âPayback's snoring,â he replied, giving you an annoyed look.
That got a laugh.
Bob felt like heâd just been handed a trophy.
You leaned against the bench, eyeing the bag in Bob's hand.. âDidnât peg you for the almond type.â
He blinked. âSorry?â
You nodded toward his hand. âThe almonds."
âOh. Right.â He looked down like heâd forgotten he was holding them. âYeah. Just⊠had them. Figured Iâd eat some.â
Brilliant.
You smiled again, but something in your brow furrowed. âYou okay? You look a little red.â
Bob went very still.
Abort mission.
This was a terrible idea.
He wasnât built for this. He didnât know how to flirt. He knew how to calculate airspeed and adjust radar parameters and give Phoenix the exact correction she needed mid-dive. He didnât know how to have a crush on someone who might actually like him back.
It felt like flying with the control stick locked at full sensitivityâevery tiny movement sent him spiraling.
So he panicked.
âNo, Iâm good,â he said quickly. âJust tired. Been a long week.â
You tilted your head. âItâs Tuesday.â
âExactly.â
You gave him a weird lookâhalf teasing, half concernedâbut didnât push. Instead, you bumped your shoulder gently against his as you passed.
âGo drink some water, Bob,â you said. âYou get weird when youâre dehydrated.â
He didnât respond.
He couldnât.
Because you touched him and smiled and told him to hydrate like it was the most natural thing in the world.
And suddenly, it was too much.
Bob speed walked to found a corner in the mess hall that afternoon where no one would bother him and sat with his back to the wall, trying not to replay the morning in 4K ultra-cringe quality.
He couldâve told you.
He couldâve hinted.
But instead, he flailed, lied about being tired, and failed to give you your almonds.
He didnât even eat them. They were still in his pocket.
The truth was: he wasnât used to this. The possibility of someone choosing him. Liking him not just as a squadmate or a dependable co-pilot, but for the soft, quiet, weird corners of him.
Bob had always kept those corners hidden.
Because when you grow up being the quiet one, the careful one, the one who people always describe as âsweetâ but rarely as âsomeone Iâd fall for,â you start building walls without realizing it.
So now, standing on the other side of that wall, letter in hand, he didnât know what to do except⊠retreat.
That felt safer.
Few Days Later...
You couldnât pinpoint the moment the warmth between you and Bob started to falter. It wasnât a sharp crack or a sudden snap. More like a candleâs flame, flickering nervously in a breeze it didnât know how to fight â small and wavering until it threatened to gutter out altogether.
After that night, everything felt quieter. Not worse, exactly. Just⊠off. Like something had shifted beneath the surface, a current you couldnât quite grasp but felt pulling you both in opposite directions.
He started calling you more on the comms. His voice was softer than before, like a whisper meant only for you, threading into your flight path like a warm hand steadying the turbulence.
Then that first morning after, when you nailed your run and found him waiting on the tarmac, his words were simple but held weightâa compliment muttered low, like he was afraid to speak too loudly and shatter the fragile moment. That small kindness lingered longer than it had any right to, curling around your chest and making your heart thrump in a way that made you both dizzy and hopeful.
That was day one.
By day two, things began to retreat. He was still there â polite, present â but a distance settled between you, thick and cold as fog rolling in over the runway. He stopped sitting near you in the mess hall, his eyes no longer catching yours during briefing. The quiet side comments, the folded arms leaning in close in the hangar? They vanished like smoke.
Day three was worse.
Now, he barely spoke at all except when he absolutely had to, clipped and careful. Words spoken only because the mission demanded it, not because he wanted to hear your voice.
And then, tonightâwhen Hangman cracked a ridiculous joke and you laughed without thinkingâyour eyes found Bobâs only to see him already looking away, like your gaze was too bright, too much. Like he couldnât bear to be close, but didnât know how to leave.
It was cruelty.
And all of itâevery hesitant hello, every half-smile, every empty space where he used to stand near youâwas driving you quietly out of your mind.
You waited until the evening, when the San Diego heat had finally broken and most of the squad had gathered in a lazy sprawl out back.
Someone had dragged folding chairs into a circle around a makeshift fire pit. There was music. Half-warm beer. Cheap chips. Laughter, floating light and distant into the night.
You didnât laugh.
You were watching Bob.
He sat at the edge of the group againâphysically there, but somewhere else entirely. One foot out the door.
Just like every other day since last mail day.
So this time, you followed him when he left.
He peeled off around the side of the barracks, quiet and unbothered, like he didnât think anyone would notice.
But you did.
You always had.
So you stood and followed when he slipped quietly away.
âBob,â you said softly, catching up behind him.
He stopped, but didnât turn.
You slowed, letting the silence fill the space between you. Then, steadying your voice, you asked:
âWhy have you been avoiding me?â
He exhaled slowly, like heâd been holding his breath for days, the tension releasing in a shudder.
âIâm not,â he said, voice low, careful.
âDonât lie,â you said, your words fragile but firm.
He didnât answer.
You stepped beside, coming into his line of sight.
âDid I make you uncomfortable?â you asked, voice barely above a whisper.
His head jerked up, eyes wide and startled.
âWhat? No. God, no,â he said too quickly.
âThen why does it feel like I said something wrong just by existing?â
He flinched, like your words had grazed a raw nerve.
His hand came up to rub the back of his neck. His eyes darted everywhere but at you.
âI didnât mean to make you feel that way,â he said, voice rough with regret.
âThen what are you doing?â you pressed, softer now, heart thudding in your ribs. âBecause for four days youâve beenââ
âI donât know,â he cut you off, too fast. Then quieter, almost crushed: âI donât know.â
His voice cracked like brittle glass.
You didnât say anything. You just watched.
Saw the weight in his shoulders, the way his chest tightened with something heavy and unspoken.
Finally, he spoke again.
âYour box got mixed up as mine and IâI read your letter,â he began, voice quiet and hesitant, like each word was a step into unfamiliar ground. âAnd⊠well, it was the kindest thing anyoneâs ever said about me.â
He scratched the back of his neck, cheeks coloring just the faintest shade, like he wasnât sure if he should be embarrassed or proud.
Bob swallowed hard, eyes softening.
"Maybe it sounds stupid,â he added, voice dropping to almost a whisper, âbut it really⊠meant a lot.â
His eyes finally found yours, soft and a little unsure, like he was afraid you might think less of him now that the words were out.
âI donât⊠usually get that kind of thing. You know? Compliments. Or people saying stuff like that.â
He took a breath, a small, nervous smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
âSo, maybe thatâs why Iâve been acting weird.â
He looked down, then back up, like he was searching for courage in the fading light.
âI didnât want to mess it up. Or make it awkward between us.â
âI was trying to you knowâ make a move or whatever Fanboy says... but I guess avoiding you just made it worse.â
He shrugged, shy but sincere.
âIâm not good at this stuff.â
You smiledâsoft, patient, warm.
âItâs okay, Bob.â
He let out a small laugh, like a relief he didnât know he was holding.
You bit your lip, cheeks warming under the soft glow of the night. The quiet between you stretched out, heavy with unsaid things.
âItâs my fault,â you said finally, your voice barely above a whisper. You raised a shaky hand to your forehead, like you were trying to physically smooth out the awkwardness curling there. âI shouldnât have written those letters about you. Iâm so sorry.â
You looked down, fiddling with the hem of your sleeve, cheeks burning. âI didnât mean to make things weird or put you on the spot. I just⊠I thought it might be nice to say what I was feeling to a friend.â
Your words tumbled out, rushed and shy.
You glanced up, meeting Bobâs eyes, searching for any sign of anger or irritation.
But instead, he gave you that soft, shy smile again â the one that made your heart skip.
âHey,â he said gently, voice warm and steady, âIt wasnât weird. Not to me.â
He shifted a little closer, like courage was building up inside him too.
âI just⊠didnât know what to say, or how to say it.â
He raised a hand to fix his glasses, awkward but honest. âSo I did the dumb thing and froze.â
You smiled, relief blooming between you, soft and slow.
âMake a move, huh?â You teased, trying to regain your confidence. Stepping closer to Bob until you were standing just feet apart.
He blinked, caught off guard. "Yeah" He said sheepishly.
You smirked, letting your gaze drop to his mouth before flicking back up. âSo why donât you right now?â
His eyes flicked down to your lips, then back up, and he swallowed.
âAlright,â he said quietly. âBut I'm no good at this.â
âGuess Iâll have to teach you,â you said, leaning into his body warmth.
Bobâs breath hitched, eyes darkening with promise.
âGood luck,â he said softly. âIâm a slow learner.â
And then, without another word, he reached out and brushed your hand, fingers lingering just a moment longer than necessary.
SUMMARY: At the San Diego base infirmary, the nurse quietly observes the Top Gun recruits, especially Lieutenant Robert âBobâ Floyd, whose reserved nature and subtle glances donât go unnoticed. When Bob is rushed in after a bird strike and emergency ejection, vulnerable and injured, the nurseâs concern deepens. Amidst medical checks and quiet moments, a fragile connection forms between themâan unspoken promise of something more once he recovers.
WORD COUNT: 2.7K
WARNINGS: Might be repetitive
The San Diego base infirmary woke slowly with the day, the pale light slipping in through the windows, catching on metal trays and the sheen of freshly mopped floors. It smelled like antiseptic and bitter coffee, a scent youâd grown accustomed to â strange, maybe, but comforting in its own way. It meant routine. Order. A kind of quiet before the flight-line chaos.
You sat behind the familiar white desk, clipboard balanced against your knee, absently spinning your pen between your fingers as the next round of Top Gun recruits shuffled in for their flight clearance checks. The room was filled with the usual blend of testosterone and early-morning haze: boots scuffed against linoleum, flight suits half-zipped, adrenaline simmering just beneath the surface.
Youâd seen it all before. This job â this room â it was muscle memory by now. Wrap the cuff, listen for the heart beat, mark the chart. Most of the pilots were in and out before you could blink, barely sitting long enough for the vitals to stabilize, too preoccupied with thoughts of sky-high speeds and maneuver sequences to care much about blood pressure.
But then there was him.
Lt. Robert Floyd.
Bob.
Bob was never loud. Never jockeyed for attention like the others. He didnât crack jokes or lean too far into the flirtation that usually buzzed around the exam table. Instead, he always waited patiently. Quietly. Shoulders squared, posture careful, hands folded in his lap like he was waiting for a final exam, eyes avoiding yours except in passing â but when they did meet yours, there was something there. Brief. Gentle. Intentional.
You, the only nurse stationed at this base, had come to recognize the patterns of the recruits.
Where Hangman flirted, Phoenix smirked, Rooster teased and Fanboy whistled low when you passed â
âThink sheâd know if I fake a sprain?â
"If I knew there was a hot nurse here, I would've come sooner."
âOut of your league, bro. Like⊠multiple atmospheres out.â
Bob never said a word. Not once.
But he looked.
Not even when you took his blood pressure last month and he had to pretend it wasn't alarmingly high.
Youâd seen him stumble a little over his words once, trying to thank you for handing him his completed chart. Another time, you watched his ears turn scarlet when your fingers brushed his while wrapping the pressure cuff. And last month, when you read off his blood pressure â unusually high â heâd just mumbled something about too much caffeine and looked anywhere but at you.
"Must've been the coffee."
You weren't stupid.
You knew it wasn't coffee
Today, the recruits filtered in one by one, lining up neatly by the wall as you moved down the row. Clipboard in hand, gloves snapped into place, you carried yourself with the same quiet confidence you always did. It was part of the jobâbeing composed, a little distant. Untouchable.
Hangman was the first to pipe up, his voice coated in lazy amusement.
âDidnât know Top Gun had perks like this,â he said, nodding toward you with a grin, his eyes sliding over to Bob. âNo wonder Floydâs always early.â
Bob didnât look up. Just kept his hands folded neatly in his lap.
You didnât look up eitherâbut the twitch at the corner of your mouth betrayed you.
You moved through the line with practiced ease. Hangman rolled his eyes when you handed him a hydration pack.
âTry drinking something that isnât jet fuel,â you said, scribbling on your clipboard.
âOnly if youâre the one pouring it,â he shot back.
You gave him a pointed look and moved on.
Then it was Bobâs turn.
He didnât move until you lifted your eyes to his. Thatâs always how it wasâlike he was waiting for permission.
âYour turn, Lieutenant,â you said gently.
He stood, slow and careful, posture straight but not stiff. His movements were always so measured, like he didnât want to take up more space than he deserved. He lowered himself onto the stool, not letting his knees bump yours.
âMorning, Lieutenant,â you said softly, voice lighter than before.
âMorning,â he replied, just as soft. His eyes flicked up, then quickly down again.
You wrapped the pressure cuff around his arm, your fingers brushing against the skin of his forearm. He didnât flinch â but he did hold his breath. Just for a second.
The room fell into a still kind of quiet, the kind that made you hyper-aware of every detail. His pulse thudded against your fingertips â steady, but fast. Too fast.
You didnât look at him right away. You listened. You let the quiet stretch out, linger, become something intimate. Not awkward â just aware. There was always a hum around Bob. A tension made of things unsaid.
Finally, your voice broke the silence, low and teasing:
âYou nervous, Lieutenant?â
He cleared his throat. âNo. Just⊠long run this morning.â
You glanced at his chart. Tapped it lightly.
âNo PT logged,â you said with a knowing smile.
Bob exhaled a short laugh â quiet, almost shy. âGuess I forgot.â
You looked up.
And this time, he didnât look away.
The weight of itâthe eye contactâfelt heavier than it shouldâve. Like he was trying to say something without saying it. There was something about Bob that always made you want to pause. He never took up space the way the others did. But he held it. Quietly. Unshakably.
âHeart rateâs a little elevated,â you note, jotting it down. Then, without thinking, you murmur under your breath:
âEasy, flyboy.â
Bob blinks. Caught. You see the faintest twitch of a smile tug at his mouthâlike heâs not sure he imagined it.
Behind you, someone snickers. Probably Fanboy or Phoenix. You donât turn to check.
Instead, you hand Bob his chart, letting your fingers brush his for just a second longer than necessary.
âAll good,â you say. âBut next time, donât forget to log that mystery jog.â
He nods. Quiet. Composed.
But when he stands, you catch itâthat half-second pause, like he wants to say something else.
Then: âThank you, maâam.â
Simple. Respectful. But it lingers in the way he says it. In the way he walks a little slower than usual on the way out.
He walked a little slower than the others on his way out, but you pretended not to watch.
When the last chart was filed and the tray was wiped down, you sat alone again behind the white desk, the coffee cooling beside you, the quiet returning.
And for the first time in a while, you hoped someoneâs vitals were just a little too high again tomorrow.
The hum of the infirmary felt different this morningârestless, urgent. You were organizing supplies when a sharp knock at the door pulled you from your thoughts.
A flight medic hurried inside, eyes wide with concern. âWeâve got an emergency. Lieutenant Floyd was involved in a bird strike and emergency eject. Theyâre bringing him in now.â
Your heart stopped.
Bob.
The name echoed like a jolt through your mind. You barely registered the medicâs next wordsâsomething about a possible concussion and bruisingâbut your world narrowed to a pinpoint of worry.
âWhere is he?â you asked, your voice tight.
âER. Down the hall. Youâd better get ready.â
Without hesitation, you grabbed your coat and rushed toward the emergency room, each step pounding with urgency. The corridor stretched endlessly, sterile walls blurring past as adrenaline flooded your veins.
You pushed through the double doorsâand there he was. Bob, usually so composed and confident, now lying still beneath the harsh hospital lights. Monitors beeped steadily, but his face was pale, bruised, and vulnerable in a way youâd never seen before.
Your breath caught.
For a moment, time seemed to freeze as you stood there, overwhelmed by relief that he was aliveâand fear for what the injuries might mean.
You moved closer, your presence calm but urgent.
âHow are you, Lieutenant?â you asked, voice soft but edged with worry. You pulled the curtain aside and stepped closer, careful not to startle him.
Bobâs gaze lifted, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his lips. âMorning, Nurse.â
The words were simple, but the warmth behind them caught you off guard. You quickly masked it behind a professional smile as you reached for the blood pressure cuff. âItâs the late afternoon, Bob,â you teased lightly.
âOh.â Bob said sheepishly, his glasses slightly askew. He reached up slowly, fingers fumbling to adjust them, wincing when the movement tugged at a fresh bruise along his temple.
You caught the motion, your hand instinctively reaching out to steady his wristâlight, tentative. âEasy there,â you said softly.
He allowed you to hold his wrist a moment longer than necessary, eyes searching yours like he wanted to say something but wasnât sure how.
You cleared your throat and slipped the cuff gently around his arm. The warmth of his skin under your fingers sent an unexpected flutter through your chest, but you kept your tone steady. âLetâs see how youâre doing.â
Bobâs usual calm was replaced by a quiet vulnerability youâd never seen before. His breath hitched slightly as the cuff tightened, and for a brief second, your eyes met, holding a fragile exchange neither of you spoke aloud.
The monitor beeped steadily as you jotted down his readingsâheart rate elevated but stable, likely a mix of adrenaline, pain, and something unspoken between you.
You finished noting his vitals and set the cuff aside, your eyes softening with concern.
âAlright, Bob. Iâm going to check you for a concussion now,â you said gently, pulling on your gloves. âI need to see how your reflexes are, check your pupil response, and ask you a few questions. Just follow my lead, okay?â
Bob nodded slowly, his usual composure giving way to something more fragile. His cheeks flushed a deep pink, a stark contrast against the bruises on his face. He blinked a bit more than usual, his gaze drifting, unfocused.
You started with the basic checksâlight reflex with your penlight, following your finger with his eyes, simple coordination tests. His responses were delayed, and his hands trembled slightly when you asked him to touch his nose then your finger.
âBob,â you said quietly, concern threading your voice. âHow are you feeling? Any headaches or dizziness?â
He swallowed hard, his lips twitching into a sheepish smile. âWait... Iâm sorry,â he murmured, eyes flickering up to meet yours briefly before dropping away. âI can't focus- You're just... You're really pretty.â
Your breath caught at the unexpected confession, but you kept your expression neutral, professional, though your heart thudded faster than it should.
Itâs okay,â you said softly, your voice barely above a whisper. You were equally as flustered, but quickly reminded yourself he was clearly out of itâhis brain scrambled from the injury and adrenaline.
Bobâs cheeks deepened to a richer shade of red, and he looked down at his hands, fidgeting awkwardly on the thin hospital sheet. He let out a nervous chuckle, rubbing the back of his neck, wincing again as he shifted slightly. âI think Iâm making a fool of myself.â
He swallowed hard, his gaze flickering up shyly, searching yours like he wanted to say more but was tangled in his own nerves. His lips parted slightly, then closed again without words.
You found yourself leaning in just a fraction closer, the space between you shrinking, charged with something unspoken.
âYouâre doing great,â you assured him gently, âbut you need to rest. It must be the concussion messing with your thoughts?â
âYou always look nice,â he said, voice barely audible. âI just⊠I donât say it.â
You fought the urge to reach out, your fingers itching to brush a stray hair from his forehead, but you kept it professional. You had too.
He blinked slowly, eyes heavy, then half-closed.
âMaybe... after all this, you could show me how you stay so calm. Teach me to be like you.â
Your breath caught, a delicate warmth blossoming deep in your chest. The quiet hope in his voice made the sterile room feel suddenly intimate, like you were the only two people in the world.
You gently squeezed his wrist, your smile soft and full of promise.
âIâd like that, Bob. When youâre ready.â
His tired smile deepened, genuine and vulnerable, and in that moment, the space between you seemed to shrink until it disappeared entirely â a quiet, tender understanding passing between you.
For now, rest was what he needed most. But soon, you knew, there would be time for moreâtime for laughter, for stolen moments, for something real and lasting. And when that time came, youâd be there. Right beside him.
SUMMARY: Laundry day at the barracks is a disaster waiting to happen. But accidentally ending up in Bob Floydâs shirt? Thatâs a whole new level of chaos. What starts as detergent-soaked embarrassment quickly spirals into squad-wide teasing, a not-so-subtle claim, and a quiet late-night moment that feels a lot like something more. Turns out, one shirt can say a lot.
WORD COUNT: 1.7k
WARNINGS: first fanifc. beware.
Laundry day at the Barracks was always a war zone itself.
It was a free for all. No one labeled anything, you were always mixing up your clothes with others, and getting frustrated at highly trained pilots who treated folding like it was a foreign language. The base laundry smelled faintly of bleachâ warm cotton, and cheap detergent. Functional.
Since getting assigned to TOPGUN, you and Phoenix had figured out the only way to survive laundry day was to tag-team it. Split the load, complain together, and avoid losing any more clothes to the great unknown.
So here you stood beside Phoenix, both of you in athletic shorts and worn out tank tops. Half-sorting uniforms, half-rehashing training drama. Phoenix was elbow-deep in a pile of flight suits, mid-rant.
Phoenix was once again ranting about Hangman, and you were trying to one-hand a detergent jug open while half-listening.
âSo I go to the fridge right, and it's gone. Gone. Not even a noteââ
You gasped as the cap slipped form your fingers.
Bright blue detergent splashed across your chest and down your front, cold and slick. Your tank top went instantly see-through, clinging to your skin like a second, icy skin. You stumbled back a step, arms out like youâd just been hit by a wave.
Phoenix blinked, âWell.â She said, unphased, âthatâs one way to clean yourself.â
âShut up.â You groaned, flapping your arms like a wet cat- trying to get off whatever detergent you could, the fabric of your tank top clinging to your skin unpleasantly. âUghâ Iâm gonna smell like dryer sheets for weeks.â
Your clean clothes bag was uselessâjust uniforms and gym stuff. Nothing dry. Nothing casual. You looked over at the community pile of random shirts stacked near the folding table. No one really knew where they came from. No one asked.
You shrugged, desperate times, quickly grabbing the first soft one you saw.
âNot my fault,â you muttered, tugging it on over your head.
Phoenix raised a brow but said nothing. You pulled it over your head. It was long on youâ not absurdly oversized, but enough that it clearly wasnât yours. This fabric was worn out and smelled like pine soap a faint scent of aftershave.
You felt like you smelled it somewhere before but couldnât pin point it.
You didnât think twice about it.
Later out near the tarmac, the recruits were already gathering. Everyone lingering in the lazy hour between lunch and post training discussions with Maverick. You and Phoenix walked up, coffee in hand, laughter low between you two.
Bob was already there, standing beside Rooster and Fanboy, arms crossed, listening to whatever nonsense they were trading back and forth.
The second he looked up and saw you in his shirt, something subtle shifted in his expression.
His posture straightened a little. His mouth opened to say something but... he didn't. He just blinked, adjusted his glasses, and tried really hard not to stare.
You blissfully unaware, kept chatting with Phoenix.
Until Hangman noticed.
"Wait a minute," Hangman's voice cut through the air with a smirk, "That shirt's not standard issue." He tilted his head at you with a grin.
You blinked. "What?"
Rooster turned to look. "That's not yours, is it?"
âShe spilled detergent all over herself. Grabbed something off the laundry pile.â Phoenix tried cutting in, but none of the boys seemed to notice. To busy in whos shirt you were wearing.
You quickly nodded at her words, eyebrows scrunched from not getting at what the others were.
Coyote pointed with his water bottle. "Is that a 'Floyd' tag on the back?"
You craned your neck to check, pulling the collar forward. Sure enough- faint lettering stitched at the inside of the tag: FLOYD.
The entire group turned to Bob.
He froze. Then, after a long pause, said very quietly, "...Yeah. That's mine." Bob could feel the tips of his ears turn hot red.
And that was all it took.
"Oohhh," Fanboy smiled cheekily, wiggling his eyebrows teasingly at you.
"Domestic already?" Rooster teased as well. "You guys doing each other's laundry now?"
"She's wearing his shirt, man," Hangman said, nudging Bob with an elbow. "You know what that means."
Fanboy whistled at his words and clapped, muttering something along the lines of. "Wow Bob- didn't know you had it in you."
Bobâs ears went red, but he didnât deny it. Just stood there, glasses slightly fogging up, trying to play it off while everyone else leaned into the teasing.
Payback clapped slowly. âWe calling that a soft launch or what?â
You rolled your eyes, but your hand instinctively tugged at the hem of the shirt. The fabric was warm now from the sun, and yeah, it did still smell like pine and Bob.
You opened your mouth to brush it offâbut Bob beat you to it.
âShe needed a shirt,â he said simply. âMine was there. Not a big deal.â
Which, in theory, was the end of it.
âOh, itâs a big deal,â Hangman grinned, clearly delighted. âShirtâs basically a declaration. Isnât that what the internet says? âIf sheâs in your clothes, youâve already lost.â Or something like that.â
âThatâs not how that goes,â Rooster said.
âClose enough.â
You shook your head, trying not to smile. âIt was either this or parade around smelling like lavender detergent in a see-through top.â
âHonestly, Iâd pay to see that,â Hangman said, and Phoenix threw a balled-up napkin at him.
Bob shifted slightly beside Rooster, silent again but not retreating. He didnât look away from you, though. Out of the corner of your eye, Bob gave a small, sheepish smileâone hand still shoved in his pocket, the other adjusting his glasses. His ears were still a little pink.
But when you caught his eye, he didnât look away.
Bob cleared his throat. âYou can... keep it. If you want.â
That got a fresh round of hoots and laughter from the squad, but he didnât take it back.
You didnât say much else. Just sipped your coffee and stood beside Phoenix, pretending not to notice how often Bob glanced your wayâor how much he was still smiling to himself twenty minutes later.
It was late when you found yourself outside Bobâs door.
Barracks were quietâjust the low hum of AC units and the occasional metallic clunk of someone dropping gear in the hallway. Most of the squad was either passed out or still pretending they werenât scrolling through their phones under regulation sheets.
You shifted the folded shirt in your hands. It was warm from your room and still smelled faintly like him, even after a half-hearted rinse.
You werenât sure why youâd brought it over. Heâd said you could keep it.
But still.
You knocked.
It took a second. Then the door opened.
Bob stood there in a soft gray t-shirt and sweatpants, glasses slightly askew, hair damp like heâd just gotten out of the shower. He blinked when he saw you, surprisedâbut didnât look annoyed.
âOh,â he says, voice quiet. âHey.â
âHey,â you replied, holding out the shirt, a little too stiffly. âFigured I should return this before the squad makes wedding jokes at breakfast.â
He looks at the shirt, then back at you, a small, shy smile tugging at his lips. âThey probably will anyway.ââ
You cracked a grin. âYeah, probably.â
There was a pauseâjust a few seconds too long to be casualâand then he stepped back.
âYou can come in⊠if you want.â
You hesitated. Not out of discomfort. Just... aware of the shift. The slight weight behind the invitation.
But it didn't stop you from stepping inside.
His dorm is tidy and quiet. Military precision in the made bed and neat desk, but a book lies open on the nightstand. Photos of aircraft and a Spaceballs poster decorate the wallsâthis place is unmistakably him.
He closes the door gently behind you.
âSorry about the guys,â he murmurs, rubbing the back of his neck, eyes flickering to the floor. âThey get carried away.â
You shake your head. âDonât worry. HonestlyâŠâ
Your eyes drop to the shirt in your hands, then meet his again.
âAt least it was you.â
His eyebrows lift, and for once, he doesnât have a reply.
You smile softly, feeling the moment deepen. âCouldâve been worse. Imagine if itâd been Hangmanâs shirtâIâd have to burn it.â
He chuckles quietly, real and warm.
âIâm glad it wasnât,â he admits, voice dropping lower.
Another pause hangs between you. Itâs not awkwardâitâs full, heavy with something neither of you wants to name.
The room feels smaller now, closer, softer. The hum of the base muffled beyond the walls.
You set the shirt gently on the edge of his desk, fingers lingering on the fabric a beat too long.
You stood there in the low light of his room, soft shadows stretching along the floor, the hum of the base muffled behind heavy walls. You could still hear the faint buzz of the overhead light, the distant click of someone turning on a faucet in another dorm. But in hereâit felt quiet. Still.
âYou sure you donât want it back?â you asked, not really looking at him.
He cleared his throat softly ,"No it's fine," He smiled sheepishly, he opened his mouth but paused for a second. Before finally getting the courage to say, "It looked better on you anyway."
You felt your lips tug upward, just slightly. âIs that so?â
He nodded once, slow. âYeah.â
There was no grin, no smirkâjust quiet sincerity. And it landed harder than anything else could have.
You stepped a little closer, until you were just inside his space. Not touching, but close enough to feel the warmth coming off him.
âYou couldâve said something earlier,â you said, voice low. âBefore the whole squad got involved.â
âI almost did,â he admitted, eyes flicking to yours. âWhen I saw you. In it.â
âAnd?â
His smile twists, nervous and soft. âI panicked.â
You laughed softly, then fell quiet again. The silence that settled between you now wasnât awkwardâit was heavy. You could feel the electricity in your fingertips, in the air between your bodies.
âI didnât mind the teasing,â you said after a moment.
Bob tilted his head, curious. The tips of his ears slowly turning hot red.
You gave a small shrug, your eyes never leaving his. âIt was flattering. Kind of⊠sweet, actually.â
His expression softened. âYou sure?â
âI mean,â you said with a teasing lift of your brow, âLike I said.. if it had to be someoneâs shirt, Iâm glad it was yours.â
Bob swallowed, his gaze flicking down to your lips for the briefest second before coming back up. âYeah. Me too.â
Neither of you moved for a beat. Then your hand, without thinking, brushed against hisâjust a graze. Testing the space between you.
And this time, he moved.
Slowly, carefully, his fingers curled around yours.
His voice was barely audible now. âYou want to stay a minute?â Bob smiled softly, his glasses fogging up.
Your heart skipped.
You nodded. âYeah. I do.â
Bob stepped back slightly, just enough to give you room, as though to say:Â You can come closer now, if you want.
And you did.
Neither of you rushed it. But that space that had held so much tensionâso much almostâwas finally gone.
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